I wrote this so long ago. Those fans of a certain British TV show about a curly-haired god and his short sidekick should be able to work out exactly when...

Thought it deserved some air :) New readers should peruse Chapter Two before going any further. This will make a bit more sense if you do.

Thank you so much all those people who have reviewed these one-shots whilst I've been away. So many lovely comments. I am so incredibly, incredibly amazed when I get one. Cheers, guys. Hopefully happy reading.

Butlercise – Revenge

Beckett Fowl took a running jump, vaulting over the arm of the sofa and landing heavily in the centre of several plush cushions. He toed off his muddied football boots and snatched up the remote. Myles hurried into the room after him.

"Quickly," he said. "it's on RTÉ One."

"I know, I know," huffed Beckett.

"Beckett!" called their mother, clacking across the foyer outside. "You better not be on any of the sofas in those sweaty clothes. Get changed if you want to relax."

"I have!" he yelled back, and then gestured urgently for his twin to close the door.

Myles stretched back over his armchair and shoved the wood shut. They were in one of the smallest lounges of the manor – still a practical apartment compared to most Irish living rooms but petite by Fowl standards and a bit of a family favourite. The ninety-inch gas-screened 5D (fairy-technology) curved television mounted on the far wall more than made up for any supposed lack of space.

Beckett flicked quickly through the satellite menu whilst Myles cracked open a box of Neuhaus truffles left on a side table.

"And now," said a lilting voice in rumbling surround-sound, "the detective is back..."

Myles's heart fluttered. Porlock was the most popular detective drama series in Ireland with millions of people tuning in every week. Myles and Beckett, along with practically the entirety of Ireland's population, had been waiting to see the third series of Porlock for almost a year now. It was premièring that night, in its pure, un-pirated form. Myles had held himself back from hacking into RTÉ, Beckett too. They wanted to watch it that night, along with the rest of the nation, sat on the edges of their seats…

"In the last episode…"

"Keep your eyes fixed on me!"

A tall, black-haired man was standing atop a Dublin rooftop, his left hand outstretched. The blonde man on the pavement stared up at him.

"Goodbye, Jim."

"No, don't–" screams the blonde, then "PORLOCK!"

The taller man falls, arms pin-wheeling then–

The episode is gone, replaced by a widescreen shot of Artemis Fowl the Second grinning up from the depths of a high-backed office chair.

"Hello, brothers."

Myles and Beckett both screamed.

"No!" screeched the younger (by 38 minutes). "No way! Turn it back on! Turn it back on!"

"What are you doing?" shrieked Myles. "Artemis, what is the meaning–?"

"No doubt you are both making quite a fuss right now," said their elder brother, unconcernedly, the wide window behind him showing off a $39-million view of east Manhattan. "I timed this video so it would appear just after the RTÉ watershed, presumably when you are both settled for the evening and without work to do. I believe I may have clashed with the latest episode of that Ronan Goyle rip-off you both love so much… but never mind."

"No," hissed Myles, venomously. "Not, never mind. You need to get off this television set right now or–"

"I've just called to return a favour you granted a friend of mine a few weeks ago. I know you worked so hard to help him, and I just wanted to pay you back."

"What?" Beckett was clicking angrily at the remote to no avail. "What does he mean 'pay us back'? Why didn't he just phone us like a normal brother?"

But the truth was slowly dawning on Myles.

"Oh God," he whispered, dread sinking into his stomach.

"It was incredible, I must say, how you both managed to pull it off. The installation of thirteen separate paint cannons, not to mention the motion sensors and the video activation sequence: all without my noticing. Really, I was most impressed."

A small figure leant over the arm of their brother's chair, poking their head into shot. "Yeah," said Wing-Commander Holly Short. "Really impressed."

Both twins baulked. You did not mess with their brother's diminutive girlfriend (which they only called her when she wasn't around) if you wanted to keep all your limbs attached to your body.

Artemis shifted in his chair slightly so the elf could sit on the arm beside him.

"It was such a good programme in fact," he continued, "that I've had the very same equipment installed in the Manor–"

"Run!" yelled Myles, scrabbling out of his chair and sprinting towards the door.

