His mouth was dry and sour when he finally dragged himself awake. He tiptoed to the kitchen and poured some juice for himself, then dropped the container with a thud.
His father poked his head around the door. “Blaise? What’s up?”
“Nothing, Dad,” replied Blaise, mopping the countertop. “Just can’t sleep.”
“That’s not like you, buddy. You feeling sick or something?”
“Or something, yeah.” He drained his juice and rinsed the glass.
“Anything going on at school?” Mr. Doran stood in the doorway.
“I’m fine.”
His father gently caught his shoulder as Blaise pushed past him.
“You know you can tell me anything,” he said.
“I know, Dad,” said Blaise. But not this time. He padded down the hall and fell back into bed.
He couldn’t get Sunni out of his head, her image translucent and fading, the sleepy look on her face. Chiaroscuro, chiaroscuro. Blaise’s mind spun around and around till dawn, when at last he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next day, Braeside High School’s corridors hummed with discussions of Sunni’s and Dean’s disappearance. Boys shook their heads and girls hugged each other as teachers tried to herd them into classrooms.
Blaise darted in and out of his friends’ conversations, agreeing with them that the disappearances were freaky and tough for their family. But when his friends asked each other when they had last seen Sunni, he kept quiet.
That afternoon, Blaise sat in Mr. Bell’s art class, staring at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. This was the place he usually felt happiest, with its colorful jumble of artwork on the walls and relaxed atmosphere. But today he couldn’t wait to get away. Gazing at Sunni’s empty seat, he wondered where she was in the painting and whether she had found Dean. Could they have escaped by now?
Around him the other students whispered to each other, and as they worked, Blaise picked out the words “Sunni” and “Blackhope Tower” and “police investigation.” Feeling out of it from lack of sleep, he could only manage to draw a few scratchy lines before erasing them in disgust.
At the end of the lesson Blaise dropped his scrunched-up drawing in the trash and waited by Mr. Bell’s desk until the other students had gone.
“Is everything OK, Blaise?” said the art teacher. “You didn’t seem your usual self today. Are you worried about Sunni?”
Blaise thrust his hands into his pockets. “Uh, yeah,” he said. “And I’m having some problems finding information on my artist for the project.”
“Oh? That doesn’t sound too serious. Who are you researching?”
“Fausto Corvo.”
“Corvo? You too?” Lorimer Bell’s hand trembled as he ran it over his shaved head. “I do have a book about him, but I’m afraid I lent it to Sunni. Did you know she’s also doing Corvo?”
“Yes, but we talked about it.”
“I would tell you to share the book with her, but under the circumstances — well, you know that’s not possible.” Mr. Bell shook his head sadly. “There is a painting by Corvo at Blackhope Towe —”
“I know. I’ve been there,” interrupted Blaise. “Do you know anything else about Corvo, Mr. Bell? Did you, like, ever hear anything unusual about him?”
The art teacher looked up at Blaise sharply. “Well, yes,” he answered. “There have been lots of rumors and stories over the centuries. They are part of what makes Corvo so fascinating.”
“So, you heard that he was chased by someone named Soranzo? What did Soranzo want?”
“I believe he was after some particular paintings of Corvo’s,” Mr. Bell said. “Soranzo was a very powerful man in Venice, and he didn’t take it very well when Corvo disappeared. He was so angry that he even offered a reward for information on Corvo’s whereabouts.”
“Did you ever hear that Corvo was a sorcerer?” Blaise asked.
Mr. Bell stiffened. “There’s no proof of that rumor, Blaise. I’m sure plenty of Renaissance artists were suspected of sorcery. Think about it. People were much more superstitious back then, and being able to draw and paint is kind of magical, isn’t it? It’s a skill most people don’t develop, so many were in awe of those who had it. And maybe they felt a bit threatened by it sometimes, too.”
Blaise thought about this.
“Does your question have anything to do with Sunni’s disappearance at Blackhope Tower?” asked Mr. Bell, scratching his neck.
“Maybe.”
The art teacher flinched. “In what way, Blaise?”
“The disappearances couldn’t have anything to do with being in the Mariner’s Chamber with Corvo’s painting and the labyrinth, could it? I mean, that room’s got a weird reputation already, with the skeletons and all.”
“It certainly sounds as though you suspect there’s a connection, Blaise.” Mr. Bell scratched furiously at the back of his neck.
“Well, there’s only one door and no windows in that room, Mr. B. From what everyone’s saying, no one saw Sunni and Dean leave,” Blaise said, “and there’s nothing else in there except the painting and the labyrinth.”
“And you think that poor old Corvo, even though he’s long since dead, is responsible for their disappearances?” Mr. Bell forced a smile.
Blaise shrugged.
“I think your imagination could be getting the better of you, Blaise. My advice is that maybe you should choose a different artist to study — I can suggest some others you’d like.”
“Corvo is my favorite artist. I want to finish the project.”
Mr. Bell finally took his hand away from the raw red patch that had bloomed on his neck. “All right, then. But stay away from Blackhope Tower and let the police do their work. You’ve already seen the painting. You don’t need to go back.”
