If you had visited the village of Nargellouville a year ago, you would have been impressed.

In fact, you’d probably have gone home bragging to everyone you knew: “I’ve just been to the cleverest village in the whole wide world! Their memories are as sharp as razor blades! Their brains are bursting with brilliance! Their noodles are knotted with knowledge!”

That last one was me. I got a bit carried away. But you get the point.

Nargellouville was famous for its memory. People came from miles around to see the villagers recite whole telephone books, sing every verse of every national anthem, and list the ingredients of seventeen different kinds of stew without once forgetting the salt.

But lately… well, things had gone a little wobbly.

Take Farmer Burdock. He had a cow named Daisy. Everyone knew Daisy, fat, friendly, big brown eyes, mooed louder than a foghorn. But last week, Farmer Burdock forgot Daisy’s name and called her Table. “Come along, Table!” he shouted across the field. Daisy blinked at him. “Don’t just stand there, Table, the grass is this way!” And Daisy, who was a patient cow, followed him, though she did give him a very offended moo.

Then there was Mrs Pickering, who tried to put socks on her hands and gloves on her feet. “Potatoes, potatoes!” she muttered crossly, wiggling her toes in the wool. When her neighbour pointed out the mistake, she insisted, “Well, I always wear potatoes on my feet in winter!”

By the way, that is not recommended

And let’s not even talk about Mr Jarvis, who forgot his wife’s name and introduced her to the postman as “Spaghetti.” The postman congratulated her on her tomato sauce. Mr Jarvis slept in the shed.

So much for the cleverest village in the world. Among this muddle of memories lived a girl called Beth. Beth was ten, sharp-eyed, quick-thinking, and not the sort of girl who was fooled easily. She didn’t like frills or fancy things. She liked puzzles, pockets full of scraps of paper, and solving mysteries before anyone else even realised there was one.

Beth also had a little brother called Tom. Tom was six, round-cheeked, freckly, and forever mixing up his words. He’d try very hard at school, but when he read “dog,” sometimes it came out as “bog.” When he saw “cat,” it might come out as “cap.” And when he tried “fish,” well… it was usually “pants.”

Beth didn’t mind. She knew Tom’s brain worked in its own peculiar way, and she’d already invented clever tricks to help him.

On the afternoon our story begins, Beth and Tom were walking home from school. Well, technically, from the school gates. The actual school had shut early because, as the teacher explained, she had forgotten whether B came before C or after Z, and it seemed safer to send everyone home before the alphabet exploded.

Tom shuffled along, swinging his satchel and muttering to himself. “Dog, dog, dog… bog. No, that’s not right.” Beth nudged him. “Want a trick?” Tom scowled. “Tricks don’t help.”

“This one will. Ready? Dog = Donkeys Only Giggle.” Tom’s face lit up. “Donkeys Only Giggle!” He burst out laughing so hard he almost tripped over his own shoelaces.

“Dog!” he beamed. “I get it now!”

See? Beth was brilliant like that.

Now, I could help too, you know. I’m very good at mnemonics. Let me show you: Dog = Ducks Occasionally Gobble. (or that may be turkey) Except Tom laughed so hard at mine, he nearly fell into a hedge. “Ducks don’t gobble!” he howled. “Not unless they’re very greedy ducks,” I admitted. “Or wearing tiny gobbling hats.”

Anyway, Beth rolled her eyes, but secretly she was pleased. If Tom remembered because it was silly, then it worked. They were nearly home when they passed it.

The bakery.

Now, I must warn you, and this is very important, the bakery in Nargellouville was not ordinary. It wasn’t a poky little shop with a tray of sausage rolls and a bored woman behind the counter. No, no, no. This was the grandest, gooeyest, most icing-dripping palace of pastries you’ve ever seen.

The windows bulged with towers of sponge cakes, rivers of jam tarts, and forests of cream puffs. There were buns bigger than your head, éclairs longer than your arm, and fudge so shiny it could double as a mirror. The air smelt of sugar and butter and temptation.

And standing proudly behind the counter, always with crumbs on his chin, was Mayor Sprag Ledum, the fattest, smuggest, flour-dusted baker-mayor in history. (But we’ll get to him properly in a minute.)

Tom stopped dead on the pavement, nose twitching like a rabbit. His eyes went all glassy. “Cake…” he whispered. “Cake, cake, cake…”

Beth wrinkled her nose. She didn’t like sweets. All that stickiness and sugar made her teeth itch. She tugged Tom’s sleeve. “Come on. You don’t need cake.”

“But, but look at the icing!” Tom moaned.

Beth marched him firmly past. “Books, not buns. Remember?”

As they walked away, Tom started muttering again. “Cat. Cat, cat, cat… cap?” He frowned. “No, that’s not right. Bat? Hat?”

Beth stopped in her tracks. Tom usually got “cat” right. It was one of the first words she’d taught him. “Try again,” she said quickly.

“C… at? Cot? Rat? …” He looked blank.

Beth’s stomach gave a little twist. Something wasn’t right. Tom wasn’t just muddling like usual; it was as if the word had been stolen.

“Don’t worry,” Beth said firmly, though her brow furrowed. “We’ll sort it out when we get home. We’ll make a new trick.”

But even as she said it, a strange shiver went down her spine.

Something was happening in Nargellouville. Something odd. Something… dangerous. Somewhere, a spoon clinked ominously.

And it was only just beginning.