Beckett was hot on his tail.

A loud ticking sound began somewhere in the region of the media station.

"Now," said their brother, with unmistakable relish. "There is a 98.7% chance that you have both deduced what is about to happen to you and are currently trying to escape the room–"

Beckett rattled the door knob. "It's not opening!"

Myles closed his eyes. Think, boy, think.

"The door is locked, as you will have undoubtedly discovered, so I would recommend you both return to the main living area."

"Where are the cannons?" demanded Myles. "He won't have hidden them in the ceiling – that fresco is over four hundred years old."

"There's only the cabinet, the book shelves and the fireplace left," said Beckett, "unless he's carved them into the walls, but again, the wallpaper's eighteenth-century."

The beeping was getting quicker.

Holly Short grinned. "If you don't get back in front of the TV within the next thirty seconds then a violently purple substance that apparently smells strongly of horse pee will be shot at you from twenty-seven separate locations–"

"Twenty seven?" choked Beckett.

"–and I have it on good authority that it won't wash off for five weeks."

Myles glared at his twin. Then they both took a sharp step backwards. The beeping slowed.

"I think you're probably aware of how the rest of this goes," said Artemis, smiling too. "You will find appropriate clothing under the chairs you were sat on, and I've sprayed an ion tracer into the linings so the sensor shall know if you do not put them on..."

The ticking began to increase.

"I'll get the clothes," said Myles, "you keep trying to find the cannons."

Beckett nodded.

The elder twin dropped to his knees and groped an arm under the sofa. Sure enough, he found two, stuffed plastic packages concealed under it. He ripped them open.

"You shall have thirty seconds, once I have finished speaking, to don your outfits and get into position."

Beckett retreated fruitlessly from the walls, staring at the clothes now spilled onto the rug.

"What are they?" he demanded, pointing to a pair of what looked like floppy, flannel tubes.

Myles pinched one leg warmer between thumb and forefinger and held it out as if it were a bomb.

"I believe, dear brother, they are called 'revenge.'"

"Needless to say, if you do not complete the following video with at least eighty per cent accuracy, the cannons will go off. You shall both be doused, head to foot, and my debt shall be repaid."

Holly Short leaned in towards the camera. "So good luck, boys. And we're so sorry it had to come to this."

Both man and elf faded (looking a little less than sorry) to be replaced by an on-screen timer.

"Get them on," snapped Myles as his brother continued to stare, appalled, at the screen.

Beckett shot him a look before starting to undo the ties of his football shorts. "Which ones are mine?" he demanded, gesturing at the scattered clothes on the floor.

"I don't think it matters."

"It will. You know Arty's OCD."

"Just pick something up then and see if it ticks."

Beckett scooped something golden and tiny from the rug.

"Okay," he said, smirking, "well I think these are yours."

Myles looked up. His brother was holding up a pair of sequined hot pants with the letters MF monogrammed across the backside.

"Oh for the love of–"

Beckett laughed and tossed the shorts to his twin. "I reckon they'll suit you."

"And you'll suit this," retorted Myles, throwing him a neon-orange leotard with BF emblazoned in glitter across the chest.

Both boys yanked up their various pieces of unfortunately designed Lycra, Myles jamming a velvet vest-top over his head and Beckett forcing a headband about his curls. The legwarmers were also embroidered with their initials, so they easily picked out their own separate pairs and pulled them over skinny shins.

The timer reached zero.

Butler appeared on screen. ""Ah!" he said, in fake surprise, "Artemis! Welcome to this special edition of Butlercise! The DVD!"

"Kill me now," said Beckett, plucking at the back of his leotard which had already started to ascend.

Ten minutes later and they were both slightly out of breath. Myles had discovered not long into the warm up that the disco shorts also liked to ride up somewhere unpleasant and the velvet vest top chafed under the arms… but apart from that, the warm-up really hadn't been that bad. The ticking had almost faded completely at one point. They were thirteen years old and fit for their age – Beckett playing on the school's Gaelic football team and Myles swimming, running and cycling with a local triathlon club four nights a week.