Blaise hurried out of the classroom, disappointed that he hadn’t learned anything new. On his way down the corridor, he popped his head into the school office. “Mrs. Jamieson, have you heard any more news about Sunni and Dean?”
The secretary looked up from her computer. “No, Blaise,” she answered. “The police are still searching. But I did just hear they’re trying to trace a boy who was with them when they disappeared.”
Blaise’s heart skipped a beat, and in that second he realized that there was only one way forward now. After thanking her, he walked briskly through the school gates and in the direction of Blackhope Tower. On the way, he bought several bottles of water, some energy bars, bananas, and chocolate, jamming it all into his messenger bag as he ran for the bus.
When Blaise arrived at Blackhope Tower, the driveway was packed with news vans. He cursed under his breath. Of course — Sunni’s and Dean’s disappearance was big news.
The hall was bursting with reporters talking to cameras under bright lights. Blaise edged along the side, hoping no one would notice him, and got as far as the spiral staircase before a security guard caught him.
“Sorry,” the guard said. “The upper floors are closed for investigation.”
“I know, sir. That’s why I’m here. I want to talk to the police because I was the last person to see Sunni Forrest.”
“That was you?” The guard jerked his thumb at a man being interviewed by several reporters. “That’s the chief inspector. You’ll have to wait till he’s free.”
“OK.”
The guard was called away, and Blaise stepped back a few paces toward the staircase. He grew bolder and stepped onto the second stair, still facing the hall. The guard looked over for a moment and Blaise raised his hand in a half wave.
Carefully stepping backward, Blaise managed to move up one step at a time. When he was around the curve of the staircase and out of view, he turned and galloped up to the top floor.
Another guard stood at the top of the stairs. “No entry.”
“They’ve sent me up here to talk to someone in the Mariner’s Chamber,” Blaise said. “I saw Sunni Forrest here before she disappeared.”
The guard looked Blaise up and down, then nodded. “Yeah, they were talking about a boy who was with her. I’ll take you to them.”
Blaise peered into the Mariner’s Chamber. A man in a dark suit sat frowning on the bench while a woman in a long overcoat strolled around, studying the labyrinth.
The guard called to them from the door, “Excuse me, but this young man has been sent up to speak to you,” and then returned to his post.
Blaise put on what he hoped was a relaxed smile as he stepped into the Mariner’s Chamber. “Uh, hello. I think I was the last person to see Sunni Forrest yesterday.”
“Speak of the devil, Jim — the boy in the security recording. The guard on duty last night told us about you,” the woman said, introducing herself as Detective Constable McNeill and her colleague as Detective Constable Nash. “Isn’t the chief inspector with you?”
“He’s busy getting interviewed,” said Blaise.
“You’re here on your own? Where are your parents?”
“My dad’s at work. But you can call him.” He fiddled with his phone and handed it to the policewoman. “I’m Blaise Doran.”
“Blaise Doran.” D.C. Nash scribbled this into his notebook as the woman phoned his father. “Address?”
“Twenty-one Braeside Road.”
“You a friend of Sunni’s?” asked D.C. Nash. “Boyfriend?”
“Uh, no,” said Blaise, annoyed to feel a flush spreading up his neck. “We’re in the same year at school.”
“All right,” said D.C. McNeill, handing Blaise’s phone back to him. “Your dad’s on his way over.”
“I don’t mind telling you now. I was drawing on the bench when Dean disappeared. Sunni and I are working on a school project, and we were copying the painting into our sketchbooks. The next thing I knew, she was telling me Dean was gone. We went and looked around the other rooms on this floor, but he wasn’t there.”
“Yes, the recordings from the camera in the corridor showed you doing that. But we haven’t got full footage of this room. The camera is aimed at the painting — we can only see people walking past it and stopping to look. The corridor camera shows Dean entering the room, and we know he looked at the painting for a few minutes, but we can’t see what happened next — all we know is he never left this room. Neither did Sunni,” said D.C. Nash. “After you and Sunni searched the other rooms, why did you both come back and stare at the painting? That seemed odd.”
“Well, Sunni kind of thought that Dean might have vanished into the painting.” There, Blaise thought, I said it.
“Pardon? Did you just say she thought Dean was inside that painting?” Nash asked.
Blaise nodded. The two police officers stared at him and then at each other.
McNeill asked, “How did she think he’d done that?”
“By walking along the labyrinth and saying a special password.”
“Like abracadabra or open sesame?” Nash was suppressing a smirk.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, come on, then. What did he say?”
“I’m not sure,” said Blaise, crossing his fingers behind his back. “He whispered it.”
The officers shook their heads in disbelief. “And I suppose Sunni did the same thing, did she? She walked around the labyrinth?” asked Nash.
Blaise nodded.
“What did you do then?” McNeill arched her eyebrows.
“I told her to stop, but she wouldn’t listen to me,” Blaise replied.
Nash said, “And then she was transported into the painting, because she said a magic word!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Next you’ll be telling us she’s visiting Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs while she’s there. This sounds ridiculous,” said McNeill. “You’re saying you just stood there as she went poof! Then you got your stuff, went and looked at the painting again, and left the room. Why?”
