by Ryan Graudin
Red Bun squinted at him for a moment. “Are you quite all right?” she asked, but she didn’t wait for an answer. “We’ll have to file every outstanding report we can lay our hands on to keep the Administrator from noticing that. And if the fabric between the worlds starts to unravel . . .”
“We understand,” Jake said, feeling a bit sick. “Get the ledger back before we lose more than two or three grains of sand, or you’ll have to catalog us, and we’re stuck here forever. Get the ledger back before Christopher Creaturo uses it to send anything else home, or the fabric between the worlds might unravel, and there won’t be a home to return to.”
“That’s about it,” Red Bun agreed. “If I were you, I’d get moving.”
“One moment!” That voice came from the middle of the group.
Another Curator stepped forward, studying Jake and Marisol over the top of his glasses. He lifted his clipboard and brandished his pen, speaking in a quick singsong voice, running his words together as if they were all one. “Thank-you-for-interacting-today-with-members-of-our-Curator-staff. We-appreciate-your-time.” He paused for a breath, then continued. “Please-rate-your-customer-satisfaction-on-a-scale-of-one-to-ten.”
Jake and his cousin exchanged a long, confused glance, then turned back to the Curator.
“Um, ten?” Jake tried. It didn’t seem sensible to upset the Curators.
“Much better than that old fake, Christopher,” Marisol assured them.
This seemed to please the man, and he made a note on his clipboard.
“Go,” said Min-jun. “Hurry. The marketplace is on this side of the city—just turn right as you make your way in through the gates. Good luck.”
It didn’t take the children long to find the marketplace, and Jake kept hold of Marisol’s hand while the crowd thickened. The jostling elbows were as pushy as the worries inside Jake’s head.
Had they been missed back home?
Had anyone found the boat or their life jackets?
Was Mom freaking out? How about Aunt Cara and Uncle Mache?
What would happen if they couldn’t find Christopher?
What if their memories started to fade as badly as Theodosia’s?
Would that be so terrible? asked a tiny part of his brain. You wouldn’t ever have to feel the way you do when you leave everything behind. You could just . . . forget.
But Marisol didn’t want to forget—she wanted to go home. So did he, really, which was why Jake let his cousin pull him through an arch into the marketplace. The street’s stones—massive and gray—were worn smooth by an uncountable number of feet over an uncountable number of years. Along the edges tiled signs were set into the ground, pointing to all kinds of businesses. Stalls lined both sides, crammed close, graffiti scratched into the rock between them. Even as Jake stared, the letters of DONKEY FOR RENT began to change, English rearranging into a language he couldn’t read.
The Unknown was wearing off.
Marisol pulled him behind a large statue of a wrestler wearing a carved stone sheet (and not much else), where they could take shelter from the crowd.
“This must be some place on Earth that was lost,” she said, watching the endless stream of figures hurry by, clad in colorful clothes, from places far and wide and all over history.
“It looks kind of Roman,” Jake thought aloud. “I saw ruins when my mom and I were posted there.”
And in fact, the longer he looked, the surer he was. When a gap in the crowd opened up, he ducked over to the nearest stall. Its stone countertop held portions of roasted vegetables on little clay plates, with a big jug beside them. There was a mosaic at the back, hundreds of tile pieces fitted together to depict a glittering fish leaping out of a river.
Jake’s stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten breakfast yet, and he rose up onto his toes to smell what was inside the jug.
A pungent wave of fish and salt punched his nose.
“That’s garum!” The stall keeper turned to them. He was a weathered man with thinning brown hair and skin of almost the same shade, clad in a tunic. “Fish sauce,” he elaborated. “It adds flavor to anything. Welcome to Ostia Antica! You have the look of foundlings. Can I fill your bellies, perhaps?”
Jake glanced across at his cousin, but they were both thinking the same thing. No matter how hungry they were, they should wait and see how much the language charms cost before they bought anything else.
They thanked the stall keeper and made their way along the road, looking for a stall that would sell them charms. Vendors clamored for their attention on both sides, shouting their wares.