"This is pips," said Beckett, as Butler faded from the screen. "We're not total weeds like Arty is."

"Hmm," replied Myles, sounding sceptical, "but it's Juliet next."

Beckett snorted. "A bit of dancing. What's so hard about that?"

"Hey, Arty!" beamed Juliet Butler, all blond hair, white teeth and toned, smooth muscle.

Myles's eyes widened as he took in the neon sports bra and he suddenly wished his costume weren't so tight. Beckett cackled at his brother's expression and had to dodge to avoid a punch to the arm.

"I'm here to take you through the main bit of the workout," announced the blonde, "the fun bit!"

Beckett elbowed him. "Come on," he said, bouncing slightly in the spot, "we can handle this."

"Yes," snapped Myles, "I know." He was blushing furiously.

"Now, I know my bro wants me to do something boring with you like squats and push ups and things, but–"

Juliet Butler vanished from the screen to be replaced by a flame-haired elf in a black, skin-tight gym suit.

"But you made a big mistake in setting that thing up so it would trap other people," finished Holly Short, stood in the centre of what was presumably an LEP cadet gym, complete with muscle stretchers and tortuous toning extractors. "So now you're going to do my workout."

"RUN FOR IT!" roared Beckett.

Myles sprinted straight to the other side of the room, wrenching books off shelves and tossing glass ornaments onto the couch. His twin scrambled under the mantel piece, kicking aside the summer flowers arranged artfully in the grate and pushing himself up into the flue.

The ticking was growing louder and quicker by the second.

Myles hefted a bust of Socrates down from a cabinet and staggered over to the door. He clutched the base in his skinny fingers and swung it at the wood with all his might. It didn't even make a dent. The noise did surprise his brother, however, who promptly lost his grip on the soot-coated bricks inside the chimney-shaft and fell straight back down the flue. He landed hard, flat on his back, all the air thrown from his lungs.

Myles dropped Socrates.

"Beckett!" he cried.

The ticking was almost a single, constant thrum now.

Myles ran to his brother.

"Are you alright?" he demanded. "Are you alright?"

Beckett nodded, red-faced, no breath left for speech. Then they both noticed the whirring. Something was moving in the deep shadows of the chimney shaft above them. Myles cursed. He seized his twin by the straps of his leotard and dragged him quickly out from the grate. The beeping calmed as they huddled in front of the sofa, and the paint-cannon retreated up the chimney like a monster skulking back to its lair.

Holly was still grinning on screen.

"Artemis tells me that there's a 97.6% chance that you, Myles, have just caused minor damage to an antique effigy and that you, Beckett, are now having difficulty breathing. So, I'll give you both a few seconds to recover before we get this show on the road."

Myles scowled at the screen.

It was always at times like this, when he was reminded of his elder brother's absolute genius, that he wondered why he always took such efforts to provoke him. Every time he did it he lived to regret it…. But then Beckett would approach him a few weeks later, cackling, plan sheet in hand, and it would be like all the past misjudgements had never happened.

He looked down at his brother, gasping on the carpet, and wondered whether Beckett could remember them now.

"On your feet!" barked Holly dictatorially whilst still somehow managing to sound cheery.

"You'll have… to go on… without me," wheezed Beckett.

Myles shook his head. "I can't."

"There's only… one sensor… you can… do the exercise… for both… of us…"

"And what if he knows and shoots you in the face?"

"Then that's a risk… I'll have… to take…"

His head flopped back to the carpet and his eyes closed. Myles looked up and stood slowly, his fingers clenched slowly into fists.

"You ready Mud Boys?" asked the on-screen Holly. "Or are we down to one now, as Artemis predicted?"

"Just get on with it," growled the twelve-year-old, looking just about as dangerous as a thirteen-year-old Fowl could look – in other words, very.

"Right, we'll start things slow – I know what you Fowls are like when it comes to physical movement."

Myles rolled his head around his neck. "Bring it, Wing Commander."

The sensor ticked steadily.

And the workout began.

