Book One in the Tangle & Trouble Mysteries
One ticking cube. Two teens who can’t stand each other. And a school fair about to go boom.
What’s all the fuss about?
Marlowe Bellamy wasn’t trying to blow up the science wing. Honestly. She was just chasing her thieving mutt, avoiding an exploding sponge cake, and minding her own jam-covered business.
But when a mysterious cube appears at the scene of the chaos—ticking, glowing, and whispering secrets—it throws her into a conspiracy no one else seems to hear. Now stuck working with Rhydian Granger (the Sheriff’s annoyingly perfect son), Marlowe must untangle old tech, ancient clues, and her school’s suspicious past before something really explodes.
Because this time… the sabotage might not be her fault.
Read Chapter One
A Mystery You Didn’t Know You Needed (and a jam stain you’ll never forget)
Chapter 1
Jam, Judgement, and Jinxed Inventions
It was early spring in Charlotteville, which meant foggy mornings, grumpy boilers, and the occasional snowflake that arrived fashionably late like it hadn’t read the season memo.
The first week of the new school term was in full swing, dragging Marlowe Bellamy, Year 10 student and reluctant early riser, straight into Bramblewick Academy’s usual chaos. Her boots were still slightly soggy from the morning drizzle, her timetable was already suspiciously chocolate-stained, and someone had swapped her seat card in Inventive Chemistry with a picture of a llama wearing goggles. A fresh year meant fresh disasters, and if Bramblewick had taught her anything, it was that trouble had a way of showing up precisely when you thought you might actually be getting the hang of things.
Stubby, her small scruffy dog of uncertain breed but definite attitude, was her constant companion in all things Bellamy. Despite the Academy’s famously strict “No Animals on School Grounds Unless They Have a Diploma” policy, Stubby was the sole exception. Not because he’d passed any exams (unless lunch theft counted), but because the school had tried.
They really had.
Back in Year Seven, Marlowe had done her best to follow the rules. She left Stubby at home with food, water, and a politely worded note about boundaries. He still showed up by second period. Every day. Sometimes muddy. Sometimes wearing other people’s socks.
They locked the gates. He dug under them. They once tried to lock him in the caretaker’s shed. He got out. The caretaker didn’t.
The incident that sealed his fate occurred when Marlowe was summoned to Headmistress Alderton’s office to “discuss repeated animal infiltration.” Stubby, having snuck in through an air vent (yes, an actual air vent), burst into the room mid-lecture, launched onto the Headmistress’s prized velvet chair, and shredded it into heroic confetti.
As Marlowe was marched out in shame, Stubby paused, stared directly at Deputy Principal Clench, and peed on his shoes with delightful satisfaction.
After that, it was decided – unanimously – that it was safer, more economical, and less legally complicated to let him be. He was henceforth known as “Bellamy’s Terror Protector.” Unofficial mascot, part menace, full nightmare on four legs.
By mid-afternoon, she had already racked up her fourth disaster of the day. The smell of burning sponge cake wasn’t the worst part of her Monday, but it was certainly competing for a medal. Especially since the charred lump sulking in her oven was meant to be her grand contribution to the Annual Invention Fair Bake Sale. It joined three equally tragic predecessors lined up along the counter like a gallery of culinary crimes, each one crispier than the last.
Marlowe stood in the academy’s modest kitchen, smudged with flour and soot, her long black braid looped into a messy bun atop her head. Her well-used apron did nothing to save her from fresh baking mishaps. Bramblewick Academy was a curious place, equal parts ancient stone and odd inventions. Where lessons in algebra were occasionally interrupted by unexpected fire alarms or rampaging prototype toasters. Founded after the world fracture, “to shape the minds of the promising and the peculiar,” it prided itself on nurturing both academic rigour and eccentricity.
Unfortunately, Marlowe’s talents, such as they were, leaned heavily toward catastrophic curiosity.
Stubby danced at her feet with a gleam in his eyes that meant one thing: thievery was imminent.