“Socks for sale, never together!”
“These dentures belonged to George Washington himself!”
“Over here for keys to forgotten doors! Perhaps that lost door is right here in the World!”
Marisol kept dragging him over to different stalls—filled with bins of buttons; cell phones that had no service; and even, strangely, with jars of baby teeth. She stopped by a bowl of wedding rings, her eyes sparkling at the sight of dozens of diamonds.
“I don’t think those are language charms, Mari,” he said, tugging at her hand. They couldn’t spend too much time here.
“No,” Marisol agreed, but she also pulled back. “I was just thinking that maybe . . . well, maybe we could find something valuable here to take home. Something that could help pay for a new roof on Nana’s house. That way the grown-ups won’t have to sell it!”
Jake didn’t reply. He always told himself the same thing at difficult moments: eyes ahead, don’t look back. That was because he had learned it was better to let things go, no matter how much it hurt—because whether he fought it or not, they’d end up lost anyway. He thought for a moment of the friends from his international schools, who meant to keep in touch but never did. Of the places he and Mom planned to visit again but never returned to. He didn’t want to lose the beach house—his only true home—but wanting never made a difference in the end. The FOR SALE sign would go up, boxes would be packed, goodbyes would be said.
A diamond ring couldn’t change that. Not even a whole bowlful of them.
“We should keep going,” he said instead. “I guess the charms are farther in.”
Marisol held out her hand, not to grab the jewelry or for any other reason Jake could see. She wiggled her fingers, frowning. “I guess.”
Farther up and farther in . . . Ostia Antica sprawled in all directions, the roads running along lines so straight, it seemed they had been laid down by an invisible ruler. Or, Jake supposed, by some very hardworking Romans, centuries ago. While the market itself looked ancient, most of its stall keepers didn’t keep to the theme. A few—like the garum hawker—wore tunics. Some sported mismatching shoes and socks. Others looked like they’d walked straight out of old movies with their costumes on, cries echoing through their helmet visors. But they weren’t actors. They were all real.
“Swords! Get your lost sword of legend right here! Excalibur not guaranteed . . .”
Did time move the same way here as it did back home? Had these Romans and knights stepped out of their own moments in history into this one, or did people never age in the World Between Blinks? Jake hadn’t thought to ask Theodosia whether she’d been here one year or one hundred and one.
They passed stalls filled with suitcases. Sunglasses. Bus tickets. Stuffed animals. Real animals too! Cats and dogs and parrots and more. Jake couldn’t believe how many things they discovered as they walked.
But they still hadn’t found the charms. . . .
The children stopped to ask directions every so often, but most of the vendors were only interested in selling their wares, and after the first few conversations, they replied in languages Jake and Marisol couldn’t understand. The Unknown magic that had been clinging to them must be gone. Once they caught a glimpse of bright blond hair just like Jake’s, and they chased it all the way down the street in case it was Christopher, but it turned out to be a completely different man, who spo
ke Scandinavian-sounding words in a friendly voice.
Hunger gnawed at Jake’s stomach, and the worries in his head had gotten stronger too. On top of all this, he was suddenly shivering. Cold enough to wish he had a sweater to go over his T-shirt.
“Are you freezing?” Marisol asked beside him. “Yo también.”
A moment later, the ground crunched under their feet. When Jake looked down, it wasn’t sand, but glittering white particles that his sneakers were breaking. Frost! Through another stone archway ahead, an iced-over river was visible.
“Oh no.” Marisol shook her head. “¿Estás bromeando? No way am I going somewhere that cold.”
“Let’s ask for directions again,” he said, without much hope.
They stepped back, away from the fingers of frost that grabbed at their feet, but Jake came up short when he collided with someone. He turned around—apology on the tip of his tongue—and was met by a friendly smile.
He’d bumped into a tall, strong woman whose grin showed off a gap between her front teeth. She wore a leather jacket and a matching cap. A few auburn curls peeked out from under it, as well as a sliver of paler skin—she was suntanned, and freckled too.