When Holly Short had said 'slow' what she had really meant was 'human', because five minutes into the workout things had swiftly become inhuman. Movements flashed across the screen that only a fully-trained LEPrecon officer could complete. Luckily enough, they were things that a thirteen-year-old, very determined, 100m junior freestyle champion could also complete – well, with at least eighty-per-cent accuracy anyway. Myles spin-kicked, burpeed, hand-sprung, pirouetted, and at one point completed a standing backwards somersault, almost landing on his twin's chest and winding him for a second time. Fifteen minutes in and he was gulping for breath, but the glint never left his eyes.

"Go on, Myles," croaked Beckett, his throat raw. "You show her!"

"Jump, jump, jump and squat!" ordered Holly, who had decided after Juliet's 'danceasize' that she had quite enjoyed some of it. "Arms, around, drop and chest!"

Beckett ignored the ache in his limbs and the chafe of the hot pants. His sweatband was doing a terrible job of keeping his hair out of his eyes but he ignored that too. All that mattered was keeping up with that devil of a fairy.

"Jump, jump, jump and squat!" ordered Holly.

"Arms, around, drop and chest!" spat Myles in response.

Then the Holly on screen jittered. "J-Jump, j-jump, j-jump and drop!"

He frowned, paused, and the ticking sped up.

"A-a-a-arms!" cried Holly. "A-a-a-around!"

Myles stood straight, confused, but the sensor ticked all the louder so he squatted again.

"D-d-d-drop a-and ch-ch-ch-chest!"

The boy tried to keep in time with the movements but it was nigh impossible with all the stopping and starting of the video. The sensor sped up again.

"It's broken!" he squawked.

Beckett stared up from the sofa. "What?"

"It's malfunctioning!"

Myles gritted his teeth and braced his legs, readying his arms above his head to anticipate the elf's next jerk. But it was impossible. And the cannon in the fireplace had started to descend again. He could see the other twenty-six slowly winding their way into the open too, three rising from the back of the sofa, pushing at his twin, another four squeezing from between books he'd left on the shelf…

He looked back at his brother.

"I guess that's it," he said softly, his voice barely audible above the wail of the sensor.

"You gave it your all," said Beckett, smiling, no anger in his eyes. "On three?"

Myles nodded.

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

And he let his arms flop to his sides.

Every cannon exploded with the force of… well, a cannon. There were twenty-seven separate bangs, each one louder than the one preceding it. Both twins waited, flinching, for the purple jets to slap them across their faces and torsos... but only felt a soft sort of rain falling against their hair and hands. They heard a faint flapping sound too, like a thousand tiny birds in flight.

"Look!" cried his brother, and Myles opened his eyes.

The whole room was snowing confetti. Ticker-tape of every colour; sequins, glitter; all drifted down from the ceiling, catching on lamps and paintings, blanketing every piece of antique furniture. Beckett held out his hands and stars trailed from between his fingertips.

"He didn't do it," he whispered, almost reverently. "He didn't do it, Mylie."

Myles stood up. Plastic hearts fell free from his hair and he laughed. "He didn't do it! He didn't do it!"

He scooped up a handful of ticker-tape, the ache in his muscles forgotten, and tossed it in the air. His twin quickly mimicked him, whooping and crowing, tossing glitter high above him and then in his brother's face.

Then they heard the footsteps

"–such a lovely surprise! They'll be so pleased to see you."

The door to the room swung open.

Angeline Fowl appeared in the doorway, her wide smile suddenly freezing on her face. Myles and Beckett stared at her. Glitter continued to rain down from the ceiling, uncaring that everyone else had turned to statues.

"M-mum," stuttered Beckett.

"What," said Angeline quietly, "is the meaning of this?"

"Mum," said Myles, quickly getting to his feet. "Mum, it wasn't us–"

"This room was spotless an hour ago."

"Yes, we know, we didn't–"

"I had planned to host a meeting in here tomorrow morning!"

"Yes, but–"

"How is it that you can always manage to do this?" she shrieked. "I turn my back on you for half an hour and you have inevitably managed to cause mayhem!"

"Mum–!"

"No! You listen to me! I never had this sort of trouble with your brother!"

Beckett's jaw dropped. "Artemis had a troll rampage through the house!"