“You better not, Stubby,” she warned, pointing a spoon at him with all the authority she could muster while covered in fine white powder.
“That sock is not food. I don’t care how much jam is on it.”
Stubby’s response was immediate and shameless. With a joyful bark, he launched himself at the sock draped over the kitchen table and bolted out the open door with it clamped securely in his jaws.
“Oi! Get back here, you four-legged sock bandit!”
She gave chase without thinking, apron flapping wildly and spoon still in hand dripping everywhere. Stubby zipped through the corridor like a compact missile, scattering students and trailing sweet delights that were his treasure. He darted through the arched entrance of the science wing, straight into the heart of the Invention Fair setup. The room was packed with eager students and beaming teachers, placing their hard work out for inspection and obvious praise.
Marlowe tried to stop, but her boot slid straight through a particularly ambitious glob of jam, sending her skidding sideways. Her elbow clipped a brass lever jutting from what could only be described as a very delicate mechanical owl. The contraption let out a startled squawk, a genuine mechanical squawk, before its head spun a full three hundred and sixty degrees and it belched a rather theatrical puff of steam.
“Sticky treacle on a trampoline!
That was all she had time to say, the look of horror on her face a catalyst for the chain reaction that followed. The owl’s steam hit a balloon-powered carriage, which shot forward into a table of wind-up bees, that leapt like startled frogs into the air. One landed directly on a model of the Great Clockwork Tower of Bramblewick, an intricate thing of gears and pride. It exploded in a magnificent shower of springs, brass parts and cries of panic and destruction.
Silence fell. Then came the slow, horrified intake of breath from Dr Bunsley, the Head of Science. That had been his tower. Marlowe froze; spoon raised above her head like a white flag.
“I can explain,” she offered weakly.
Her wicked pet chose that very moment to delicately drop the sagging sock at her feet and wag his tail, completely oblivious to the chaos he created. As if on cue, a small, metallic cube slid across the floor and tapped against Marlowe’s boot. She reached for it, frowning. The moment her fingertips brushed the metal, a low hum pulsed through her palm-soft, almost like a heartbeat. The cube warmed beneath her touch, but not like heat from an oven. It was… aware. A faint chime echoed in her skull, a note only she seemed to hear.
And that, she would later realise, was when her life truly went off the rails.
A shrill voice echoed down the corridor.
“Make way! Clear the hall!”
Students scattered like startled pigeons as the headmistress swept into the East Wing perched atop her electronic glider like a storm in sensible shoes. Headmistress Arla Alderton was rarely seen beyond her office unless something had gone spectacularly wrong, or a visiting inspector was involved. Today, it was definitely the former.
She took one look at the chaos: broken contraptions, scorch marks, when you combine anxious fiddling with dodgy wiring, and pressed two fingers to her temples as if physically holding back a migraine.
“Who is responsible for this?”
Dr Bunsley immediately pointed at Marlowe, who was still holding the ticking cube.
“I…technically, I was trying to rescue my sock…,” Marlowe began, but Alderton raised a hand.
“Not now, Miss Bellamy.”
A boy stood in the doorway, tall and composed, wearing a perfectly pressed Bramblewick blazer like it was armour. His sharp caramel eyes scanned the room, pausing briefly on her jam-covered boots, a nearby scorched desk, and the smouldering remains of prized inventions. There was something unnervingly calm about him, like the chaos barely registered.
Then she saw the badge on his lapel. Not a student council badge. Not a prefect shield.
This was a five-pointed silver star with a tiny, engraved cog and gear symbol. They were arranged in a Yin-Yang-like balance, symbolising order and adaptability—mechanical logic entwined with intuitive justice. The insignia of the sheriff’s office.
No. Nope. Absolutely not.
That badge meant law. Authority. Rules. Things that got in the way of creative baking explosions. Her stomach did a flip she refused to acknowledge. He raised an eyebrow, slowly.
Brilliant. A walking clipboard had arrived to ruin her day.
