by Ryan Graudin
“Indeed!” their new friend agreed. “Though, technically, the ship you saw would’ve been here. Blinks in the other world reveal this one, and vice versa.”
“I think that happened to me today!” Marisol offered. “When we climbed the lighthouse, I saw the missing bricks mixed in with the ones in our world! Everything looked whole.”
“That would be the overlap,” Theodosia said. “Our worlds sit alongside one another. In fact, they’d mix together if it wasn’t for the Unknown, but your Curator can explain the mechanics much better than the crew of the Patriot. Personally, I find the Unknown incredibly mysterious.”
“Huh?” Jake glanced at Marisol. “I mean, the unknown is mysterious to everyone, isn’t it?”
“No, no,” Theodosia corrected him. “The Unknown. With a capital U! It hovers along the border between our worlds like a fog. Sometimes it leaks into your world—lost people, lost places, lost things seem to draw the Unknown like a magnet—and then . . .” The way the woman’s hands waved reminded Marisol of a bird’s wings.
“And then?” she prompted.
“You’re here,” Theodosia replied helplessly. “In the world just next to your own. Lost.”
The world just next to your own? The words sent a chill down Marisol’s spine. She’d had enough of this adventure, and treasure or not, she was eager to get home before her parents became too worried. “We just need someone to tell us how to return to Folly Beach.”
“Ah . . .” Theodosia hesitated. “I’m afraid it’s not as easy as all that. Once you’re in the World Between Blinks, only the Curators have the power to let you back out again. You’ll have to take it up with one of them, but I must warn you, they’re very stubborn.”
Marisol’s throat cinched tight. What if the Curators didn’t listen to them?
What if she and Jake were stuck here forever?
“I’m sure once we explain our situation, the Curators will understand.” Jake tilted his chin, confident. “Can you take us to them?”
“Of course! That’s the Patriot’s job! We’re part of a fleet that patrols thin spots in the Unknown, looking for foundlings. Anyone who spends time on the water is liable to stumble over new arrivals. Lostness tends to accumulate in certain places, back in the old world. Anywhere there’s a war or a flat horizon—like a desert or an ocean or a sky, for example—more people get lost and slip through.”
“¡Claro que sí!” Curls scattered when Marisol nodded. “It must be the same with couch cushions and washing machines!”
“Just so, I’m sure,” Theodosia agreed, with an expression that clearly said she had no idea what a washing machine was. Her brows lifted until her monocle popped out. She pocketed the piece and gestured toward the waiting boat. “Climb aboard.”
There was little else to do, seeing as the lighthouse was still half disappeared. Its door gone. Marisol reached out for the missing key—again, just in case—but it didn’t call back.
She was the lost one. Lost on a deserted island in a sideways world. . . . If she and Jake passed on Theodosia’s offer they’d end up marooned, walking in circles with only the automobile hen for company.
Marisol really, truly didn’t want to eat that chicken.
So she stepped into the boat.
Jake squeezed onto the seat next to her, his legs bouncing nervously as the sailors shoved off, and slipped his hand into hers.
It seemed their adventure was only just beginning.
4
Jake
AHOY, MATEYS!
Jake had to keep biting his tongue to avoid speaking in a pirate accent. There was a notable lack of cutlasses and an abundance of teeth on board the Patriot, but these were the high seas all the same. The ship’s deck was a gleaming dark wood, crusted with salt where waves had splashed over the sides and dried in the sun. Jake and Marisol took up a position near the bow with Theodosia, whose white dress fluttered in the wind. Her hair did the same, chestnut wisps escaping her bun. The longer Jake watched her, the more he sensed she was both very old and not aged at all. There was something about her—she seemed like she was both here and elsewhere. If everyone else’s memories anchored them in one place, Theodosia seemed . . . free.
“Was this your ship in the real world?” he asked.
“The other world,” she corrected him with a smile. “Yes, I think so. I’m almost certain. We must have been lost over on that side.”
