“Ten years?” said Mr. Hudson. “That’s quite the bargain, Belamie. After that he’ll be too old for presents anyway.”
“Exactly,” said Matt. “You’ll get out of giving me presents forever.”
Mrs. Hudson took a long breath. Matt held his own. He knew she was considering, reaching a final decision. He rubbed furiously at the stone of his bracelet until it felt hot to the touch. “I’m sorry, Mateo, but it’s just not the right time.”
“But—”
“Mateo.” This time it was his dad who interjected. “No more arguments, bud. Go and do your homework. Your mother and I have work to finish before we go home.”
Matt felt his heart squeeze in his chest. It was over. Once his parents were united in a decision there was no changing their minds.
Matt took the flyer and rolled it back up. He wasn’t sure what to do now. This wasn’t how things had played out in his mind. His head throbbed harder than ever. He felt slightly nauseated.
“What is that smell?” said Mrs. Hudson, sniffing the air.
“You’re working with chemicals, hon,” said Mr. Hudson.
“No, it’s not that. I keep getting a whiff of something like . . . dog poop.”
Matt sighed and took a few steps toward the door, then stopped, catching himself on a chair. The door was suddenly lopsided, and it seemed to be shrinking. He thought he’d better go through it before it disappeared altogether. He took a few more steps and swayed.
“Belamie,” he heard his father say, but his voice was strange, a little distant and echoey, as though he were calling her name down a tunnel. The floor tilted beneath Matt’s feet, and everything began to vibrate. Were they having an earthquake? Should he get under a table? He turned around and the room kept turning, even when he stopped.
“Mateo?” He barely heard his mother call his name before he blacked out.
At that very moment, across the city, a ship appeared in New York Harbor, silently sailing toward the East River and the Brooklyn Bridge. This would not be noteworthy except the ship was not your typical boat spotted in New York Harbor. It was a very old-fashioned ship, a seventeenth-century frigate, to be exact, black with gold trim, two tall masts, and a dozen white sails billowing in the breeze. At the very top of the crow’s nest was a black flag with several white arrows crossed to form a compass star, except part of the star was emboldened in red to make a V.
It looked like the kind of ship you might see in a pirate movie, or at least it did at first.
As the ship sailed, the air surrounding it began to shimmer, like the ripples of heat on a humid day. The ship seemed to suddenly dissolve and fold in on itself, and the next moment there was a white yacht, modern, sleek, not at all like the old frigate that had been there a moment before, except that the compass star with the red V was now emblazoned on the side of the yacht.
No one seemed to notice this miraculous transformation. New York was a busy city, after all, full of busy people absorbed in their own work or phones or food. Things moved and changed so fast all around, the transforming ship seemed to simply blend with the rest of the chaos.
On the foredeck of the ship-now-yacht, there stood a raven-haired man dressed in a black waistcoat, black leather pants, and a pair of red Converse. Captain Vincent of the legendary yet completely secret ship Vermillion was a handsome man with a self-assured and commanding presence that was somehow simultaneously intimidating and endearing. This generally had the effect on his crew to do exactly what the captain ordered (or suggested) and feel it was their pleasure to do so. And indeed it was their pleasure, for certainly any who dared disobey the captain found little pleasure thereafter.
The captain held a compass in his right hand, black with a gold chain attached to his wrist, but his gaze was focused steadfastly toward the New York City skyline.
A hatch opened in the deck, and a man with wild, dirty-blond hair and a slightly dazed expression poked his head out, gazing around until he found the captain.
“Crikey, are we here again?” he asked.
“We are indeed, Brocco.”
“What year this time?”
“About the same as usual,” said the captain. “Early twenty-first century.”
“Well, I suppose I’d better get my cape then, hadn’t I? Or do they not wear those these days? Odd fashions in this place and time, always changing from year to year. Hard to keep it all straight.”
“I’ve decided to send Wiley this time,” said the captain. “On his own. You weren’t so successful on the last mission, if you remember.”
