Good Morrow, Dear Reader!

The Narrator here.

Do you like stories?

What about stories within stories?

I do. I love them. In fact, I gobble them up like treacle tart on a rainy Tuesday, and sometimes I eat so many, they leak out of my ears, and tickle the ends of my whiskers.

Oh yes – did I mention? I have whiskers. Very fine ones, too –

But more on that later.

You see, some say stories are just silly little things. Make-believe puff-pastries with no practical use, such as umbrellas made of jelly or chocolate teacups.

But I don’t agree.

Not at all.

I believe stories are secret tunnels. They are long and twisty and often dark in places. They are journeys, with nuggets of glittering treasure hidden along the way. And, well, if you’re brave enough to keep going, you’ll emerge into the sunlight, blinking like a mole who has learned how to see. 

A good story can change you.

A great story can remember you.

And this story? Well… keep it in mind.

Now, before I begin – a small warning. This tale is not about heroes with golden swords or princesses with unicorns (though one of those things makes an appearance in Chapter Fifteen and a Half). It’s about someone much stranger.

Much smellier.

And much, much furrier.

It’s about a badger.

Not a regular badger, mind you. Not one of those sniffy-snuffy, rooty-scooty, boring old black-and-white-bottomed badgers you might see snuffling about the garden in the moonlight. No, no. This badger is entirely different.

He wears tiny glasses.

Owns a waistcoat.

Carries round a satchel full of loose buttons, invisible maps, and half-written letters to the sky.

Smells faintly of old pennies, faded turmeric, and forgotten childhood dreams.

(Which, I’ll have you know, is considered Very Distinguished in some circles.)

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Allow me to present –

**THUMP**

– Ah, yes. Speak of the badger and he shall appear.

**THUMP. THUMP. THUDDLE-THUMP.**

That’s him, coming down the stairs. You can always tell it’s him by the way the whole house groans like a sleepy whale whenever he moves. He is, after all, a very solid sort of creature, a bit like if a wardrobe and a cinnamon roll had a baby.

Now, where was I?

Ah yes. Let me properly introduce you.

This is Bagley. (He will respond to many different titles, dear reader. Feel free to jot down your own. I like to refer to him as The Fat Badger, though he understandably doesn’t take so kindly to such a name. Other aliases include ‘Mr. B’, ‘Master Badge’, or ‘Oi, You with the Biscuit Crumbs in Your Beard!’)

Bagley is what you might call… confused. Not all the time. Just sometimes. Particularly when it comes to:

1. Where he came from 
2. Where he is going
3. And why there’s a small door at the back of his biscuit cupboard that sometimes hums softly and smells of peppermint and thunder.

Bagley does not live in your world. Nor does he live quite outside of it. He lives in a peculiar little place called Inkling.

And that, dear reader, is where our story begins…

Editor: Lucy Cafiero