Set in the wake of the Fowl Star disaster, about a year before the events of the first book.

Warnings: Discussion of death, some mentions of decomposition.

Butler woke uneasy in the small pre-dawn hours. The July humidity was clogging his bedroom, thickening the stale air. His skin prickled and an alien anxiety churned his gut. Something was wrong.

He slid from the bed and took his Sig Sauer in hand, straining his ears as he moved to the door. Outside, a distant owl cooed while a moth threw itself dully against the windowpane. His clock ticked evenly. Nothing unusual. Butler pushed open the bedroom door and another sound rumbled gently into his ears: voices.

Artemis.

Butler went first to his principal's bedroom. He kept to the walls, invisible, just a sigh in the darkness. Upon entering he knew immediately Artemis wasn't there, he could sense it, but briefly appraised the room all the same. Gut instinct was no substitute for surveillance. The door to the en-suite stood ajar and the room beyond was dark and silent. The voluminous silk bedsheets were empty, though they were disturbed by the imprint of their previous occupant, making a little silk snow angel. Artemis's slippers and robe were gone.

Sliding back into the corridor, Butler concentrated now entirely on the voices. Scoping his employer's bedroom had taken six seconds, and that was six seconds too many for someone to put a bullet in Artemis's head. The cooler part of his mind abstractly noted that anyone who intended to kill Artemis would likely not allow him to dress in his slippers and robe before dispatching him, but the grinding wariness in Butler's stomach said differently. The anxiety itself was a cause for concern. Even in the most brutal of fire-fights Butler could remain detached, so where had it come from?

Butler descended the stairs three huge silent steps at a time, his ears forcing his brain to make out words.

'...no change... billionaire... divorce...' Divorce? The voice was unfamiliar, jovial. Almost like...

The door to the study was closed but a thin spread of light flickered through the gap under the door. Television light.

Butler laid a hand on the door and pushed. His theatrics would prove rather embarrassing if Artemis were merely watching TV.

The door swung open.

Artemis was watching TV.

Butler paused in the doorway. His eyes swept over every detail of the Fowl study, a room he knew better than his own bedroom, but which now seemed curiously threatening. Nothing was out of the ordinary, though the lights were off, and Artemis was alone. He sat before one of the many computer screens, each of which was blaring a jumble of senseless muted images through the darkness. The logo in the corner of the screen that currently held Artemis's attention declared itself to be Kim's Late Night Celebrity Gossip.

Butler holstered his gun. 'Artemis?'

The boy turned his head. If Butler had been about to relax, the notion was instantly dispelled. What little colour Artemis's face usually held had been bleached by the same queasy dread that swelled in Butler's gut. Artemis hardly seemed to see Butler before his head snapped back to the screen, the fingers of his pale right hand fluttering over a neighbouring keyboard. His back was a stiff exclamation point, the ridge that crowned his spine its inverted point. Butler could make out even in the dim iridescence of the monitors the salty glisten of sweat on his employer's neck and the rapid quiver of Artemis's pulse.

'Is something-'

'I need quiet,' Artemis said, his eyes fixed on the gossip show before him. An overenthusiastic man in a sickeningly bright shirt stood in a cheap news studio, a picture of a beaming actress digitally imposed behind him. But before Butler could place the woman the image changed, replaced by one of a huge industrial cargo ship. The presenter talked through a mouth of overflowing white teeth.

'And in our final bulletin for the night, an update on the disappearance of the Fowl Star. A macabre twist in the tale of the catastrophic accident that claimed the life of Irish multi-millionaire Artemis Fowl six weeks ago: a lifeboat from the sunken vessel has been found wrecked off the coast of northern Russia. Sadly, its occupants did not survive their escape. A reminder to stay away from those luxury cruises, folks! And now let's go to Lottie for fashion news-'

Artemis muted the program. 'Useless.'

He swivelled to another screen and hit the keyboard. A Russian news page refreshed instantly, though the sparse information it held remained static. Butler read slowly, his brain struggling to parse the language. 'Lifeboat containing two dead wrecked at Gadzhiyevo naval base, apparently related to the sinking of the Fowl Star in Kola Bay six weeks previously.'

Butler understood the situation immediately. 'Your father?'

'I don't know. They haven't released any further information on any public news source, or any of the private ones I monitor. I've called the naval base several times but no one is answering.'

Two dead bodies. In the first week following the Fowl Star explosion, new corpses floated to news crews' attention on a daily basis. But the list of missing had shrunk to only a handful of names, and Artemis Fowl Senior was one of them.