“I almost had ’em last mission!” said Brocco, clearly offended. “We’d never gotten so close before, and then that mad woman came and chased me with a bloody stick!”
“Yes, that was unfortunate,” said the captain. “But we can’t take any chances this time. We’re running out of opportunities. We must succeed in our mission, or I fear all will be lost.”
Brocco slumped a little. “Well, I’ll get my cape anyway, just so I blend in a bit when they arrive.”
“By all means, blend away,” said the captain.
Brocco popped his head down and shut the hatch.
Captain Vincent remained at the helm, staring out at the city with a hungry, almost desperate look in his eyes. He held out the compass and turned a dial one notch to the right and another dial one notch to the left, then held fast to the bulwark. The water all around the yacht began to bubble and froth. The yacht seemed to brighten against the dimming sky, growing brighter and brighter, until it glowed. The V on the side of the ship looked as if it were on fire.
The water swirled then rushed up the sides of the boat. It creaked and groaned then suddenly plunged several feet into the water. A blinding flash of light ripped through the air, and the water shot up all around the yacht like a circle of geysers. When the light faded and the water calmed, the yacht was gone, along with the captain, leaving behind nothing but bubbles on the surface of the sea.
A biker on the Brooklyn Bridge swerved and nearly hit a teenage girl with pink hair texting on her phone. “Watch it, moron!” She jumped out of the way, the bike narrowly missing her. She shouted a few more choice words, but the biker didn’t seem to hear her.
“Did you see that?” he said. He was squinting into the harbor where he could have sworn he’d just seen a yacht. . . .
“What?” said the girl.
“There was a boat. . . .”
The girl rolled her eyes. “Yeah, it’s a river, genius.” She walked away, shaking her head as she put her headphones back on.
The biker waited another moment, staring at the spot where the boat had been. Finally he got back on his bike and rode off, debating whether he needed to drink more coffee . . . or less.
2
Whispers in the Night
Matt snapped awake. He was on the floor, his head cradled in his mother’s arms. Both his parents were looking down at him, their faces drained of color and creased with worry.
“I had an episode, didn’t I?” he said.
Mrs. Hudson pressed her lips together and took a deep breath, as though she were trying not to cry.
“Good thing your mom is so quick,” said Mr. Hudson. “You probably would have cracked your head open on this floor, but she caught you just in time. She even dropped a three-hundred-year-old sword for you!”
“Wow,” said Matt. “She must really love me.”
“I wish you wouldn’t joke about this,” she chastised. “It’s not funny in the least. Maybe we should try another medication.”
“No!” said Matt. He sat up a little too swiftly. The room swam, but he steadied himself. “I’m okay. And I don’t want to try any medication. You know they don’t work.”
“Maybe the next one will,” said his mom.
“Please don’t make me,” said Matt. He hated the anti-seizure medicines. They always made his brain slow and fuzzy, and though some of the pills did keep him from having seizures, or at least from fully blacking out, t
hey often produced side effects that were far worse, like vomiting or a dangerously low heart rate, so what was the point?
“We’ll discuss it later,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Let’s get you home. Can you stand?”
Matt nodded. He stood slowly.
“I’ll go get the twins,” said Mr. Hudson.
Mrs. Hudson called a taxi company and ordered a minivan to take them home. That was rare. Because of her motion sickness Mrs. Hudson hated transit of any kind, be it plane, train, boat, or car, so most of the time they walked. They lived only a few blocks from the museum anyway, but Mrs. Hudson didn’t want Matt walking and he was grateful. He would never admit it, but he was still a bit light-headed.
When the minivan arrived, Mrs. Hudson checked the license plate, the driver’s license, his picture and certificate.