“Well, hey there.” The woman gave a little wave, and Jake was relieved to find that they could understand each other. Her English sounded very American. “Are you two okay?”
He shook his head.
“We’re looking for language charms,” Marisol said. “Do you know where they are?”
“No problem,” their companion replied. “You’ll need one of those, for sure! Every citizen of the World does. Look carefully and you’ll spot scrolls next to the hourglasses on everyone’s necklaces. You’ll have to go to the Frost Fair to buy them. Come! I’ll walk you over there.”
His cousin made a sad sound—clearly she didn’t like the idea of venturing into the cold. The lady laughed, peeling off her jacket and settling it around Marisol’s shoulders.
“Here,” she said. “This’ll help. The Frost Fair is great, you’ll love it. I’ll get you a hot drink. Cocoa’s my favorite!”
The three of them headed for the archway, and the plunging temperature turned Jake’s breath into white-cloud puffs. Marisol must be even colder—he had sneakers on, but she was stuck in sandals.
“I didn’t catch your names,” the lady said cheerfully.
“I’m Jake,” he offered. “Thanks for helping us.”
“I’m Marisol.” His cousin wrapped the jacket around herself a little tighter.
“Pleased to meet you, Jake, Marisol,” the lady said, like finding them was the best bit of luck she’d had all day. “My name’s Amelia. Amelia Earhart.”
7
Marisol
MARISOL TRIED NOT TO SHRIEK AT THE INTRODUCTION.
“Amelia Earhart? The Amelia Earhart?” she gasped instead, nearly dropping the jacket. Amelia Earhart’s jacket!
This time when Marisol shivered, it wasn’t because she was cold. Meeting a famous pilot was weird and wonderful and so much like one of Nana’s stories it gave her goose bumps.
Jake’s mouth formed a perfect, shocked O.
Amelia kept walking into the wintry wonderland, steps punching through the frost. “So you’ve heard of me?”
“I had to write a report about you last year!” Marisol volunteered. “You were a famous pilot! The first woman to fly all the way across the Atlantic Ocean by herself! You loved tomato juice and hard-boiled eggs and Chinese food!”
“I still do,” their new friend replied with a wink. “That’s wild that you learned about me in school! But it’s nice to know I’ve stood the test of time. I have a theory that people remembering you on the other side of the Unknown helps your memories stick longer. Of course, there’s no way for me to prove it. . . .”
“Do you remember what it was like coming through the Unknown?” asked Jake. “Did you do anything to make it happen?”
“Golly! That was over eighty years ago.” The famous pilot paused, her breath pluming out ahead. “There were lots of clouds that day. So many snatches of sky and shadow and sea. I was flying over the Pacific Ocean with my friend Fred. We didn’t come through the Unknown on purpose. . . . Our plane veered off course, and right as we realized we were lost, we had this strange sense that up was down, and down was up. All of a sudden we were in brilliant sunshine and flying over the World Between Blinks. We’ve been here ever since!”
“Eighty years?” Jake’s brow furrowed.
Marisol did some quick math in her head. “You look very good for someone who’s more than one hundred, Ms. Earhart!”
“No one ages here!” Her laugh was as silver as bells and wreathed in frost. “And it’s Amelia! Please! You can even call me Meeley if you want.”
Jake seemed at a loss, so Marisol leaned in to explain. “That was her childhood nickname.”
“You really did do your homework, didn’t you?” Amelia gave another gap-toothed smile and waved them forward. “C’mon! Let’s go get that cocoa!”
Cocoa sounded heavenly, especially since the road started ribboning into a frozen river. Marisol was a little chilled at the thought of never turning thirteen, but she decided to let the surrounding sights distract her, since there was nothing she could do about it for now. Instead she marveled at the ice beneath her feet: so solid an elephant could walk on it. The proof was only a few yards away, the large beast curling its trunk over a juggler, whose brightly colored balls flew higher than the elephant’s head, whirling past its flapping gray ears. The performer was really very nimble for a guy wearing at least three coats.
They followed Amelia Earhart through a maze of snow-laced tents.
