"Bloody well done George," Sir William said as they headed down the driveway to the huge stately home. Old-fashioned lampposts lit the way as the Morris Minor puttered down the gravelly path. "Bloody well done indeed. Shame about your motorbike though old chap."

Sir William's eyes flicked up to the rear-view mirror. "You alright there young Rosie?"

Rosie, sitting in the back seat and now feeling the sting and ache of the cuts and bruises on her legs and arms, found her voice again.

"What's going on? Who are you people?" she said quietly. Drowsiness was overcoming her. "How do you know my name?"

"In a moment," George said over the sound of the windscreen wipers beating the rain away. "Let's get inside. I know you have lots of questions but we need to explain everything from the beginning. And you need to rest and get warm and dry."

Rosie had little energy to argue. As they approached the grand front door of the stately home, several people appeared in the warm light coming from inside under large black umbrellas.

"Ampleside, the Blackbird," George said quickly. "I've got to get it back, I've got to go outside. It won't be damaged and…"

"No lad," Sir William cut across him. "No, the bike's gone. There's no way they'll leave it there and risk you getting it back again. I'm afraid that's the last you've seen of that motor my boy."

He glanced at George in the passenger seat. The handsome young man's black hair was swept across his forehead, sodden wet, and his deep brown eyes were staring at his own pale reflection in the window, lost in thought.

"I'm sorry lad, I know how much it meant to you," Sir William added.

Rosie was trying to piece together the last twenty-four hours, but she couldn't seem to grasp a clear memory of what had happened to her. Like the images of a dream just after waking up, her recollections of how she came to be in the Morris Minor were hazy and elusive. Realising she was still shaking, Rosie pulled George's jacket closer around her, then absent-mindedly scratched at a tattoo on her wrist. She felt like crying again.

As the Minor pulled up outside the front entrance, the car doors flung open and several voices rang out through the rain.

"Oh George, you did it!" said a pretty blonde woman, sheltering under an umbrella and looking in the back door at Rosie. "She's safe!"

"Don't sound so surprised," George muttered, clambering out of the car. Rosie slid out and glanced about furtively, her bare feet uncomfortable on the pebbled driveway. There were three people around the car, along with George and Sir William, who had switched the engine off and climbed out himself into the rain. A young Indian man dressed in a long black coat looked at her from under his own umbrella, while next to him an older man in a black hat and half-moon spectacles whispered something to George.

Rosie suddenly felt a surge of anger. Where was she? How did she get in that school? Who on earth was chasing her? She searched her head for the last solid memory she had, stumbling upon the image of her friend Carol's wedding in the summer sunshine, a photographer clicking his camera, laughing and music in the marquee, wine and dancing… then nothing.

"WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?" she blurted out.

The five others, who had been chattering amongst themselves as they ushered Rosie into the mansion, all went quiet and stood still.

"We'll tell you inside," said George, looking at her with a mixture of concern and pity. "Honestly."

Sir William appeared in front of her with his warm round face and friendly eyes. Middle-aged and tubby, Sir William had tufts of ginger hair around his mostly bald head and large, rosy red cheeks which wobbled as he walked.

"I know you must be confused and scared dear," he said gently, taking the pipe out of his mouth. "And you have no reason to trust us, but we sent George to the school to find you and bring you here safely because you are in danger. We all are."

The attractive lady moved forwards and took Rosie's hand. She had long golden hair and stunning blue eyes, with a small nose and perfect red lips, which broke into a reassuring smile as her eyes met Rosie's.

"I'm Charlotte," she said. "Come on, let's get you warm and dry. And find some shoes for you."

Rosie looked at her, warily. Charlotte didn't look much older than she was, but her voice was calm and Rosie felt a bit more comfortable with another woman present.

"Ok," Rosie said finally. "But you have to tell me everything."

Charlotte led Rosie and the others through the front door of the mansion into an impressive entrance hall, which had a high ceiling and creaking, wooden floorboards, covered with various rugs. The walls were lined with large paintings of what looked like various versions of Sir William, which Rosie took to be his ancestors, including a fiery-haired old lady, a proud-looking young man and a red-haired gentleman in full plate armour.

The hallway also contained a tall, fine-looking grandfather clock, which ticked loudly and echoed around the room. Various doors led off from the entrance hall, while a stunning staircase at the end of the room led upstairs, splitting into two halfway up.

Looking to the ceiling, Rosie could see that a glorious golden chandelier cast the room in a warm glow.

"This way," Charlotte said, leading Rosie towards a door to their right. "I'll run you a bath in a moment, here's a towel." She handed Rosie a warm, fluffy white towel from a table in the hall, before opening the door to a large, stately room with a long mahogany table in the centre and seats for a dozen people. A fire crackled in the grand fireplace behind it, while rain rattled against a window to the front that looked out over the driveway.

The others quietly followed Rosie and Charlotte into the room, shutting the door behind them as they removed hats and coats and shook umbrellas. George was also drying himself with a towel and came to Rosie's side by the fire as they all took seats around the table.

"Now then," Sir William said, glancing around. "Introductions first. I am Sir William Ampleside, and this is my family home, Abbeylocke." He gestured around the room. "You're quite safe here."

"From what?" Rosie said sharply.

"From them," the Indian man said, calmly. He was young and good-looking, with short, dark hair and a long face, dominated by his big brown eyes. Rosie looked at him and he gave her a quick smile as he stared back.