“Do you . . .” Marisol’s voice almost drowned in the wind. “I don’t mean to be rude, but you don’t mean you died, do you?”
Theodosia looked shocked. “I certainly do not!” she said. “Can you imagine how crowded it would be, if those who died ended up here? This isn’t heaven, child. If you die, I can’t say for sure what happens, but you don’t come to the World Between Blinks. Only people or things or places that are lost, one way or another, arrive in the World.”
Jake was relieved—he wasn’t ready to be dead yet—but also a tiny bit regretful. When Marisol had asked the question, his heart had leaped, wondering if somehow Nana had marked the door on the map because it led to the place she would come after she died.
But no. Nana wasn’t here, and it was better not to think about it. Right now, he had a problem to solve. Eyes ahead, don’t look back.
“What do you mean, lost things or places?” he asked. “How do you lose a place?”
“All sorts of ways,” Theodosia replied. “There are whole cities that sank beneath the waves or were buried by deserts. People who wandered from the path and became so lost that the Unknown found them. Things slip away all the time, my dear foundlings. And this is where they go.”
“What, all the places that don’t exist anymore?” Jake’s eyes widened. “Every single person who gets lost?”
“No . . .” Theodosia trailed off, thoughtful. “No, not all. Just the ones the Unknown takes.”
This answer didn’t seem to satisfy Marisol. “But what makes the Unknown take something? And why did it choose us?”
“The clue is in the name, my child,” the woman said. “It’s unknown. Some places vanish from the old world because they are now here. Others simply disappear. Some things—a penny you thought was in your pocket, or indeed, an entire ship such as this very vessel—are able to pass through the Unknown to the World Between Blinks. The Unknown takes what it will. Your Curator might be able to explain the selection process more thoroughly. They do so enjoy making sense of such things. . . .”
“What’s a Curator?” Marisol wrapped her arms around herself. It was colder than it’d been at the lighthouse, for though the sun was shining it seemed farther away here.
“The Curators keep the World in order,” Theodosia replied. “They have lists upon lists in their great repositories. Everything you see here might be lost, but that doesn’t mean it’s disorganized. Indeed, the Curators are swathed in so much red tape, one could knit uniforms for an army with it.”
She paused, her brow creased, and she mouthed the word again: army.
Then she sighed and shook her head. “Never mind, I thought I had it there for a moment, but it’s gone.”
“What’s gone?” asked Jake.
“My memory of the other world,” she replied. “It all begins to slip away. The lostness accumulates around one, like barnacles growing on a ship, until one is completely caught up in it. Perfectly happy, but forever lost.”
“H-how—” The word wriggled in Jake’s throat, the idea was both scary and also . . . interesting. Was it really possible to leave behind his memories the way he’d always left behind his photos? “How long do we have?”
She looked at their faces and threw up her hands. “Oh my, what a thing for me to say! Don’t worry, we’ll have you to a Curator soon, and they may be able to help you.”
May. Jake had never liked that word. From his experience with adults, saying something may happen meant it almost certainly wouldn’t, and the thought of never escaping this place pitted his stomach. What would his mom thin
k when the Coast Guard found their capsized dinghy?
His lungs gave a quick, tight squeeze as he imagined her face. They had to get back before she and Aunt Cara knew anything was wrong.
Theodosia jolted him from these thoughts when she spoke, raising her voice cheerfully over the breeze. “The winds have slipped in our favor! It shouldn’t be long before we reach port. In the meantime, I advise you take in the view. It’s rather spectacular. Perhaps you’d like to try my monocle? The Curators lent these charms to the Patriot’s crew to help us find foundlings! They reveal many unseen things.”
She held out the eyepiece—a circle of glass about the size of a silver dollar. Jake automatically extended his hand, and she dropped the little monocle into his palm. It didn’t look like anything special. He wasn’t sure if he should try it out or not. Would he forget something if he did?
