The Cracks in the Kingdom

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Tovey turned back again.

  “I hear it was you who found him, Elliot,” he said. “That must have been tough. I also hear the coroner concluded it was a Purple that killed your uncle. So you’ve been searching for your dad in Purple caverns a lot of this last year. That makes you the bravest kid I’ve ever met.”

  He was stacking up facts like counters, and that last fell into place with the exact same click. Just another fact. He paused, picked up his coffee, hesitated, replaced it on the table.

  “We know,” he continued, “that your dad and uncle were working with a Loyalist group. We don’t know what they were doing. We know that the teacher, Mischka Tegan, was an undercover Hostile. We think that, on the night in question, your dad and uncle realized this truth and confronted her — and that’s how Jon ended up dead and your dad, a prisoner. We don’t know why they’re holding him.”

  As Elliot listened, he thought how voices were different. There’d been other CI agents in town the last few weeks, and they’d all had the same educated tone. But Tovey’s voice was more than smooth. It knew its way around a room. It was a voice that could find paths through a labyrinth of furniture while all the time it looked you in the eye.

  At this point, Hector interrupted. Elliot smiled to himself. The Sheriff’s voice would shove tables aside and trample right over the couch.

  “Abel Baranski is a good man,” Hector declared. “Whatever he’s doing with those Hostiles, he’s not working with them if that’s where you’re headed.”

  Tovey studied the Sheriff’s face.

  “From what I know,” he said, “I agree with you one hundred percent.” He swung back toward Elliot. “To get your father out safely, we want to know more. We want to talk to the townsfolk, but people don’t relax around government agents.” He swung his thumb toward Hector. “It’s my belief they’d relax around this guy.”

  Hector warmed to him at once. “I’ll get them singing for you,” he said. “I’ll get them playing the fiddle!”

  “Don’t mind a bit of live music,” Tovey said mildly.

  “Now as for my deputy, Jimmy, here,” Hector continued, “you know that his skills at missing persons are legendary?”

  “Ah, now,” Jimmy began, but both agents were smiling.

  “I’ve been looking forward to working with the missing-persons legend,” Kim said, and he turned the notepad around so they could see he’d sketched a perfect likeness of Jimmy’s face. It was not clear why.

  “Just like to sketch.” Agent Kim shrugged.

  Tovey turned to Elliot again. “You and your mother might explain your dad’s papers to us, but we’d also like to chat more broadly. Get a real sense of your dad.”

  Hector interrupted again.

  “Now I know that Elliot will do his best for you,” he said, “but he might not be available all the time.”

  “Sheriff,” said Elliot.

  “No, let me tell them! This boy has got himself selected to the Royal Youth Alliance! Had you heard? The Princess Sisters chose three young people from all across the Kingdom — just three, that’s fewer fingers than I have on this hand — and Elliot here was one of them! From all across the Kingdom! A Bonfire boy! He’ll be going along to a get-together in the Magical North next weekend.”

  The agents looked across at Elliot.

  “We heard,” said Agent Kim. “Congratulations.”

  “It’s only for the weekend,” Elliot shrugged. “Otherwise, I’m around.”

  Tovey stared at Elliot, as if trying to figure something out. He curled his hand into a fist, held it to his mouth, then drew it away abruptly.

  “What’s with the recipe book?” he said.

  Elliot raised his eyebrows. The book had been lying on the table all this time, unnoticed, he’d thought. He’d been meaning to mention it when the time seemed right. Now he picked it up.

  “It was in my dad’s filing cabinet,” he explained. “The recipe for pecan-maple brownies calls for two and a half cups of ginger.”

  “And?” Tovey tilted his head.

  “That can’t be right,” Hector and Jimmy spoke at once.

  “It’s way too much,” Elliot explained. “I looked through and turns out all the recipes have one or two things wrong. Four cups of cardamom. Five pounds of butter. That kind of thing. I’m thinking, maybe the book’s a sort of code?” He shrugged. “Either that, or the publishers were trashed when they printed it.”

  Those laughing smiles were forming in the agents’ eyes again.