"And zombie pirates!" joined in Myles.

"And a fat barrel–"

"And that sloth colony that was here for weeks–"

Their mother cut them off with a look.

"I want this place cleaned," she said, in a tone that would brook no argument. "I will ask Maria to lend you her vacuum and brushes and you shall clear every last piece of debris from this room until it is returned to its original state."

"But–"

"I don't care how long it takes you both. You will do it." She turned back to the figure at her shoulder. "I'm so glad you're back," she sighed. "Perhaps you'll have a good influence on them. A calming influence."

The figure smirked. "Now, now, Mother. You know how I was at that age, I can hardly talk…"

She smiled lovingly and stroked a hand at his cheek. "I'll be in the Chinese parlour when you're ready."

And she clacked away up the hall.

Artemis Fowl the Second peered into the room over his 1970s Raybans.

"What a mess," he said blandly, his one hand tucked firmly into a pocket of his herringbone pea coat. "I would be here for weeks if asked to clean this up. But by utilising your mutual genius, I suppose you'll soon find a way to get everything ship-shape again. Good evening."

And with that he pushed his sunglasses back up his nose and left in direction of his mother.

Myles looked at Becket and released an exhausted, irritated sigh.

Angeline collapsed back onto the couch.

"Oh dear," she said, her mouth muffled by the arm she had flopped despairingly over her face. "Our children."

"They are something," agreed Artemis Senior, taking a weary seat beside her.

Angeline's head rolled onto his shoulder. "Just where do they get it from? I was never this disruptive as a child…"

Artemis Senior only adjusted his dressing-gown over his knees and remained silent.

"It's going to take weeks for that table to be restored," she continued. "Pierre can't get back from Milan until next month… I've half a mind to just make Artemis do it himself."

Her husband craned his neck to look at her. "It was Beckett, technically, who introduced the first acidic compound."

"But Arty is twenty-four, dear. He should know better than to be bringing carboranes to the dinner table…"

"We shall deal with it in the morning. As for now, the new Porlock was aired earlier tonight. I believe the boys will have recorded it."

His wife sighed and reached for the remote. "Porlock it is."

She switched on the power button and scrolled through pages of high-definition television, her husband wedging himself closer into her side.

"Oh damn," she muttered, her brow furrowing. "I've clicked the wrong thing."

A grey-haired man had appeared on screen, delivering a lecture on what appeared to be radioactive scribbles etched across a board behind him.

"This is Arty's programme," said Artemis Senior. "He was talking about it at dinner before Myles released the terrapins. Go back, it was the thing above it."

Angeline clicked the appropriate button and the professor disappeared… only to be replaced by a tableau of her two youngest children.

"Hello, dear brother," spat Beckett from the left of the screen, his image lurching to life, "how nice of you to join us again."

"No," said Artemis Senior, waving a hand, "this still isn't the right thing."

"I know," muttered Angeline, scrutinizing the remote. "I am pressing the right button… but nothing is responding."

"You didn't think we'd just leave it there did you?" asked the on-screen Myles somewhat vindictively. "Oh, no, no. It took us three hours to pick up every bit of mess that you made, so I think the record isn't quite square yet…"

"Shall I take a look?" asked Artemis Senior, casually.

Angeline gripped the remote a little tighter. "You would just press exactly the same buttons as me, dear."

"Have you tried pressing 'back up'?"

"Yes."

Then something began to tick.

Artemis Senior sat up and nudged his hand, pointedly, against the remote. "I think you may have set the timer, my love. You should be pressing 'back up'."

"I am, Timmy. Nothing is responding."

"The timer should have started by now, Arty," continued Myles on screen, "so I'd follow our instructions pretty swiftly. There are no more pieces of confetti in those cannons. Only the good stuff."

Both twins grinned as one.

Angeline looked up. "Cannons? Did he just say cannons?"

"Your outfit is ready for you under the sofa."

Artemis Senior frowned and bent down to feel between his feet. He pulled out a neon bundle of clothing.

"MF?" he read, confused, scrutinising the sequined hot-pants in his hand. "Has Myles taken up dance?"