Theodosia bustled away to check on the crew, and Jake and Marisol kept to their place in the bow, letting the breeze turn their cheeks pink. The water swish-swished beneath the boat, and sunlight winked off indigo waves, and on the shore they saw a pyramid go by, and then an ancient castle, complete with battlements. A creature much too large to be a bird winged over the sails, covering the schooner in triangular shadows.
“Is that a pterodactyl?” Worry mixed with wonder, and Jake felt the same way he did that time he and his mom treated themselves to a tour of the ten best gelato shops in Rome—like this was one of the most amazing things that had ever happened to him, but he suspected it was going to end badly. Still . . . “Cool!”
“Qué raro . . .” Marisol pointed at the castle. “Dinosaurs definitely didn’t live in medieval times, Jake.”
Would the monocle explain how a pterodactyl came to be flying above a castle? Unable to resist any longer, Jake lifted the glass disc to his eye, squinting the other one closed. Immediately, words began to appear above the castle, as if some invisible hand was writing huge curling letters in the sky.
Tintagel Castle, Cornwall, built by Richard, First Earl of Cornwall, thirteenth century.
He tipped his head back to look at the creature flying overhead. The writing appeared again.
Pterodactylus, roamed the Earth approx. 150 million years ago. Not a dinosaur, do not misclassify.
“Jake?”
He lowered the monocle and found Marisol gazing at him. “This thing . . .” He didn’t know how to describe what he was seeing. He wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Things that had gone missing from their own world and appeared in this one? He passed the monocle to her instead.
She lifted it to her eye and went silent, twisting around to examine the shoreline, her mouth open. Then, with a squeak, she rose up on her toes. “Jake, look at that pyramid! The writing says Pyramid of Djedefre! I learned about pyramids at school; there are mummies in them. And . . .” Her voice dipped to a whisper. “And treasure.”
“Treasure?”
“Just think! Jake, if everything lost ends up in this world, it must hold all kinds of treasure! Maybe Nana’s been here before. Maybe that’s what she was talking about. Maybe we can pay for her beach house roof with Egyptian gold! Or a chest of pirate loot!”
“Maybe.” His stomach kept wobbling, and he wished Marisol would let go of the idea. Keeping the beach house didn’t matter if they couldn’t get home. “Let’s see what these Curators have to say before we do any more hunting.”
“Claro.” She nodded, but Jake could tell by his cousin’s smile that she wasn’t giving up on this treasure idea any time soon.
Eventually a long pier came into view, and Theodosia fetched them as the schooner drew near to it, taking her monocle back.
The sails were let out once more so the ship slowed, and when it became clear they meant to dock, a figure at the end of the pier, clad all in white, waved enthusiastically.
“Very energetic, for a Curator!” Theodosia sounded impressed. “Must be new. Keep to the side, now, let the crew throw out the mooring lines.”
The Patriot was soon made fast, and with a loud scrape the sailors pushed out the gangplank, so Theodosia could walk the two children down to where the Curator was waiting.
The man didn’t seem nearly as serious as Jake had imagined. He had a tousle of blond hair, suntanned skin, and a dimple in his chin—he looked like he might be younger than Mom and Aunt Cara. There was something mischievous about his grin—a glint in the eye, a gleam off the teeth—and perhaps because Jake was thinking of her, for a moment the Curator’s smile reminded him a little of Mom’s.
“Greetings, new arrivals!” he said cheerfully. “My name is Christopher Creaturo; welcome to the World.” He turned to offer Theodosia a bow, which seemed to please her. “Thank you for their safe passage, ma’am.”
“I’m afraid I have brought you a challenge, sir,” she said.
“We’re not lost,” Jake added, unable to wait any longer, “just shipwrecked! We knew exactly where we were when it happened, so the Unknown shouldn’t have swallowed us.”
Christopher’s smile slipped. There was the seriousness that’d been missing before. “Yes, we already noticed the mistake. Never fear. I’ve been investigating the best way to send you home, and I think I have it. But we must hurry.”
He nodded to Theodosia, already reaching for the children’s shoulders to steer them down the pier.
