The alarm stopped wailing when the police chief walked back inside and closed the door. He marched down the hall to the lobby, where the receptionist was still on her feet.
“They can’t have gotten far,” he told her. “If Mrs. Pepperton or the Bonvillains get here, don’t tell them anything. Just let them know I’ll be back soon.”
The bells over the door jingled as he left.
The receptionist sat back down at her desk and resumed filing, and the others returned to their offices. Nearly five minutes had passed when the receptionist heard a child’s whisper.
“Shh! They’ll hear you!”
Frowning, the receptionist stood slowly and crept down the hallway. She could hear the muffled sounds of phone calls and typing coming from behind each door. At the restroom, she stopped and listened hard.
The sink was running.
Chewing her lip, the receptionist wondered if she should get someone to help her. Then she dismissed the thought. They were just children. Standing up straighter, she pushed the door open.
“Okay, you three. Time to…”
The restroom was empty.
The receptionist checked all three stalls just to be sure. When she stepped back into the hall, her eyes narrowed.
The police chief’s door, which had most definitely been closed, was now ajar.
Irritated, she crossed the hall and pushed the door open with more force than perhaps was necessary. “Enough of this. I need you kids to…”
The office was empty too.
The receptionist’s confusion lasted only another second, until she heard the faint sound of bells jingling. She ran down the hall and into the lobby, which was empty. Anxiety knotted her stomach as she hurried to the door and peered up and down the street.
No sign of the children. Maybe she’d been mistaken.
There was no need to tell the police chief about this, she decided. He was already out there looking for them. And really, her ears had probably been playing tricks on her. She shook her head, decided she was not to blame for any of this, and headed back to her desk.
Across the street, three children huddled behind a parked car until the door closed. Then they sprinted down the street as fast as their legs would carry them.
The puppeteer was in a foul mood.
The marionette—no, Chance, his name was Chance; the fog had not taken that yet—watched from the cupboard as the puppeteer sewed a tear in the Evil Witch’s black dress, which had caught on a nail in the stage during the previous performance. It took the puppeteer nearly a full minute just to thread the needle, as he kept stopping to flex and crack his stiff fingers.
Now that the show was over, now that he was back in the trailer, Chance remembered his situation. He supposed he should be alarmed by what had happened to him during the performance. The moment the curtain had risen, he’d forgotten what it was to be anyone but Princess Penny. The only thing that had kept him from losing himself entirely in the story was the shrill falsetto the puppeteer had provided him. It had been nothing like Penny’s real voice, which was soft and low. And that had reminded Chance that he was not Princess Penny at all, that the real Penny was out there somewhere in his body, with his family.
His family. Chance could picture them. But he couldn’t quite recall what their voices sounded like.
Which, again, probably should have alarmed him. It would have if the fog weren’t stealing his emotions, too. It was nice, actually, not to be bothered with the pesky business of feeling.
All Chance really wanted was another show, another performance.
A roar of anger jarred him from his thoughts. The puppeteer was staring at his hands, and at first Chance couldn’t see anything wrong with them. Then he realized the puppeteer was straining, his teeth gritted with effort, veins pushing up against the skin of his arms. He was trying to curl his fingers into fists, but they remained as unbendable as twigs, and Chance was hit with the sudden mental image of each of them snapping in two.
Exhaling loudly, the puppeteer dropped his arms to his sides and closed his eyes. Then he picked up the Evil Witch and brought her over to the cabinet. Chance flinched as the puppeteer shoved the Brave Knight over to make room for the witch. He scowled at each of his marionettes in turn, as if they’d done him personal harm. Then he slammed the cabinet door closed.
Chance felt something slump against his shoulder and realized the knight had fallen to the side. He wondered what was wrong with the puppeteer’s hands. And then a voice that was not his own responded:
I think he’s sick.
It was just like the first time Penny spoke to him when he’d touched her strings, Chance remembered with a jolt. And then the same voice said:
Hello? Can…can you hear me?
It was a boy’s voice, quiet and shy, but excited.
Yes, I can, Chance thought back. Are you the Brave Knight?
Yes. Are you Princess Penny?
Yes, Chance replied, the thrill of his first conversation in ages zipping through him. Our strings must be touching. That’s how marionettes talk.
You sound like a boy, the knight thought.
I am, Chance told him. I accidentally swapped bodies with the real Penny. My name is Chance.
You swapped? The knight sounded confused. How? And then Chance explained the whole story, which didn’t take very long, as he could think much faster than he could talk. As he did, more details rushed back to him, so quickly and with such clarity that Chance was astounded he’d managed to forget them at all. He finished with learning about Fortunato’s betrayal.
That’s terrible, the knight said. I’m sorry.
Thank you. What’s your name?
Just the Brave Knight. That’s all the puppeteer ever called me.
This struck Chance as very sad. How long have you been with him? How many shows have you done?