Angeline picked out a monogrammed leg-warmer. "And apparently Beckett."

They both exchanged bemused glances.

"You have thirty seconds to put on your designated clothing and stand in the centre of the room," Myles instructed. "If you don't, then the worst is coming."

Angeline sighed and got up from the couch. "I believe we may be in the centre of a plan, Timmy."

"Ah, nostalgia."

"And," interrupted Myles, "even though there is a 97.7% chance that you have not bothered to check the doors because you already know this, all exits have been sealed tight. There is no escape."

Angeline, who had in fact bothered to check the doors, released the bronze doorknob and looked back at her husband. Artemis Senior simply shrugged and held out a flannel headband.

"Must we, dear?" she asked.

"For old time's sake."

She accepted it with a wry smile.

"Thirty… twenty-nine… twenty-eight…" sing-songed Beckett.

"Would you like the leotard or the shorts?" inquired Artemis senior, who already had the velvet vest looped onto his forearm.

"Oh, most definitely the leotard," said Angeline, pushing a leg warmer past her wrist.

He tossed it to her and pulled up a leg warmer of his own onto his prosthetic limb.

"I love how our family evenings are always so normal."

"Hmm, quite."

Both adults stood, resignedly, in the centre of the room, dressing gowns abandoned, the various parts of Myles' and Beckett's costumes hung about their arms and necks. Angeline adjusted a lop-sided headband from obscuring her left eye and glanced sideways at her husband. She snorted with mirth.

"They become you, my dear."

Artemis Senior nodded and rotated his hips, his son's elasticated shorts pulled up over plaid pyjama trousers.

"I think so. I shall have to wear them to next week's benefit."

"Ah!" said a newly-appeared Butler, with fake surprise, "Artemis! Welcome to this special edition ofButlercise! The DVD!"

Artemis Fowl Senior looked at his wife. "Oh dear."

"I am not in the right attire for a workout," said Angeline, stepping neatly out of her slippers. "This night dress is this season's Jenny Packman."

"Then why not remove it, dearest?"

Angeline smacked him sharply in the sequins.

Then the beep began to quicken and both Lady and Master Fowl dropped to the floor as if they were children playing musical bumps. The lady, instantly, creased with laughter.

"Up and down… up and down…" instructed Butler.

"Come now, Angeline," said Artemis Senior. "You must keep up."

Angeline was weak with giggling.

"This is just so… vindictive," she managed to splutter, raising her arms. "They meant to force Arty to exercise, Timmy."

"It does seem rather harsh," agreed Artemis Senior, bending at the hip, the vest top slipping down his arm, "but at least it's nothing typically harmful. Remember the rocket-launcher they installed in his commode that year?"

"How could I forget? Artemis couldn't sit down for weeks, poor dear, he was so sensitive. St Mary's burn ward said they had never seen anything quite like it."

Then the image on screen changed.

"But you made a big mistake in setting that thing up so it would trap other people,"declared Holly Short. "So now you're going to do my work out."

"Who is that?" demanded Artemis Senior, sitting up sharply.

Angeline couldn't help but smile, even though she now knew for certain that they were not going to be able to escape this plan. "Our future daughter-in-law."

"What are you doing?" inquired Artemis Senior as his wife got up off the floor, still grinning. "Who is that woman? What do you mean future daughter-in-law?"

She raised him up and wrapped her arms tightly around him, the beeping growing ever louder.

"It doesn't matter, my dear. There's no point continuing. She will be exercising long after we've sunk to our graves."

"But you heard Beckett," he said, brow creasing, gesturing back towards the television. "The worst shall come if we do not obey the video's instructions."

"Let it come."

"You do remember the commode incident?"

They were a series of faint whirring sounds all around them and several dozen hose-nosed contraptions began to reveal themselves from the walls, bookcases, and fireplace.

"That was a rocket-launcher," said Angeline mildly. "These are cannons."

Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep.

"I love our children," said Artemis Senior, holding his wife close. "I truly do."

They both shut their eyes tight.

BOOM.

