The four-poster bed stood at the rear of the room, swathed in hanging drapes and sunlight. A breeze slipped into the room, rippling the silks like the sails of a pirate ship.

One of his mother’s hands dangled over the side. Pale and thin.

Artemis was horrified. Just yesterday his mother had been fine. A slight sniffle, but still her warm, laughing self.

‘Mother,’ he blurted on seeing her face, feeling as though the word had been punched out of him.

This was not possible. In twenty-four hours, his mother had deteriorated to little more than a skeleton. Her cheekbones were sharp as flint, her eyes lost in dark sockets.

Don’t worry, Artemis told himself. In a few short seconds Mother will be well, then I can investigate what happened here.

Angeline Fowl’s beautiful hair was frizzed and brittle, broken strands criss-crossing her pillow like a spider’s web. And there was an odd smell emanating from her pores.

Lilies, thought Artemis. Sweet yet tinged with sickness.

Angeline’s eyes opened abruptly, round with panic. Her back arched as she sucked breath through a constricted windpipe, clutching at the air with clawed hands. Just as suddenly she collapsed, and Artemis thought for a terrible moment that she was gone.

But then her eyelids fluttered and she reached out a hand for him.

‘Arty,’ she said, her voice no more than a whisper. ‘I am having the strangest dream.’ A short sentence, but it took an age to complete, with a rasped breath between each word.

Artemis took his mother’s hand. How slender it was. A parcel of bones.

‘Or perhaps I am awake and my other life is a dream.’

Artemis was pained to hear his mother speak like this; it reminded him of the turns she used to suffer from.

‘You’re awake, Mother, and I am here. You have a light fever and are a little dehydrated, that’s all. Nothing to be concerned about.’