“I was confused. I didn’t know what to do. The guard said it was time to leave, so I did. But first I went to the painting to see if she was there.”
“And did you see her?” asked Nash.
“No.”
“Why didn’t you tell the guard or someone else what had happened?”
“Who’d believe me?” Blaise stared at the floor. After a moment, he said, “I can show you exactly what Sunni did.”
Blaise hurried to the labyrinth and took a deep breath as he set off along the black tile path. Bowing his head low, he whispered, so no one could hear, “Chiaroscuro, chiaroscuro, chiaroscuro.” He got through the first corner and then through the second. The detectives followed at his side, and he heard Nash say, “Blaise, speak louder.”
Blaise ignored him and was almost through the third section when he heard the click of heels coming toward the Mariner’s Chamber. He desperately hoped it was not his father.
Keep going, Blaise said to himself and whispered, “Chiaroscuro, chiaroscuro.”
The steps came closer as he rounded the last turn. He stood in the middle of the labyrinth, eyes drooping, his body growing as light as vapor. The world went cotton-ball white around him, and he felt himself drift away.
Blaise disappeared.
“What the —?” The two detectives were sweeping their arms through the empty space just as the chief inspector stalked into the Mariner’s Chamber.
“What’s going on here? They told me you were questioning the boy,” he said. “Where is he?”
McNeill’s face was strained. “He was just here talking to us, sir. He was showing us what the kids did, and he just vanished into thin air!”
The chief inspector growled, “You mean he disappeared from under your nose?” His voice grew more irate. “Have this room closed off. I don’t want anybody else in here until we’ve figured this out!”
He was so busy barking out orders, neither he nor the others noticed the tiny burst of light near the bottom of The Mariner’s Return to Arcadia.
Dean trudged along the road out of the city. The stillness of the cattle and the motionless trees here were not as eerie as the streets he had just left. He had no idea where he was going, but at least he had escaped the frozen people with half faces.
The road became a narrow path by a grove of trees. Dean gazed at the high hills in the distance. They were at the back of the painting, he remembered. But what was behind them? The way out?
Dean picked his way through the trees into a field of stone boulders at the bottom of the hills. The path petered out at a dark cleft between two tall boulders. He moved closer. The cleft was wide enough to squeeze through. He peered into the inky darkness, sniffing the air while trying to decide whether it was a good idea to go in.
Sunni was running through the fields after Dean. She had lost sight of him sometime earlier, but as there was only one road, she was certain she would catch him eventually. At the start of the grove, she pulled the lavender-striped scarf from her neck and tied it around a tree trunk as a marker.
Picking her way through the trees, she caught sight of a familiar red blob. Dean was leaning against a boulder with his back to her.
“Dean!” she yelled, hurling herself toward him, her ponytail loose and flying in wavy tendrils.
Dean whooped with relief. He tackled Sunni and gave her a messy hug. “What took you so long?”
“Charming,” said Sunni. “You’re lucky I figured out where you were. I bet you don’t even know how you got here.”
“No. I must have blacked out or something. I woke up here with those frozen zombies and food you can’t eat. I wish Mom had never made me go to Blackhope with you.”
“So do I,” Sunni said with a sigh. “If you walk around that labyrinth in the floor and say the word chiaroscuro, it transports you into the painting. But I don’t know how to get us out.”
“You don’t?” Dean hung his head. “But you told my mom and Ian, right? They’ll come and get us, won’t they?”
“I didn’t tell them anything. I came straight in after you.”
“So, t
hey don’t know we’re here?”
“No.” Sunni saw his incredulous look, and her anger rose. “Well, they were never going to believe me, were they, so what was the point of telling them?”
“That’s just brilliant. Nobody knows where we are,” Dean spluttered. “We’re doomed.”
“You’re right. Doom is the option I always go for.” Sunni kicked at some loose stones. “Like you weren’t doomed before I got here?”
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell anyone. Any grown-ups.”
“Do you know any grown-ups who specialize in getting kids out of paintings?”
“No one else knows where we are,” Dean bellowed. “Because of you!”
“For your information, Blaise knows. He was there.”
“That guy you were with?”
“Yeah,” said Sunni. She didn’t add, And I told him not to tell anyone.
Dean let out a long breath. “Maybe he won’t be as dumb as you and he’ll get help. Maybe all we have to do is wait.”
Sunni slumped back against the rock face, glaring at the sky. Maybe. Maybe not.
“I’m starving,” said Dean. “You got any food?”
Sunni rooted around in her backpack and handed him her last piece of chocolate. “That’s it.”
He shoved it into his mouth and practically swallowed it whole.
“What’re we going to eat now?”
“Forget about your stomach,” answered Sunni. “Let’s find the way out.”
“We’ve got to stay here so they can rescue us.”
“Who knows how long that will take?” If it happens at all, Sunni thought. “Let’s try getting ourselves out.” She gestured at the slit in the rock. “This must lead somewhere. There are no other roads.”
“It’s dark in there.”
“Yeah, and . . . ?”
“I don’t want to go in.”
“Stay here, then,” she said. “Though I would have thought you’d be used to creepy caves from all your monster and demon games.”
The Blackhope Enigma Page 3