  Tovey took the book, flicked through, then shrugged broadly, indicating that he didn’t have a clue what recipes should look like. He passed it over to Kim.

  “We’ll get our code crackers onto it,” he said. “I knew you were good value, Elliot, the moment I saw you. Hector and Jimmy told us earlier what a popular kid you are: something about the famous Elliot Baranski grin. Lights up the town like a carnival, they say, only nobody’s seen it in a while. Listen, we plan to do everything we can to bring your dad home. I’ve made it my primary objective to see that grin.”

  Kim put the recipe book into his briefcase, and ran the side of his thumb over his empty pie plate. “As fast as possible,” he agreed, “but I wouldn’t mind a reasonably long stay in a province that bakes like this.”

  “And you haven’t even tried Jimmy’s cinnamon-and-apple brioche yet,” Hector declared. “Not to mention Elliot’s blueberry muffins.”

  Jimmy and Elliot took the cue and told the agents all about Hector’s famous oatmeal cookies. They moved on to the specialties of various townsfolk — including Alanna Baranski, who ran this Inn, took care of Corrie-Lynn, and made this here pie. There was a lot of laughter, but Elliot caught Tovey glancing sideways, out through the picture window. Corrie-Lynn was clambering through branches of the mulberry, collecting handfuls of leaves. A sadness snapped the edge off Tovey’s smile. He might find Elliot’s dad, but there was nothing he could do for that little girl or her pie-baking mother — that’s what his face seemed to say.

  Seeing this, Elliot felt a surge — an almost terrifying conviction — that the one person in all of the Kingdom — the only person, in fact — who could bring his father home was this man. Agent Tovey.

  * * *

  He went by the high school later that night, around eleven.

  There was a sculpture in the middle of the schoolyard here — an old TV with its back missing, wedged onto a pile of cement — and this was the location of a crack just big enough for letters to a girl in the World. Her name was Madeleine.

  The stars were out and the night was hot. Insects in the streetlights. Elliot looked around awhile before he checked the sculpture. It was a capital offense to communicate with the World.

  There was a pale, buzzing silence. A voice called in the distance, then was quiet.

  He looked at his watch. It was just before eleven.

  He took out his flashlight and shone it into the open back of the TV. There was a tangle of red and white wires in there, circuit boards, metal plates. He waited.

  A curl of white slipped through a crack. He reached for the paper, and read it.

  Hey, Elliot. You there?

  Elliot took out his notepad and wrote a reply.

  Yep.

  A moment later another piece of paper emerged.

  It’s Madeleine.

  Elliot raised his eyebrows.

  I kinda guessed.

  Another few moments, and then she wrote again.

  Okay, I’ve searched high and low. I’ve looked in the cupboards, under the baking dish, inside saucepans, behind the curtains, everywhere. Still can’t find your royal family.

  He smiled.

  Ah, well. Thanks for trying. How’s your mother?

  Madeleine’s mother had almost died from a tumor in her brain. There was a long pause, then Madeleine’s answer.

  She’s okay — the tumour’s not coming back, but she’s insane. You’d think a miraculous survival would make you appreciate the sma
ll things in life like sunlight on rusty hubcaps or whatever, but she’s always (a) arching her back to try to touch her heels (yoga), (b) copying out inspirational phrases about Live in the Moment and It Is What It Is (Reiki/Buddhism), (c) smashing the alarm clock with a hammer (radioactive waves), (d) drinking filtered water and eating mung beans (purification), or (e) lying with her face in the sun, eating supersize McDonald’s fries and coffee laced with whisky (cause we’re all going to die, so you may as well die happy). And meanwhile her moods swing from dreamy to intense to manic to basic cranky.

  Elliot thought about this.

  What’s McDonald’s fries? Ah, that’s not the point. I guess it makes sense that nearly dying would mess with your mother’s mind.

  Yeah, I know that already. Stop being so wise. Listen, I told my friends Belle and Jack about you. About you and the Kingdom of Cello, I mean. That’s okay, right? You’re not a secret, are you? Nah. Why would you be.