Jets of putrid, plum-coloured liquid exploded onto them from all directions, painting them, violently, in purple from head to foot. Angeline screamed as a particularly vicious jet blasted her off her feet. She was wrenched from Artemis Senior's arms, falling hard to the floor, liquid squeezing into her mouth, her ears, her hair and clothes.

"Angeline!" crowed her husband, only to slip right after her, joining her on the sodden carpet, his hair slicked in violet clumps to his head.

Angeline shrieked with laughter.

There was a hammering on the door.

"Hello?" shouted a panicked voice "Who is in there?"

"Artemis," gasped Artemis Senior, as Angeline clutched her stomach, her legs slipping for purchase.

"What did you do?" demanded his eldest son from outside.

"It was meant to be you!" crowed a voice, unmistakably Beckett's.

"Just get the door open!"

"It won't allow access until the jets have stopped!"

The streams of the hoses were slowing from jets to weak, half-hearted trickles. Angeline had flopped over onto her back, her whole frame shaking with mirth.

"Are you alright?" gasped Artemis Senior, twisting to look at her.

She nodded weakly, flicking purple dregs from the ends of her hands.

"Surely you have an override," spat Artemis Junior.

"It should be finished soon," said Myles defensively. "Anytime... Now."

And the door burst open, all three Fowl children almost falling into the room.

Angeline was immediately on her feet.

"Darlings!" she called, her thin night dress rucked up to just above her newly-dyed knees. "How nice of you to join us!"

"Yes," agreed Artemis Senior, pushing himself from the ground. "How nice indeed."

"We didn't mean to get you," blurted Beckett, his face a picture of dismay. "It was all for Artemis, honestly."

"It's alright," said Angeline, advancing. "We forgive you. Come. Embrace your mother."

Beckett's eyes widened. "Um, maybe when you've had a bath, mum."

"Come, dear, what's the matter?"

Myles took a sharp step back. "I really don't think–"

Then Angeline pounced. She tackled both her youngest boys to the floor, smothering their pyjamas and faces in purple as they squirmed and cried out. Artemis Junior had reared back just in time, his eyes widening in horror. The stench from both his parents and the lounge were almost overpowering. He covered his mouth and nose with a quick hand.

"Yes, Arty," growled a voice, and Artemis met the dangerously narrowed eyes of his father. "Come and have a hug from your old da..."

There was a brief pause.

And then both of the eldest Fowl males were sprinting across the main foyer, one trailing purple footsteps, the other scrabbling for purchase in his Armani slippers. Artemis had never run so fast in his life: never on the treadmill, not even when escaping the rampaging trolls of The Eleven Wonders. He skidded through the scarlet lounge, through the dining hall, into the main kitchen, weaving around the main breakfast island and breaking out across the lawn. He could hear his father's steady, measured puffs following closely behind him. His own chest was heaving with exertion, each breath burning in his throat. He pushed his head forward and dug his toes into the grass–

Smack.

His father tackled him, hard, into the ground. Artemis scrabbled in the grass, wrestling, fearfully against the hands trying to get purchase on his lapel.

He cried out in protest. "Father, no–"

But his face was smothered with a slick, purple hand. Then his father's weight was fully on him, coating his pyjamas, his nightgown, in purple.

"What's wrong, Arty?" asked Artemis Senior, smearing his doused cheek against his son's. "Do you not care for a hug?"

His son wriggled and swore beneath him, trying to get a grip on his father's wrists. Then two other, thirteen-year-old, weights crashed into them, piling on top, crushing the air from the Fowl heir's lungs.

Angeline laughed from safe distance, watching her boys wrestle on the summer grass. Her nightdress was ruined, her long hair matted. She put her finger to her lips to hide her grin.

The night was clear, the moon high and bright in the sky. The lawn spread out before them manicured and peppered with croquet hoops. She could see the silent fountains, the sculpted hedges… and, in the tail of her eye, a tell-tale shimmering about two metres from the ground.

Ah, thought Angeline, so Arty did decide to bring a guest.

She padded forwards, as if she were about to intervene in her family's fight. The shimmering did not retreat… and Angeline pounced again.

Guess Arty will have to have an extended family stay then. But that's another story.

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