There was a brief silence, but Chance could sense the knight’s thoughts. They were murky and dense, like a swamp. I don’t know. I don’t remember doing any other shows. All I really remember is being in the cabinet with the spinning wheel for a long time, in the dark.
Heaviness settled over Chance. Why did the puppeteer create these magical marionettes with souls, doomed to a life on the shelf…or worse, in a box? It wasn’t fair. When Penny and I swap back, I’ll take you both away from the puppeteer, he told the knight emphatically. The others, too. You’ll never get locked up in the dark again.
When you swap back? The knight sounded surprised. How will you do that? You can’t move or do anything. You’re a damsel in distress, like in the show. All you can do is wait for someone to rescue you.
Chance considered this. It was true that he couldn’t move. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t do anything.
I have an idea, he told the knight, and the knight listened carefully.
Penny, Constance, and Howard reached the north end of the park by noon. They would have reached it much faster had they not had to duck behind a tree or around a corner at the sight of anyone who resembled a police officer. The carnival took up the south end of the park, which was still a good two miles away. But rather than taking them into the park to cut through it, Constance led them around to walk the length along the west side.
“We don’t have any money for tickets,” she said. “We’re going to the museum first, to see if Fortunato can help us.”
“The museum closed,” Penny reminded her. “He won’t be there.”
“He lives on the floor above it, though,” Constance said. “We have to hope he’s still there.” She paused, turning to Penny. “We need him, Penny. We can’t face this villain alone.”
Penny nodded. Constance was right, of course. The man with the sharp face had given Chance the spindle that had swapped them. They had no idea why he’d done it, or what else he was capable of.
On Constance’s other side, Howard cleared his throat. “Penny? I thought your name was Chance.”
Constance and Penny exchanged a look. Then Constance smiled at Howard. “We’ve got a long walk ahead of us, so I guess we can tell you the whole story. Although you probably won’t believe it.”
Howard smiled back, and it was the first time since they’d met that he’d done so. His eyes softened, and Penny thought she saw the hint of a blush on his cheeks. “Try me,” he said.
And so Constance launched into the tale as they walked. Her words drifted in and out of Penny’s consciousness; she was too distracted by taking in the sights of the city, now that they weren’t running for their lives. Constance took lots of turns and stuck to busier streets, which Penny suspected was deliberate. If they happened to be spotted by a police officer on the lookout for three reported runaways, it would be easier to disappear into a crowd. They walked through the theater district, where buildings loomed high overhead and lights in all colors flashed and blinked. Large posters featuring the titles of shows and the faces of their stars hung outside the theaters, and Penny couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to see such a performance. She even saw an advertisement for STORM AT DAWN, WITH A. P. HALLS. There was no photo, just a silhouette of a man in a trench coat and hat. Penny knew the Storm was a fictional character, but still, seeing the actor’s name jarred her.
They passed the outskirts of the historical district, where a stately library sat filled with countless books Penny would never get to read. There were restaurants with menus outside highlighting all sorts of strange-sounding foods that Penny would never get to eat, and museums filled with paintings and sculptures Penny would never get to see. Because she was a marionette, not a person.
Envy, that black hole that swallows your heart and leaves you with an empty space that nothing can fill.
Penny suddenly became aware that Constance had stopped talking, and Howard was now staring at her. He looked away quickly, but not before Penny saw the fear in his eyes.
“So you…you’re a…” Howard’s throat moved visibly when he swallowed. “I don’t understand.”
“She’s a marionette,” Constance explained. “With a soul. Which she swapped with my brother’s by accident.”
Howard pressed his lips together. “It sounds a little bit like that old story, the one about these demon puppets who steal—”
“The Cabinetmaker’s Apprentice!” cried Constance in delight, just as Penny said loudly: “I am not a demon!”
“I didn’t say you were!” Howard sounded flustered. “It’s just…what are you?”
He didn’t say it unkindly, but Penny flinched.
“She is someone who needs help,” Constance said before Penny could answer. “Like my brother. And your brother,” she added. “You’re an older sibling too, Howard. Right? So you understand.”
She put a protective arm around Penny. Warmth spread through Penny from head to toe, and her envy subsided for a brief moment before flooding back worse than ever. Because Constance wasn’t really her big sister. Yet another thing Penny would never have.
“I know Fortunato will help us once we tell him what happened to Chance,” Constance was telling Howard. “And as soon as we get this all sorted out, we’ll help you find Jack, too.”
“Not me,” Penny said. “I won’t be of much use once I’m a marionette again.”
She should have kept the bitter thought in her head. But she couldn’t help it. She would do whatever she could to help Chance, because he did not deserve to spend eternity trapped in a puppet shell. But neither did Penny. She wanted to go see a show at the theater and eat steamed clams and crème brûlée and look at dinosaur bones and go to the carnival just to play games and ride rides.
It wasn’t fair at all.
Constance stopped dead in her tracks, turned to Penny, and pulled her into a tight hug. “You will always be useful,” she whispered fiercely. “Always. Okay? We’re going to figure this out, I promise.”