It might have seemed excessive behavior, but she wasn’t totally unjustified. Once, when they were no more than four or five, Matt, Corey, and Ruby had almost boarded an ice cream truck in Central Park, near a playground. The ice cream man had Popsicles for each of them. Cherry, lime, and grape, Matt remembered. The man was wearing a cape, just like a superhero. Corey had started climbing up onto the first step when Mrs. Hudson started screaming, which must have spooked the ice cream man because he dropped the Popsicles and drove off, nearly running little Corey over. Matt remembered they all cried at this, including Mrs. Hudson. She didn’t let the children out of her sight for weeks after that, and this was the time when she and Mr. Hudson made a strict rule that the children were never to go near any kind of transit—no cars, buses, trucks, or trains—without a supervising adult. It made perfect sense at the time, Matt thought, but they weren’t toddlers anymore. He certainly wasn’t about to be lured into a stranger’s car by candy or ice cream. He’d told his parents that most of the kids in his grade now rode the subway or bus by themselves, but they still showed no signs of letting up on this particular rule.
“Where are you from, Farid?” Mrs. Hudson asked the taxi driver.
“Belamie,” said Mr. Hudson in an exasperated voice.
“What? I can get to know the person who is going to have all our lives in his hands, can’t I?”
The driver smiled nervously. “Syria,” he said.
Mrs. Hudson smiled and instantly switched to speaking Arabic. “Marhabaan. I’m sure you are a very good driver. May I take your picture, please?” She pulled out her phone.
The driver looked at Mrs. Hudson like she was crazy. He glanced at Mr. Hudson.
“Belamie, let’s go,” said Mr. Hudson a little impatiently. He opened the door, and everyone piled in.
As they drove, Matt opened up his fist to find the flyer for the foreign exchange program crumpled and torn. He had built up so much energy planning and strategizing, only to have a seizure. He hadn’t planned for that. It had been months since he’d had an episode, so he hadn’t really thought about it, but if there was anything that would make his parents say no to the foreign exchange program, or any kind of travel, it was that.
They arrived home in less than five minutes. The Hudsons lived in a very old building that had no elevator (Mrs. Hudson didn’t like elevators either) so they had to walk up three flights of stairs, which made Matt a little breathless, but he tried to hide it. Mr. Hudson wrestled with the keys in the door and complained once again that they should get the locks changed. Finally he managed to get the door open.
“Shoes off, backpacks and sweaters put away,” said Mrs. Hudson. “Corey and Ruby, please set the table for dinner. Mateo, come with me.”
“I’m fine, Mom,” he said, but Mrs. Hudson sat him down on the couch in the living room. She took his temperature and blood pressure, then listened to his heart and lungs through a stethoscope. She had no formal medical training, but she’d learned enough over the years. Matt had started having seizures when he was six, quite out of the blue. Up until he was nine his parents had taken him to specialist after specialist (there were a lot of specialists in New York). He’d received every test and scan possible—MRI, fMRI, PET, EEG, CT, SPECT, and so much blood work he was amazed he had any left. And after all that, no one had been able to determine the cause of his seizures. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He wasn’t epileptic, his brain had no tumors, lesions, or abnormalities, no heart disease or kidney failure, no poison or abnormal levels of anything in his blood. They couldn’t even see where the seizures were happening in his brain when he had an episode while hooked up to wires and monitors, which prompted one doctor to declare that Matt was faking it for attention. He said it was probably because Matt felt “displaced” by the twins. Mrs. Hudson went ballistic. Matt remembered Mr. Hudson had to restrain her from physically attacking the doctor.
And that was the end of it. It had been a relief to Matt. All those hospital visits and tests made him feel like a lab rat. Mrs. Hudson began to monitor his condition at home and took him to regular check-ups with their family doctor.
Matt stared at the many swords and knives displayed on the wall right in front of him while Mrs. Hudson took his blood pressure. She looked to where Matt was staring.
“Did I ever tell you about the time the adoption agent told me to take those swords off the wall?”
Matt shook his head. “Why?” He loved the swords on the wall. It made their small home feel more . . . adventurous.
“She said they weren’t ‘child-safe.’ I told her a child would be safer with me and a sword than any other woman with a butter knife!”
Matt laughed.
“Well, she didn’t think I was so amusing,” said Mrs. Hudson. “We didn’t get selected as adoptive parents through that agency, nor any other in the country. Sour luck. So we decided to try international adoption.”
