‘Now, Master Fowl, let’s talk, shall we?’

Artemis sighed deeply, smoothing his dark hair back from a wide, pale brow. When would people learn that a mind such as his could not be dissected? He himself had read more psychology textbooks than the counsellor. He had even contributed an article to The Psychologists’ Journal under the pseudonym Doctor F. Roy Dean Schlippe.

‘Certainly, Doctor. Let’s talk about your chair. Victorian?’

Po rubbed the leather arm fondly. ‘Yes, quite correct. Something of a family heirloom. My grandfather acquired it at auction at Sotheby’s. Apparently it once stood in the palace. The Queen’s favourite.’

A taut smile stretched Artemis’s lips perhaps a centimetre. ‘Really,

Doctor. They don’t generally allow fakes in the palace.’

Po’s grip stretched the worn leather. ‘Fake? I assure you, Master Fowl, this is completely authentic.’

Artemis leaned in for a closer examination. ‘It’s clever, I grant you. But look here.’ Po’s gaze followed the youth’s finger. ‘Those furniture tacks. See the criss-cross pattern on the head? Machine tooled. Nineteen twenty at the earliest. Your grandfather was duped. But what matter? A chair is a chair. A possession of no importance, eh, Doctor?’

Po scribbled furiously, burying his dismay. ‘Yes, Artemis, very clever. Just as your file says. Playing your little games. Now, shall we get back to you?’

Artemis Fowl the Second straightened the crease in his trousers.

‘There is a problem here, Doctor.’

‘Really? And what might that be?’

‘The problem is that I know the textbook replies to any question you care to ask.’

Doctor Po jotted in his pad for a full minute. ‘We do have a problem, Artemis. But that’s not it,’ he said eventually.

Artemis almost smiled. No doubt the doctor would treat him to another predictable theory. Which disorder would he have today? Multiple personality perhaps, or maybe he’d be a pathological liar?