“What?” Ralph asked as James suddenly pulled him into a side corridor. “You see something?”
“These are just more portraits,” Zane said, rolling his eyes. “You going to corroborate one half-baked heap of paint with another?”
“If their stories agree, then yes,” James replied. “Besides, I’ve heard that one of these guys was known for never telling a lie.”
“A quote that has long outlived its context,” one of the portraits said with a sniff. “It was directed at Mrs. Washington, in fact, on the occasion of a missing slice of apple pie. And, I might add, it was meant to be rather sarcastic.”
“George Washington?” Ralph asked, peering at the large portrait on the corridor wall. “What’s he going to know about a magical unicorn horseshoe?”
“Nothing whatsoever with an attitude like that, young man,” Washington answered huffily. “I’ve been watching the three of you traipse around the museum. I can’t imagine why you haven’t already asked any of us portraits about whatever it is you are seeking, especially since the curator is absent. Not that said absence is at all unusual.”
“That’s for certain,” another portrait added. James glanced up and saw the painted visage of a rather round-faced man with tufts of iron grey hair poking from the sides of his head. ‘John Adams’, the name plate read. “Our Madam Curator spends about as much time at her post as a Virginia night watchman.”
“I take offense at comments like that,” another portrait commented from further down the hall.
“We know, Thomas,” Washington said with a roll of his eyes. “That’s why Adams keeps making them. He’s been trying to get your goat for centuries. I cannot understand why you keep making it so very easy for him.”
“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” Adams smirked.
“Some of us prefer more sporting contests,” said the portrait from further down the hall. James leaned to the side and read the name plate: ‘Thomas Jefferson’. “Us Virginians aim for loftier challenges than mere colloquial insults.”
“Do note, John,” Washington added carefully, “that I was a Virginian as well.”
“Yes, but you can give as well as you get, George,” Adams replied jovially. “You have a sense of humour, after all.”
“Wait a minute,” Ralph interrupted. “George Washington. You’re the guy that invented peanut butter, right?”
“Ahem,” another voice coughed lightly. “You’re thinking of George Washington Carver, young man. A common enough mistake, I suppose.”
“Oh,” Ralph said, his face reddening as he glanced aside at the portrait of a handsome man with dark skin and grey hair. “Er, sorry, Mr. Carver.”
“Not necessary,” the portrait smiled. “Although do spread the word, if you will pardon the pun: I invented over four hundred uses for the common peanut. Being chiefly remembered for the creation of a snack food tends to be a bit of a legacy killer.”
Ralph nodded. “I’ll, er, try to remember that, sir.”
“So then,” Adams said, leaning back in his painted chair, “what can we do for you fine gentlemen?”
Zane stepped forward. “All right,” he said, glancing around at the portraits. “We’re looking for information about something that might have been here in the museum a long time ago. Any of you guys remember a silver horseshoe?”
“Silver horseshoe,” Washington mused thoughtfully. “Rings a very faint bell, I daresay, although the idea seems a bit impractical on the surface of it.”
“You may wish to ask Miss Sacajawea,” Jefferson suggested. “She has a better view of the rest of the museum, being on the end near the entryway.”
James walked along the line of portraits until he came to a large painting of a tall Native American woman in a fringed, buff-coloured tunic. Her long black hair fell over one shoulder, glinting in the light of a forest sunset.
“Um,” James began, “hi, Miss. Mr. Jefferson said you might know something about an old horseshoe that used to be here in the museum. Do you remember anything like that?”
The woman in the portrait didn’t move for several seconds. Finally, her eyelids fluttered slightly, as if she were rousing herself from a sort of sleep. She glanced at James solemnly and then nodded past him toward the corridor’s broad entrance. “The talisman of the Rider’s mount,” she said softly. “I remember it. Its voice once sang from the hall beyond you, from its resting place near the window.”
Zane frowned. “Er, I don’t think we’re talking about the same thing,” he said respectfully. “This was a silver horseshoe. You know. Not the sort of thing that sings, usually.”