'What can I do?' asked Butler.

'Call one of your Russian contacts. Or someone in Scandinavia, if they're closer. Get them to Gadzhiyevo. I need more information and it could take hours for one of these ridiculous news sites to publish a report.'

'I know a man in St Petersburg, but driving it will take him at least ten hours to reach the northern coast.'

'What about by helicopter?'

'Given how long it will take to arrange it won't save much time. Seven hours, if we're lucky.'

Artemis leaned back in the chair. Incomprehensible reflections of the screens before him flickered in his large eyes, warped in the convex blue.

'If we caught a flight?'

'Maybe ten hours.'

Frustration curled off Artemis. 'Then we wait and watch the screens. Better that than ten hours airborne without internet access.' He exhaled thinly. 'We could be waiting a while.'

'Can I do anything else?'

'I doubt it.' Artemis rubbed his eyes. 'I'll go through the contacts for the original job. There might be somebody the Mafiya hasn't thought to kill off who can help us.'

Butler stood, suddenly very conscious that he was still dressed in his night clothes. Never appropriate for a bodyguard, and certainly not at a time like this.

'I'll get dressed. Do you need anything?

'Some tea.'

Butler nodded. 'I'll bring something to eat as well.'

Fifteen minutes later, Butler brought up a tray laden with Artemis's favourites: a selection of sashimi, bread and caviar, small pieces of pineapple, turkey sandwiches, and a pot of Earl Grey. He was well aware Artemis was probably physically incapable of eating even a third of the spread, but he had found himself unable to make any decisions about what to prepare. Most unlike him.

When he returned to the study Artemis was exactly where he had left him. It was very odd to see the boy at his desk still in his pyjamas. His neck looked strangely naked without its usual smartly buttoned collar, now only hung with the loose lazy O of his thin summer robe. The skin beneath still vibrated with his heightened heartbeat.

'Any change?'

'Nothing.' Artemis took the proffered teacup and drank. If he could taste it, his expression gave no sign. 'One other gossip news outlet has picked up the story, but they're only repeating what we already know.'

The waiting was interminable. Butler occasionally placed one of the sandwiches in his mouth and chewed, more to keep himself awake than anything else. Artemis let his tea grow cold, though he never relinquished his grip on the cup. Four AM ticked around leisurely, snaking through the room and drawing out each clammy second to breaking point. The incessant ticks of the grandfather clock seemed to coagulate in the corners of Butler's mind. Artemis refreshed pages agitatedly while his fingers tapped uselessly against the spine of the keyboard. There was nothing either of them could do but wait.

'How long does it take to identify a body?' Artemis asked suddenly. A rare topic Butler knew more about than Artemis.

'Depends. If the dead obligingly took their ID with them before taking the lifeboat, then moments. Otherwise, water damage might make it impossible to identify them by basic physical details. If dental records are available then only a few hours, since there is only a small pool of Fowl Star crew members still unaccounted for. DNA testing takes much longer.'

Butler had identified his uncle personally. The Arctic waters had been kinder to the body than most environments, but Butler could not unsee that dead face, its heavy grey features, the thick grave-wax caking the lips and smearing shut whatever remained of the eyes. But the body of the Major had been discovered after only a week; Artemis Senior's corpse might not have enjoyed such gentle treatment. At least Butler would be able to identify the body in Artemis's place. He could protect him from that torture, at least.

Time dragged on. Dawn began to creep over the horizon, flushing the dark study with weak red light. The air was thick, stuffy, drying out Butler's mouth no matter how much of Artemis's lukewarm tea he drank.

'This is intolerable,' muttered Artemis. 'They should at least have answered the phone. Quite possibly they're ignoring my number deliberately.' His brow furrowed. 'I could bounce the call through a Russian number.'

'I'm sure we'll get some information soon,' said Butler. He sighed. 'At least if the news is bad we will finally be able to put this situation to rest.'

Artemis's eyes slid from the screen, to the carpet, to Butler's. 'To rest?'

'Yes. We can give your father the burial he deserves.'

'Butler, my Father is alive,' said Artemis, with all the confidence of a six-year-old proclaiming the existence of Santa Claus. 'He survived that explosion, though no doubt he is without transport and concerned that the Mafiya will make a second attempt on his life if he makes his existence known. When the identities of those two men are published I assure you Artemis Fowl the First will not be one of them.'