“When you got me.”
“When we got you,” said Mrs. Hudson. “I braved two airplanes, three buses, and a train to get you in my arms. I was so sick I thought I might die.”
“Was I worth it?”
“It was the happiest moment of my life, and your father’s. We felt we would never wish or want for anything again. And then the twins came, and all I’ve ever wished for since is some sleep! Still haven’t gotten that one yet.”
Matt smiled. His heart lifted, wobbled, then dropped again, like an airplane in turbulence. (Not that he knew what that felt like exactly, having never flown on an airplane.) He did love his family, and he knew how much his parents had gone through to have children, how much they’d sacrificed just for him, so he felt a pinch of guilt at his desire to leave them, go out on his own, mixed with bitterness that his parents wouldn’t let him.
“You’ll get your chance, Mateo,” said Mrs. Hudson, seeming to read his thoughts. “One day you’ll unleash yourself on the world and then heaven help us all! It just can’t be right now, okay?”
Matt nodded.
“Good boy. Tu es un garçon sage.” She brushed her hand over his cheek. “You’re all clear. Go wash your hands for dinner and fill the water glasses.”
It was quiet at dinner. Everyone kept glancing at Matt. The family was always a little weird after he had a seizure, like he might disappear on them or something, and it made Matt feel even worse. He picked at his plate. He wasn’t particularly hungry, but the food wasn’t that great either. The chicken was chewy, and the vegetables undercooked. Mrs. Hudson had thrown it all together in a rush. On a day like this most parents probably would have settled for mac ’n’ cheese or takeout, but Mrs. Hudson was a bit of a health nut and never allowed any processed foods in the house, so when she was stressed or short on time it usually meant a mediocre meal. They seemed to be having a lot of those lately.
“So, anything new and interesting going on at school?” asked Mrs. Hudson, trying to get some conversation going. No one seemed to want to take the bait. “Corey, you have a math test tomorrow, don’t you? Are you prepared?”
Corey kept his eyes on his plate, poking at a carrot. “Yeah, sure.”
Mrs. Hudson’s eyes narrowed. “Why don’t
you let Mateo help you study tonight? I’m sure he could help you get that grade up.”
Corey glanced up briefly at Matt, but Matt looked away. This sort of suggestion rarely played out well for either of them. Matt was very good at math, but he was a terrible tutor. It came so naturally to him, he found it difficult to break down certain concepts in a way that made much sense. This always left Corey feeling like an idiot and Matt like an arrogant jerk. Matt looked to Ruby, pleading with his eyes for help.
Ruby got the hint. She cleared her throat. “I’m giving a presentation tomorrow on Queen Elizabeth, and I could really use some expert help.”
“Ah, the Pirate Queen!” said Mr. Hudson. “I’d be delighted to offer my expertise. I’ve come across some top-notch sources, you know.”
“Actually, I meant Mom’s expertise,” said Ruby.
“Me?” said Mrs. Hudson. “Your father’s the historian. I know very little about Queen Elizabeth.”
“But you have that jewelry box you say belonged to her. The one you keep in the safe? I was hoping I could bring it for the presentation. We get extra credit if we bring good props and visual aids.”
There was a safe in the wall of the coat closet where Mrs. Hudson often kept artifacts and collector’s items clients brought for her expert authentication. Once she’d gotten a baseball that was supposedly signed by Babe Ruth, which had greatly excited Matt, but it had turned out to be a fake, much to both Matt’s (and the client’s) disappointment. But as items came and went over the years, there had been one item that was always in the safe for as long as Matt could remember—an old wooden box, intricately carved.
“It’s only rumored to have belonged to Queen Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Hudson. “It’s impossible to trace it back to her.”
“But it’s still from her time, isn’t it?” Ruby asked. “That’s almost as good. Couldn’t we take it to school?”
“I would if I could, Ruby, but you know it’s not even mine. I’m only storing it until the client can retrieve it.”
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