“It was no usual relic,” the portrait said, and there was a tinge of sadness in her voice. “Its home was not of this world and the hoof from which it came belonged to no ordinary beast. Its voice was tiny, nearly faded to silence, but such was the enchantment of its origin that it still told its sad tale even after so many seasons had passed over it. I alone heard its song and marked its passing.”
In an awed voice, James asked, “Do you remember what happened to it, Miss?”
Sacajawea nodded slowly. “The man with the iron cane took it,” she said. “He enchanted the woman who was curator in that time, making her believe that he had been given special privileges. She helped him unlock the talisman’s case. When the man touched the talisman, its song, faint as it was, finally ceased. He took it with him and it has been gone ever since.”
“The man with the iron cane,” Zane whispered, nudging James. “Magnussen, you think?”
James nodded. “Who else could it be?”
“Ignatius Magnussen,” Jefferson’s voice echoed from the corridor. “I remember him—and his cane.”
James looked back. “You saw him here too?”
“He was not the sort of man one is likely to forget,” Jefferson answered soberly. “Had a face like something carved from granite and a tongue like a two-edged sword.”
“We observed him with his classes, on occasion,” Washington added. “Thomas is quite right. Professor Magnussen had a way with cruelty that was very nearly an art form. I knew men like him in my day, men whose words could both build the strongest confidences and cut the deepest wounds.”
“And his iron-tipped cane, I might add,” said the portrait of George Washington Carver, “was no normal cane. Its power was concealed, but no great secret. Where others seem to rely on magical wands, Professor Magnussen wielded his horrid cane, and it was revered with much dread.”
“I remember seeing that cane,” James said thoughtfully. “In the Disrecorder vision. It was leaning against the table, right next to him. Its handle looked sort of like a falcon or a gargoyle or something.”
“Indeed, that was the man’s constant companion,” the portrait of Adams said, nodding. “Be glad, gentlemen, that his day is past and you do not have to sit beneath his cold eye.”
“Yeah,” Ralph said morosely as they made their way back along the corridor, heading for the exit. “Hooray for us.”
It was Valentine’s evening before the three boys were finally able to attempt the trip through time in pursuit of the infamous Professor Magnussen. Tracking down the date of the professor’s disappearance was the easiest part since, by all accounts, it coincided with the fire that destroyed his erstwhile home. Figuring out how to get the Warping Willow to take them to that exact date, however, proved to be a bit more of a challenge. In the end, Zane had called upon his fellow Zombies, including Warrington, to help write the appropriate rhyming verse that would, with any luck, send them back to the evening of October eighth, eighteen fiftynine.
The day leading up to the adventure went exceedingly slowly. James found it very difficult to pay attention in Georgia Burke’s Magizoology class even though they were studying live Velocipedes, which tended to require constant observation and very quick reflexes. Halfway through the class, James had gotten neatly bowled over by one of the huge hundred-legged insects. As a result, the creature had squirmed playfully around him in a
vigorous hug and licked his face repeatedly with its long prehensile tongue.
“You’ll be all right,” Professor Burke called from outside the muddy pen. “They’re like big puppies, really. Just relax and she’ll get bored with you in a minute. There’s no point in trying to disengage yourself, trust me.”
James flopped back into the mud and squinted his eyes shut while the Velocipede huffed excitedly into his face, its tongue like a miniature, rubbery whip.
The afternoon’s classes had no sooner ended than James had to rush across campus toward Pepperpock Down, munching a sandwich en route and dragging his Clutch gear along with him. The afternoon match was against Pixie House, and amazingly enough, Team Bigfoot was tied with the Pixies’ scoring record. Frankly, James was too preoccupied with the evening’s upcoming adventure to care much about the match, but the rest of Team Bigfoot had been wildly heartened by their recent victory over Team Vampire. As a result, they went into that afternoon’s match with a grim determination that was, despite James’ distraction, quite inspiring. It was no great surprise, therefore, when the Bigfoots prevailed narrowly throughout the match and ended the game with a very slim but breathlessly exciting win over the Pixies. The packed grandstands roared raucously when the final whistle blew, and James realized with some degree of amazement that Team Bigfoot had gone from forgettable losers to admirable underdogs. The entire school (with the obvious exception of whichever house they happened to be playing) suddenly seemed to be rooting for them, if only as a novelty.