Relief rushing through him like soaking summer rain, Jake let himself be ushered along. “Thank you, Theodosia!” he called over his shoulder, looking back.
She was still standing on the dock, but her frown made her seem adrift. “Curator, don’t I need to sign the delivery papers?”
“No time!” Christopher called back as Marisol skipped a couple of steps to keep up with his pace. And then it was just the three of them.
There were several other ships moored along the pier, all different shapes and sizes—a big steel battleship and then a paddle steamer, its wheel turning lazily as steam spun from its chimney and it prepared to depart. Next came a sleek white yacht, then a vessel with a dragon’s head growling at the prow. Beside this floated a long wooden boat that had no mast but places for rowers and a stag for a figurehead.
Between the ships, Jake caught glimpses of a town set into a hill, but just like everything else they’d seen so far, it was a hodgepodge of styles, as if someone had thrown all of history up in the air and let it land wherever it wanted. As if to underscore the point, a bronze-skinned man in what Jake was pretty sure was a Roman centurion’s uniform walked past. The plumes in his helmet rippled—a hearty red—when he nodded hello.
Jake waved back. This was so awesome! He only wished he had Theodosia’s monocle, so he could find out more about the man. Now he was hurrying along with Christopher to where he’d return them to their own world, he felt like he could admire the wonders around him a little bit more—after all, it would be over soon.
“Where are you taking us, Mr. Creaturo?” Marisol asked.
“Christopher, please,” he corrected her. “We’re going to the Crystal Palace.”
Jake looked to where Christopher was pointing. On one side of the harbor sat an enormous building made almost completely of glass. He could see the metal framework that held it up, but where there should have been stone or brick or wooden walls, and a tiled roof, there was only one soaring sheet of glass after another.
“That has to be from a fairy tale!” Marisol gasped. Jake thought she had a point—with so many clouds reflecting from its panes, the Crystal Palace belonged in a sky kingdom, or perhaps a land of never-ending snow. “I thought everything here disappeared from the real world.”
“Oh, but it did,” Christopher replied, still walking. “The Crystal Palace was built in London in 1850. When it burned down, Winston Churchill himself said it was the end of an era. Turns out he was right.”
“Who’s that?” Jake asked.
“I like his name,” Marisol added.
“Who’s Churchill?” The Curator blinked, sidestepping a dog that looked like every
picture Jake had ever seen on a LOST: REWARD poster. “I really have been here a long time.”
“The bakery near our apartment in Paris burned down,” Jake mused. “Is it here somewhere?”
“Why would it be?” Christopher asked, his brow creasing.
“The Crystal Palace burned down,” Marisol pointed out.
“Yes, but . . .” Christopher waved one hand in a way that didn’t actually explain anything. “End of an era, children. Did tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands of people mourn your local bakery, Jake? Did they think of how it was lost, conjure up a sea of lostness to attract the Unknown?”
Jake considered this. “I mean, they made really good croissants, but probably not that many people, no. Is that how the Unknown chooses what ends up in the World Between Blinks?”
Christopher’s mouth opened, then shut again, before he replied. “It’s complicated. What you need to know for now is that the Crystal Palace is where Curators keep most of the records. We catalog everyone and everything and everyplace that enters through the Unknown.”
“What about us? Do people like us show up much?” Marisol asked, glancing across at Jake. Worry turned her brown eyes darker. “People who don’t want to be here?”
“Hardly ever,” Christopher admitted. “And we have little time to reverse the problem. Your door to leave will be closing soon. Can you think of any reason this might’ve happened?”
Marisol lifted one of her hands, looking down at it as if her fingertips might hold the answer, and shook her head.
Jake shook his head too, though as he did so, he wondered if he’d somehow caused this mess. Everything around him always ended up lost—the places he lived, the friends he made. Maybe it was only a matter of time before he got lost.
“Perhaps . . .” Marisol hesitated. “At our Nana’s house, there was a map. . . .”
“Your grandmother?” Christopher asked, his own smile fading. “I’m afraid I have no record of her being here.”