Butler had no response to the forest fire burning its way through Artemis's usually cool expression. The boy's emotions were not alien to Butler. In the days after the disaster, before the Major's body was found, Butler was consumed by the same thing, though he hid it the best he could from Artemis and Juliet. Juliet had accepted her uncle's death as soon as news of the explosion hit, long before the body was found. She locked herself in her room for the rest of the day, refusing food and flooding the second floor with obnoxious electronic music so that no one could hear her cry. In the morning she emerged, red-faced and withdrawn, but stable. Arguably a healthier reaction than Artemis's.

'Artemis,' Butler said delicately. 'The first of the five stages of grief-'

'Is denial, I know, and the Kübler-Ross model is flawed science at best, Butler. I intend to write an article about it once my Father returns. This is not denial. It is simply me knowing my Father better than these crackpot reporters, statisticians, and others who thrive on spreading ill omens.'

Butler bit back his disagreement. The only thing he was hoping for was closure.

'If you know he's alive, then why are you so concerned about these two bodies?'

'I'm not.' Artemis's tone brooked no disagreement, but it was a clear lie. The boy's discomfort was beyond palpable; Butler could physically feel it, coiling acid through his insides, anchoring into him like bindweed.

'Artemis,' he started, but he stopped himself. He understood. For once, Artemis was not certain of the situation, and he didn't want to hear the odds. Artemis did not want to hear about the temperature of the Barents Sea or the maximum time a human could retain dexterity in such waters or the possible states of decomposition a waterlogged body could be in after six weeks. Artemis already knew these facts. He didn't want to know them. All he wanted was to believe his father was still alive.

Butler was saved from finding a response when one of the computers gave a shrill beep, the one with the Russian news site. Artemis hit its refresh button. The same meagre sentence reappeared, but this time it was accompanied by a new paragraph: 'The dead have been identified as Ken McDonough, 34, and Andrei Durvov, 41.'

Artemis leaned back in his chair and exhaled very slowly. Relief was not an emotion frequently found on Artemis's features, but right now he dripped with it.

'Dead for six weeks,' Butler read off the screen. 'Blunt trauma both of them. They probably got to the lifeboat when the explosion hit and then got killed by the debris.'

'Yes,' breathed Artemis. 'Do you know what this means?'

Butler knew. Or, at least, he knew what it meant to Artemis.

'If two men got to a lifeboat before the Fowl Star sank then the chance of there being survivors increases exponentially.' He smiled a weak, exhausted smile. For the first time since the disaster, something resembling happiness spread across his features. 'My Father is most certainly alive.'

And Butler wanted to believe that more than anything.

'Artemis, it's very late. Do you want to get some sleep before morning?'

'No, I'm awake now, I might as well get some work done,' said Artemis. He had never sounded less like an eleven-year-old. 'I apologise for all this unnecessary concern. Were you asleep?'

Butler hesitated, wondering once again what woke him. It was a biological impossibility for him to have been woken by Artemis's psychological discomfort, certainly. This was coincidence, nothing more. Parents might conceivably develop instinctual connections to their children's safety, but Butler was only a bodyguard and Artemis already had parents.

Well, one parent.

'I was already awake,' Butler lied obviously. He glanced at the tray of food. Artemis hadn't touched it. 'Do you need some breakfast?'

'Please. Continental. Orange juice as well as tea.'

'I'll be right back.'

Butler lingered for a moment in the doorway, watching Artemis close down the various sites and wipe away the night's stresses with the humdrum of morning emails, Irish news, his bank accounts, the weather. As genuine as the fleeting joy had been, the boy's face was now ragged. He seemed to be growing old before Butler's eyes. Maybe Artemis himself didn't know what he believed.

As he made his way to the kitchen, Butler felt a pit grow in his stomach. He didn't feel relief at the news that had given Artemis his first smile in six weeks. He only felt disappointment.

Artemis knew a great many things but he did not yet know what it was to bury a parent. Butler had buried so many people. Death was an easy reality to him: casual, unremarkable. It came and went from his life like an old acquaintance, never lingering, just stepping in and out of his existence now and then, taking with it friends, family, the few people Butler had loved.

But it was new to Artemis. He still hoped. The most cynical eleven-year-old alive, and yet he still hoped. Artemis was hoping for a miracle that he himself would have denounced had it been proclaimed by anyone but himself.

Butler sighed heavily. If Artemis believed, then he had to believe too. He would treat death as a stranger the way a child would, at least until Artemis moved on. At least until then.