Changing out of his Clutch gear and heading for Administration Hall for dinner, James met up with Zane and Ralph. It wasn’t until they made their way toward the cafeteria that James remembered that it was the night of the Valentine’s dance. Construction paper hearts and cupids flitted through the upper reaches of the halls, occasionally swooping down onto unsuspecting students and chasing them around, producing sudden explosions of giggles and happy screams.
“What’s all that about?” James asked as a girl swept past, giggling and batting at the paper cupid that was circling her head.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Zane shrugged. “Don’t you have Valentine’s Day at Hoggies?”
“Yeah,” Ralph nodded. “I guess. But it’s a lot less, er, screamy.”
Zane rolled his eyes as he ducked into the cafeteria. “It’s simple, really. If one of the cupids or hearts lands on you, you have to go and find a girl who’s got one of the hearts or cupids stuck on her. You kiss and then the cupids and hearts let you go.”
“Ah,” Ralph said uncomfortably. “Maybe we should have just had dinner back at Apollo Mansion.”
“Buck up, Ralph,” James smiled, nudging the bigger boy. “If you play your cards right, you could winkle a kiss out of Jazmine.”
Ralph boggled and his face reddened. “You think so? No. That’s…” He stopped as the idea firmly began to take root in his mind. His eyes began to dart around the room, watching the flitting paper symbols.
“It’s all about timing,” Zane nodded, throwing an arm around Ralph’s shoulders. “Keep your head down until one of them nabs Jazmine. Then up you pop. Obvious, but not too obvious, you know? Those cupids can smell opportunists, so you have to play it cool.”
James stopped listening as he filled his tray. Half a minute later, the three boys found a seat at one of the long, crowded tables. The cafeteria thrummed with the noise of the post-Clutch, predance crowd, creating an atmosphere of giddy excitement that very nearly vibrated in the walls. “You all set for tonight?” Zane asked James as he munched a grilled cheese sandwich.
“I guess,” James shrugged. “I’ve been going over it all day in my head. The sooner we get it over with, the better.”
“I went out to see old Straidthwait in the cemetery again,” Zane said quietly. “Just to make sure we had everything all buttoned up. He said he saw Magnussen leave around eight o’clock on the night of the fire. If we get this right, we’ll arrive at the walled gate about half an hour before him. Then, we can just hide out and follow him when he shows up.”
“What about Flintlock?” James asked suddenly. “Won’t he recognize that we aren’t students in that time? What if he thinks we’re intruders or something?”
“Funny thing about rock trolls,” Zane smiled, tapping his nose. “They don’t occupy time the same way we do. Did you know that when they’re born, they actually age backwards? They get younger as time passes! It’s true. Rose looked it up for me at the Hogwarts library. She’s like our own private research department, you know?”
“What do you mean they age backwards?” James frowned. “You mean Flintlock’s younger now than he was when he first came to America hundreds of years ago?”
Zane shrugged and bobbed his head. “Hard to say. A lot of trolls try to learn to age forward in time like we do, especially if they live and work with humans. When in Rome, you know? The point is Flintlock’s grasp on time is pretty slippery. Even in eighteen fiftynine, he’ll sort of remember us from the present day.”
“That’s totally bizarre,” Ralph said around a mouthful of Jell-O.
“Yeah,” Zane agreed. “But the upshot is that even if he does eventually realize we aren’t supposed to be around in that time, we’ll probably already be long gone, chasing after old Iggy Magnussen.”
James drew a breath to respond when something fluttered wildly in his ear, startling him. “What is it!?” he cried, batting at the side of his head. “Get it off!”
“Calm down,” Zane laughed. “It’s a red cupid. You’ve been marked, James. Better go find somebody to kiss.”