  What did they say?

  They totally believe in you! But don’t let it go to your head. Jack’s into horoscopes and Belle’s into auras, so, you know, credulity is not really an issue for them.

  Before Elliot had a chance to reply, another paper came sliding into the TV.

  But seriously, do you want us to try to find your royal family? You really think they’re here? Belle and Jack want to help. Or more specifically, Belle wants to meet the Prince and Jack wants to meet the Princess. We’re not that interested in the King and Queen, although I’m sure they’re nice. And I’m happy to watch Pixar films or build Lego spaceships or whatever with the little prince while Jack and Belle are getting it on with the older ones.

  Elliot hadn’t even finished reading this note when another message arrived.

  I hope that’s not treason or something in your Kingdom. To talk about getting it on with the royals. I mean no disrespect.

  And then, while he was figuring out how to answer that:

  But we need more information. Not sure how things work in Cello, but in our world if you want to find someone you (a) ask the police, (b) Google (but in the reverse order, obviously). And if you’re me, you also (c) see if Isaac Newton has anything to say about the issue.

  I think the police might be confused. Sorting out their confusion could take years. Google is also confused. I typed in the King’s name and it gave me a computer game called EcoQuest in which King Cetus is a whale. And Isaac Newton invented the reflecting telescope, so he excelled at looking for things so you’d THINK he’d be helpful. But I guess the relevant events are unfolding right now. After his time.

  Elliot raised his eyebrows high.

  Madeleine, you talk faster and make less sense than a coked-up Jagged-Edgian. Take it easy for a minute now and let me think.

  Then he turned a full circle, checking again that the darkness and shadows were empty, before he sat on a nearby bench with his notepad and wrote.

  Okay, I’ll know more once I hear what Princess Ko wants from us. I’m seeing her next weekend at the “Royal Youth Alliance” meeting. That’s just a cover so we can talk about her lost family, but I sure wish I didn’t have to go.

  The missing royals seem kinda irrelevant to me. There are fake news stories about them all the time, so it doesn’t seem real: I sometimes even forget it myself. I can’t tell my buddies about it ’cause that’d be treason, and sometimes it seems like an issue isn’t real until Cody, Gabe, Nikki, and Shelby have given their opinion on it. Or shouted their opinion. Or expressed the opinion in the form of a sculpture, a motor-scooter street race, or a high-powered explosive in the middle of a paddock.

  But mainly it’s irrelevant ’cause I just want to be looking for my dad.

  Madeleine’s reply came a moment later, and this time the handwriting seemed calmer.

  Sorry I didn’t ask about your dad earlier. I shouldn’t have been making jokes about missing persons behind curtains and that. Even though you sort of know where he is now, it must still be scary. Have you got any more news about him?

  No need to be sorry. Yeah, there are two agents in town, Tovey and Kim. I like them.

  Well, their names sound like they know what they’re doing. Tovey and Kim. Total agents. Tell me what happens. I feel like I should ask about your farm too, cause I don’t think I’ve ever done that before. But not sure what to say. Um. How are the cows?

  Elliot laughed.

  We don’t raise cows.

  Okay. Grow anything lately?

  Well, if you really want to know, nobody’s growing much of anything these days. Farming’s still in crisis. Listen, I should get home ’cause I’ve got an early start. I’ll write again when I get back from the RYA meeting.

  Okay. Sweet dreams. Say whassup to the Princess for me.

  Elliot laughed again. Say whassup to the Princess. What was she even talking about? He watched the open TV awhile, in case she had more to say, but it stayed black and still.

  So he folded all her notes together and wound an elastic band around them. He’d take them home now, and burn them.

  1.

  His boots were scuffed and cracked.

  That was something Elliot had never noticed before, but here he was in the Reception Room of the White Palace, looking down at his worn-out boots. He had a sense that something was wrong just above his eyebrows too. He touched his forehead. That’s what it was: He was still wearing his woolen hat.

  He swiped it off; ran his hand back and forth over his hair.

  “It looks perfect.”