Penny had no idea how Constance could promise such a thing. But in that moment, she believed the girl with all her heart.
Howard smiled tentatively at her, and Penny smiled back. Then she noticed a sign taped to the lamppost just behind him. “That boy looks like you.”
She pulled away from Constance, and they both stepped forward to get a better look at the sign. It read MISSING at the top in giant letters, with a picture of a younger version of Howard below that. At the bottom of the page, Penny read:
Howard nodded. “That’s Jack. He took it hard, my parents’ car accident—we both did. But after a while, I started feeling better. He just got sadder and sadder. That’s why everyone thinks he ran away, but I know he didn’t. Something terrible must’ve…” He paused, swallowing hard. “I have to find him. I’ll do anything.”
His voice cracked a little, and suddenly he looked much older. Or maybe just more tired. Penny felt a pang of sadness as she glanced back at the photo of Jack. His eyes were wide and innocent. She wondered what had happened to him, but she was afraid to ask the question out loud. There were many possible answers, none of which were pleasant to ponder.
The three continued their trek to the museum, their mood more subdued now. Constance, still determinedly cheery despite everything that had happened, attempted to take their minds off it with chatter about what they might have to eat once they found Fortunato. It was late afternoon now, they’d devoured the last of the fruit in Constance’s bag hours ago, and all three were increasingly distracted by thoughts of bacon and eggs, warm chocolate croissants, or peanut butter and banana sandwiches. By the time they rounded the final corner and saw the Museum of the Peculiar Arts up ahead, the gnawing in Penny’s stomach and the pounding in her head made it difficult to feel triumphant or relieved or anything aside from slightly less irritated.
Constance fell silent as they crossed the street. It was as if the weight of the next few minutes had finally settled on them; if Fortunato was not here, they would have to confront the man with the sharp face alone. If they could even get into the carnival. Penny saw Constance cross her fingers with one hand as she reached for the door handle with the other. She hesitated for a second, then pulled.
The door opened, and Penny breathed a sigh of relief. She and Constance shared a smile as they entered, Howard right behind them.
Constance led the way, all of them keeping more quiet than seemed necessary, tiptoeing around the curio cabinets and hardly daring to breathe. Even though they had a good reason to be here, and Fortunato would certainly welcome them, Penny felt as though they were trespassing. But the door was unlocked, so surely someone was here. And sure enough, a voice suddenly sounded from the back.
“Watch that oak cabinet, now! It might be one of the cabinetmaker’s, and you boys are about to scratch the magic right out of it.”
A few chuckles followed this statement, along with the muffled thumps of boxes being dropped. Constance stopped walking abruptly and turned to face Penny. Her expression was screwed up in confusion, and Penny knew why. That voice didn’t belong to Fortunato. She’d recognize it anywhere.
It belonged to the Storm.
In Chance’s favorite episode of Storm at Dawn, the sinister Madam M poisoned the Storm’s tea with a draft that put him into a deathlike state. Though he appeared to be dead, eyes wide open and immobile, the Storm was actually fully conscious as he was mourned. Always prepared for the worst, the Storm knew his only chance for survival was to use the abilities he hadn’t lost—sight and hearing—to their fullest extent.
Information is power, Chance told the Brave Knight. The Storm always says that when you discover your enemy’s secrets, you discover his weaknesses.
But even if we do learn something that can help us, then what? the knight replied. We can’t do anything about it. We can’t move or talk to anyone except ea
ch other.
And the puppeteer, Chance reminded him, remembering that moment in the museum when that sharp face had been so close to his, those long fingers grazing his strings. But first things first. We need to learn everything we can about him if we’re going to discover his weakness.
And so they used what abilities they had. Because the Brave Knight’s helmet severely limited what he could see, he focused on listening. He listened to the sounds of the children passing by the trailer, their voices growing hushed with excitement as they dared to approach the door, the shrieks and giggles as they ran away, unable to gather the courage to even knock. He listened to the quiet whir of the spinning wheel when the puppeteer would sit behind it, spinning and spinning despite the lack of string. He listened to the different rattling sounds the contents of each drawer made when the puppeteer would open and close them, and tried to discern what was inside.
Chance focused on looking. He looked at every tool the puppeteer used, each made with the same polished wood and near-translucent silver as the spindle, which had started all his troubles. He looked in all the cabinets the puppeteer opened, and memorized which ones he didn’t. He looked at the puppeteer’s expression every time he sat behind the spinning wheel, studied the way his face contorted in pain when his fingers became too stiff to continue.
The puppeteer’s increasing frustration might have been frightening, but Chance was grateful for it. Because after every show, the puppeteer would shove the marionettes onto the shelf without taking the time to ensure their strings weren’t touching: Princess Penny and the Brave Knight on the top shelf; the Sheepherder, the Wise Wizard, and the Evil Witch on the bottom shelf. Chance wondered if those marionettes were listening and looking and speaking to one another through their strings. Maybe they were even plotting.
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