Unlike other fairs Marisol had been to, the Frost Fair didn’t have a Ferris wheel or a merry-go-round, but there was plenty of entertainment. Acrobats performed backflips off barrels, and horses pulled sleds of shoppers. They even passed a man who swallowed swords. Had he bought them from the knight in Ostia Antica?
It felt almost impossible that they’d seen him, on a perfectly warm day in a Roman marketplace, just a few minutes ago. . . .
Marisol trotted up to Amelia and tugged her elbow. “Where was the Frost Fair in our world?”
“London!” the pilot answered. “This used to exist on the Thames back when the river got cold enough to freeze. It was so much fun, they still put on the festival here sometimes.”
Now that Marisol knew the Frost Fair’s origins, it was easy to see. Union Jack flags hung from some of the tents as well as signs written in English—advertising everything from gingerbread to skittles, not the fruity candy, but a game that looked similar to bowling.
“So why is it next to a place from ancient Rome?” Jake wondered. “The geography doesn’t make sense.”
“It can get confusing,” their new friend agreed. “The Curators are in charge of arranging things, and they don’t think quite the same way as the rest of us.”
Hard to argue with that!
Amelia went on. “They love putting everything into categories, but this is where lost things appear, so lots of people and things and places have a way of popping up where they’re not supposed to. Of course, this makes a mess of the Curators’ system, but they do keep trying. Both Ostia Antica and the Frost Fair are lost markets, which is why they ended up close together. Shopper’s convenience! Imagine if you showed up in one place and discovered the thing you needed was all the way across an ocean?”
This made Marisol think of their journey on the Patriot, passing coasts filled with castles and pyramids. “How big is the World Between Blinks?”
“Very, very big. And still growing! Every time something disappears from our old world and appears here, the World stretches to fit it. Ah! Here’s the cocoa shop!”
The three of them ducked into a toasty tent, where groups gathered around tables of steaming mugs. Chocolate and coffee and something silvery scented the air. Amelia ordered drinks from the vendor, waving the cousins’ hands out of their pockets when th
ey reached for change.
“This round is on me.” It wasn’t a coin or a banknote she used to pay but gold! The piece was no bigger than their pinky nails, shinier than the lost wedding rings.
“Where did you get that?”
Jake shot Marisol a sharp look, and she suddenly feared her question had been too rude.
Amelia didn’t seem to mind. “I run a taxi service with my Lockheed plane,” she explained. “Lots of pilots here do! Wings make it easier to travel the World’s distances.”
Good to know, thought Marisol, although as she watched the gold disappear into the vendor’s pocket, she doubted they’d be able to afford a ride. She’d been hoping Amelia would say that there was lost treasure to be found all over the World Between Blinks, and she’d just scooped this gold up herself. But of course if that were true, the Curators wouldn’t have given the cousins money, would they?
Even if she could afford a ride, it’d help to know where they were going first. Her magnet fingers had failed to find the language charm stall, since every passing person wore a tiny scroll.
Hopefully locating Christopher Creaturo would be easier, since there was only one of him.
“Is there anything better than chocolate?” Amelia gave a happy sigh when the earthenware mugs were passed around. “Seriously? Is there? I imagine the old world’s changed a lot since I left.”
“Well . . .” Jake sipped the drink, thoughtful. “There are iPhones.”
Amelia blinked. “Telephones with eyes?”
Marisol tried not to giggle.
“Kind of.” Her primo stretched for an explanation. “I mean, they can certainly see things, and take pictures of them. But they don’t use eyes. There were a bunch in the bin of cell phones at Ostia Antica. They look like flat glass bricks.”
“I always wondered what those were! Telephones, you say? How swell!”
The cocoa helped warm them up, and so did the hunks of gingerbread Amelia bought at the next stall: treats wrapped in crinkling blue paper that opened to a smell like Christmas.
Marisol nibbled the edges, careful not to get crumbs on the borrowed jacket. Jake—clearly hungry—chomped into his slice. A piece fell to the ice, and an instant later it was snatched up by a stray dog, who dove for it in a blur of movement.