  The girl beside him jutted her chin toward his hair, then winked slyly, as if they were sharing a secret joke. This was a technique she had used several times over the last ten minutes: a reassuring statement followed by a meaningful wink. “Don’t worry, you’re not late” (wink); “Relax; it’ll be easy” (wink); “The restrooms are just around the corner” (wink). In his experience, winks were meant to negate the statement. So he was late. So it wouldn’t be easy. So the restrooms were not around the corner? In which case, why tell him that they were?

  He didn’t get the joke.

  The girl was in charge of him. Or anyway in charge of looking after him, which here, in a palace, sort of meant the same thing. He’d forgotten her name, but that was her fault: She was so glossed-up and smart-suited, so full of winks, it was impossible to take in what she said.

  There were crowds of people in the room, a general swirl of big talk and laughter, with concentrated regions of smaller, more intense talk. Now and then, the whole place was lit up by a camera flash. Princess Ko’s voice and giggle rippled up and across the room from one hefty concentrated region to another.

  The other two members of the Royal Youth Alliance were in the room too, but Elliot had only caught glimpses of them so far. One was that girl over there. She always seemed to be facing away from him, so all he knew was that her hair was very short and a golden-orange-red color, like firelight. Her clothes were variations on gray, and crazy tight.

  The other was a plump boy who smiled a lot in an alarmed way, and who seemed to have dressed specifically to show up Elliot’s jeans.

  Elliot had worn his best jeans. He’d even ironed his shirt. (His mother had suggested this.) But that plump kid was nothing but ruffles, collars, and shine.

  Elliot was handed a glass of bubbling teakwater. Now he was holding his hat in one hand and the glass in the other. A stranger approached to congratulate him and to ask how he was finding this great and snowy province, the Magical North. Tricky to answer as he’d only arrived half an hour before, and as he was trying to figure out how to deal with the stranger’s outstretched hand.

  The winking girl slipped his hat away smoothly, so now he had a hand free for shaking.

  He fell in love with her for a moment.

  Next thing, the Princess’s voice was striding out from a raised platform across the room. There was a hush, and the camera flashes increased.

  “Do I even need to tell you how ecstatisfied I am?!” Princess Ko exclaimed. The crowd murmu
red various reactions: laughter, approval, confusion, speculation.

  “Well, I am! It’s the first ever Convention of the Royal Youth Alliance! Welcome, everybody, but most of all welcome to the three members of the Alliance! Keira Platter of Jagged Edge! Samuel Jurgend of Olde Quainte! Elliot Baranski of the Farms!” A spotlight swerved around the room, seeking them out, and the cameras flashed faster. Elliot noticed several people writing in small notebooks.

  “My royal parents can say it better, so I will now read out a greeting from the King of Cello.” A brief exchange between the Princess and some guy in a suit, a rustle of paper, and she was talking again. “My noble father, King Cetus, sends us this message direct from his good ship, the Onion Ring!”

  There were shouted whispers from close by the Princess — “The Unwin Wing!” — and she continued smoothly, “He wires this from his ship, and who really cares what it’s called, right?” Bewildered laughter. “Just listen, okay, guys? Here’s what he says: ‘My heartiest congratulations to the members of the newly formed Royal Youth Alliance. I wish you great joy in your weekend together at the White Palace, and I have no doubt that you will bring the vitality and intelligence of the youth of our Kingdom to some of the larger issues facing us today.’ ”

  There was a mild round of applause.

  “That’s my dad,” grinned the Princess, looking up from the paper. “Goes on a bit, but so wise, right? And now, if we can get the technology to work, we have a surprise! Guess who’s on the line waiting to address us right now?!”

  Nobody could guess.

  “It’s the Queen! Queen Lyra! My great mother! She’s in the Southern Climes, as you know, doing important, totally urgent work, but she especially wanted to address you tonight, because she loves the idea of the Royal Youth Alliance. Of course, that’s if the Magical North will let us get away with this for once!” There was obliging, knowing laughter. “She should be coming in over the speakers now — um, hello there? Royal mother? Can you hear me?”