“Mr Granger,” Alderton snapped, “record everything. I want a full incident report, mechanical assessment, and names of any witnesses who weren’t throwing scones or letting dogs run riot.”
Marlowe immediately opened her mouth to correct her by saying there were no scones involved but immediately clamped shut at the headmistresses’ sharp gaze.
Rather not push your luck, Marlowe girl.
The clipboard nodded crisply and immediately began scribbling in a small leather notebook. He shot her a single glance, blank, unreadable, and moved on.
“I’ll help tidying up,” Marlowe offered, setting the cube carefully on the nearest table.
The look Alderton gave her could have curdled milk.
“Absolutely not! I think you have done enough helping for one day Ms Bellamy.”
The sharp words flowed around her, gathering a few snickers here and there from the remaining students. Marlowe stood, unfazed as she straightened out her apron. Her mother raised her to stand her ground and stand she did. Back straight, shoulders squared, she did not give an inch to their judgemental gazes. She was used to their sideward looks and harsh whispers. Nothing new at Bramblewick.
A flurry of teachers and prefects descended on the wreckage, ushering out gawking students and cordoning off the worst of the debris with caution tape and upturned stools. Stubby, now mysteriously wearing a party hat, was carried out by a prefect like a disgraced war hero.
Jessica Standford, a classmate, stepped delicately over a smashed gear, nose wrinkled. Every inch of her gleamed. Polished boots, silver-threaded cuffs, and not a single golden curl out of place beneath her pearl-tipped hairclip. She moved like the world owed her clean marble floors and someone to sweep them.
“Such a shame about the fair. It was going so well until, well… someone’s creature started a revolution.”
Gabriele Evans leaned against a scorched pillar. “Tragic, really. Some of us were hoping for actual competition this year.”
He picked at his spotless gloves with theatrical precision, his collar crisp as fresh parchment, and his dark slicked-back hair hadn’t shifted a single strand despite the smouldering wreckage nearby. He radiated the smug confidence of someone who’d never been caught in the rain, stepped in mud, or faced a consequence that couldn’t be smoothed over with influence.
Together, he and Jessica were Bramblewick’s golden pair, insanely sparkly and perfectly in sync. It was no wonder they were inseparable, not just romantically, but politically too. Jessica, the daughter of Head of Charlotteville Council, was rumoured to be Capital-bound alongside her father’s next promotion. Gabriele’s mother, meanwhile, had recently been appointed an up-and-coming minister in the Capital herself. They weren’t simply a couple; they were the academy’s very own power alliance in creaseless blazers and ruthless grins.
Jessica’s tone turned syrupy. “Don’t worry, Bellamy. Some people are born to invent. Others… make jam footprints on the prestige of our academy.”
Marlowe blinked slowly. “Was that meant to sting? You might want to work on your delivery. That one had the impact of a wet sock.”
Rhydian, standing behind her, let the corner of his mouth twitch in the barest hint of a smile. She never backed down, not even when outnumbered or ankle-deep in wreckage. He couldn’t decide if that was brave or completely unhinged.
As Marlowe turned to leave, still picking bits of gear out of her sleeves, a clipped voice called after her.
“Miss Bellamy.”
She looked up slowly.
“You will report to my office first thing tomorrow morning,” Alderton said, her tone dangerously calm. “We will discuss today’s events.”
Marlowe managed a stiff nod, biting back the urge to salute ironically. She walked away lost in thought, the weight of the cube’s ticking still echoing faintly in her palm, even though she’d left it behind. She had a feeling the conversation tomorrow would be less about punishment and more about questions no one yet knew to ask.
She pulled a crumpled packet of butter cookies from her skirt pocket and began munching absentmindedly on one end. They were slightly burnt around the edges, more charcoal than golden, but still edible. Right now, she desperately needed the kind of comfort only half-scorched baked goods could offer.
Way to go Monday.
Stubby says:
“If you humans stopped touching cubes and chasing conspiracies, there’d be more snacks. This is on you.”
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