James stopped flailing. The paper cupid flung a red and pink paper chain around his neck and held on tight.
“What?” James exclaimed, trying to peer down at the figure on his shoulder. “No way. I don’t have a girlfriend or anything.”
“That’s the point,” Zane insisted, pushing him up from the table. “This is how you get a girlfriend.”
James’ face reddened. “But I don’t need any help in that area!”
Ralph shrugged and grinned. “Cupid disagrees.”
“What happens if I just rip it off me?”
Zane shook his head warningly. “You can’t break the spell that way, mate. They may be paper, but they’re stubborn. In five minutes, he’ll start pulling your hair out one strand at a time. After that, things will get ugly.”
James shook his head in irritation and embarrassment, allowing Zane to push him up from his seat. Glancing around the room, he saw several girls with pink hearts and cupids clinging variously to their hair, collars, and necks. He immediately looked away from them, refusing to make eye contact.
“Ohh,” Zane encouraged. “Julie Margoliss has a pink heart! She’s a senior! She could teach you a thing or two about kissing. Go for it!”
“No!” James hissed. He angled out from between the tables, keeping his eyes lowered. He tugged at the cupid, but it only renewed its grip on the paper chain around his neck. “We’ll see how you like a little hot water splashed on your chain, you little imp,” he warned, stalking toward the bathroom head down. “Just try to hang onto me when you’re soggy as a—”
He stopped suddenly as he ran into someone else, nearly knocking them both to the ground.
“James!” a girl’s voice said, surprised, and James groaned inwardly.
“Er, hi Lu,” he said, the blush on his face deepening from pink to brick red. “Sorry. Didn’t see you.”
“Me neither,” she admitted, glancing away and tugging at her shoulder. A red heart was stuck there, apparently by some sort of magical magnetism. “I was just on my way to, er…”
James saw the look of miserable embarrassment on his cousin’s face, saw her eyes as she refused to look at him.
“Hey Lu,” he said quietly, and she finally looked up at him. He took a quick breath and went on. “Sorry about the other day. I was a total berk. I should have just asked you straight up for what I needed. Can you forgive me?”
She studied his eyes for a moment and then slumped slightly. “I forgave you that very night,” she admitted shyly. “I can’t stay mad at you, no matter how hard I want to. And I really did want to.”
James glanced around the room to make sure no one was watching and then leaned close to the shorter girl. “I wasn’t trying to trick you when I asked you to go to the Halloween Dance with me, Lu,” he said earnestly. “I asked you because I knew I’d have fun with you, and I did. You had fun too, right? I didn’t mean for it to be… er… confusing.”
Lucy shook her head and dropped her eyes. “Don’t say any more, James. I’m already mortified. Just let me sneak off to the girls’ bathroom and see if I can soak this stupid heart off of me.”
James smiled sheepishly. “I was going to do the same thing,” he admitted. “I mean, not in the girls’ bathroom, though, of course. I was going to… um…” He paused, looking down at her as a completely unexpected idea occurred to him. It was probably stupid, but suddenly that didn’t seem to matter very much.
“Er,” he began, and she glanced up at him. Her eyes were huge and very dark, cautiously inquisitive. “Er,” he said again, and swallowed. “I mean, I know we’re cousins and all, but we’re not really blood or anything, like. We could maybe just…”
But suddenly Lucy was pulled away, caught up in a mass of students who pushed past, screaming and laughing.
“You lost your chance with this little Vampire, Potter,” Gobbins grinned, taking Lucy by the shoulder. “You snooze, you lose!”
With a quick messy smack, he kissed Lucy on the corner of her mouth. Immediately, the paper heart flitted up from her shoulder and darted out over the cafeteria. Lucy touched the corner of her mouth, simultaneously peeved and amused.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Lucy!” Gobbins called with a grin as he backed away. Lucy blushed and smiled, a little flustered.
James sighed deeply, his face heating. “Yeah,” he agreed somberly. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES jp-1 Page 53