"This is Raj Shah," Sir William explained. "Raj is an expert in his field and is an invaluable part of our team." Raj nodded his head.

"Next to Raj is Charlotte Broomfield," continued Sir William. "And next to her is Professor Derek Wimpole, our walking encyclopaedia and… guide in these matters." The elderly man in the half-moon spectacles coughed slightly and gave a little wave at Rosie.

"Next to you is, of course, George Jones," said Sir William. Sullen-looking and unshaven, George gave Rosie a small wink.

"And you're what, some kind of Special Forces commando are you?" Rosie said to George, sarcastically.

"No, I'm a greengrocer actually," said George, looking into her dark eyes. "And you're welcome by the way."

"I'm welcome for what?" she snapped back. Rosie was still feeling tired and confused.

"For saving you from Fagus," George replied. "And for bringing you here safely."

Anger bubbled up inside Rosie again. How dare he? It wasn't as if she had chosen to wake up in that school. She closed her eyes again and tried to remember what had happened to her. She recalled the smell of burning, and then suddenly waking up, lying on the floor of that classroom. A figure had appeared at the window at the back of the room – a large, cloaked someone, or something – had stood watching her. Her hands and feet had been bound, but not tightly, and she had managed to wriggle out of the rope bonds as it climbed carefully through the broken window and into the classroom. Then she had dived under the desk and began crying, just before George had screeched in.

Rosie opened her eyes. She remembered nothing before that, just hazy thoughts. The memory of the last day of her life eluded her.

"Thank you," she said to George, calming down.

"No problem," he muttered back. Charlotte shifted slightly in her seat.

"So who was chasing us?" Rosie said to the room. "And who, or what, is Fagus?"

Sir William sighed loudly.

"Fagus is one of the Five," he said. "He is looking for the same thing we are, and he is very dangerous." He looked around at the professor. "Derek, could you explain?"

Professor Wimpole coughed again and straightened himself up in his chair. He was a friendly-looking little man, with wispy grey hair and a wrinkled face.

"I am a professor of history at the University of Durham," he said in a reedy voice. "I specialise in the history of the British Isles, and of its mythology. The people who were chasing us are called the Druidan. They are an ancient clan, a cult really, of rather deranged men and women who believe that the British Isles belong to them, as natives. They believe they have the right to the throne, to parliament, to our economy and to rule over each of us. They also believe, wrongly, that they have magical powers stemming from the isles themselves."

Rosie stared back at him. "Magic?" she said, sceptically. "That's how they managed to set light to themselves and survive, and throw trees across the road?"

"No, that's what they'd like you to believe," Professor Wimpole said. "They, the Druidan chasing you, have no 'magical' powers. This is real life, not the land of make-believe they live in. The Five, well… the Five are different. We're not really sure what they can do, but it's certainly not magic."

"But the flames…"

"Oil," Professor Wimpole said quickly. "They douse their cloaks in an oil made from a rare plant they harvest in Scotland, which burns at a very low temperature and produces a blue flame."

"And the trees?"

"Well, we think they have been waiting for this opportunity for some time," Sir William joined in. "I think they planned to stop you here if Fagus failed to get you at the school, but assumed we would've sent an entire convoy of vehicles, not just the Blackbird. They appear to have wired up the grounds outside with cables and explosives to hurl the trees across the path when you approached in the hope of stopping any convoy and attacking it. Quite inventive of them I must say, but the Blackbird was too agile and quick."

Rosie looked at George. "Your bike was so fast," she said. "How did they keep up on horses?"

George folded his arms. "I think they gave me a puncture," he said. "The Blackbird slowed down slightly when they showed up and I had to fire up the nitro to keep us going. Plus, they inject their horses with a cocktail of drugs to make them run twice as fast as they should be able to. It kills the horses after about 20 minutes, but they don't seem to care about that."

Rosie scratched her wrist. "So, what does all this have to do with me?" she said.

The others looked at each other with worried expressions. The fire crackled gently and Rosie, although still fairly wet, finally began to feel her feet again. She still ached from the bike crash and was so tired she was struggling to keep her eyes open, but was determined to make sense of things.

"They need you," said Raj. "It's all rather complicated, but, basically, you can help them find what we're all looking for."

"Which is what?" Rosie said, annoyed. "I don't know anything about all this!"

George leaned forwards. "Your tattoo says otherwise," he said, pointing to Rosie's wrist.

The circular tattoo on the inside of Rosie's wrist itched a little again. It was a swirling black circle with two curling lines dissecting it in a cross, almost like a target, and looked as if it has been painted on with a brush rather than inked into the skin. She never really remembered getting it done, but woke up one morning after a particularly heavy drinking session at university five years ago with a sour stomach, a throbbing head, and a new tattoo. After asking all her friends and even visiting the local tattoo parlour, she hadn't been able to find out how she got it. But, as it looked quite pretty and didn't hurt, and she couldn't afford to get it removed, Rosie had got used to it.

"What's that got to do with anything?" she said, now even more confused.

"It's a clue," George said. "A clue to an ancient puzzle that we, and the Five, have been trying to solve for centuries."

Just then, the door flew open and a young boy hurtled into the room. Wearing jeans and a stripy T-shirt, he was as red-haired as all of the people in the paintings outside and wheezed as he ran towards the table.

"They're coming," the boy said to Sir William, breathlessly. In the hallway, a door shuddered with two heavy thuds.

"It seems they're already here," Sir William said, standing up.