by Kaleb Nation
"Adi Copplestone!" Sewey straightened his suit. "It is most unprofessional to take leave from work without first informing those who are in charge—namely me. For uncountable days I’ve slaved to find what twelve times twenty is, and I didn’t have an assistant to figure it out for me!"
Adi merely stood there, looking at him with a smile on her face. She offered no explanation, but then she reached out, took his hand, and gave it a good, strong shake.
"Two hundred and forty, Mr. Wilomas," she said. "And a very good Banker’s Assistant Holiday to you as well."
She then lifted Sewey’s hand, and in it she placed a single, used bullet shell.
"I brought you a souvenir," she told him, with a glance at Astara. When the fires at the bookstore had been put out, and they had gone to salvage Astara’s things, they had found it on the floor next to where Adi had been: the bullet stopped by Astara, saving Adi’s life.
Sewey blinked at the bullet, aghast with wide eyes. "Banker’s Assistant Holiday?"
He was thoroughly startled. Finally he spluttered, coughed, and spun on his heels.
"Bah!" he said to Bran, and he climbed into the car and closed the door, and just sat there. Bran was still, but Astara came to him.
"Come on, Bran," she said, and he followed her. It was warm and quiet, and as Bran walked, he heard the leaves crackling underneath his feet. When they were deep in the woods, Astara unwrapped Polland, who came tumbling out and was back to normal in a flash, coughing for breath. He brushed himself off and hastily drew the hood of his jacket over the top of his hatless head. He was being extra careful that day.
"You look so much shorter without your…" Bran said, intentionally letting his voice trail off.
"Harumph," Polland huffed. The whole forest smelled alive: so different from last time. When they reached the headstone, he bent in front of it and read the words to himself. Sunlight shone through a crack in the trees, casting shadows on the etchings. Everything was still.
"I’m ready," he said, and Astara handed him a small garden shovel. Bran dug a hole a few inches deep in front of the stone, then took the three parts of his mother’s letter from his pocket.
"…and in return your promise will have been kept, for saving the life of a Hambric I value more than my own," Bran read the end, coming to his mother’s name at the bottom.
"You kept your promise, Shambles," Bran whispered.
Polland handed him a pen. Very slowly, Bran moved it across the bottom of the page, signing his name next to his mother’s. When he finished, he paused, and as an afterthought, he moved the pen again, adding the small shape of a moon right above his name, just as his mother had done. Then he folded the three pieces up, dropped them into the hole, and quietly covered them up.
"It is finished," Bran said quietly, and Adi put her arm around his shoulders.
"You are very brave," she said, holding him tightly. "Your mother loved you enough to leave the Farfield Curse unfinished, and anyone who can love so much to risk her own life could never have been evil to the end."
"No, she couldn’t have," Bran said. He touched the necklace. It felt warm again, as if the part of his mother that had been good was there to comfort his soul. He had told them everything—the only ones who knew the truth of his past, and what had happened with Baslyn.
"We’ve got a surprise for you," Adi said. Polland held out a package. Bran looked at it, then to Polland, taken aback. Polland insisted, so Bran took it.
"Well, open it!" Polland burst, and Bran tore it apart. Under the paper was a painting.
It was in most startling colors Bran had ever seen. In the picture was the chair, and Polland was sitting in it, his feet pushed against the armrests, and in front of him was the fireplace, the glow from it playing on his features. Behind him was the window, rain pouring outside and the cotch nailed to the wall beside it. Sitting next to Polland’s chair was Bran. It was so real,
he knew instantly what it was—a picture of when he had first come to Adi’s house, the night when he had learned the truth about his past. He reached forward to touch it, and when he brushed his fingers against the chair, he could feel the softness of it, just as if he was there again.
"It’s the Friendship Gift," Bran whispered. "Just like you promised."
Polland nodded proudly, and Bran looked up at him, then Adi, then Astara, unable to say a word. It was a Friendship Gift— and they were his friends.
Before he could thank them or say anything else, he heard a loud crunching sound, and they all froze. All of a sudden, Sewey tore through the brush, stumbling into the clearing.
"Bran!" he burst with exasperation. "Whatever is taking so—"
All of a sudden, his eyes fell on Polland, and he stopped with his mouth open.
"A beard?" Sewey said, blinking. "You look rather small…"
No one said a word. Bran looked to Adi, unsure of what to do.
"In fact," Sewey went on, narrowing his eyes, "one might even confuse you with a gnome! "
"What nerve!" Polland burst.
Sewey jumped with a terrified expression. "Eek!" he gasped, curling away. "It speaks!"
"Of course I speak!" Polland said, crossing his arms. "And what an assertion!" He hesitated, but then threw the hood of the jacket off to expose the top of his head. "Look there!" he said. "No hat!"
"Goodness, you’re right!" Sewey said with horror. "That’s the baldest head I’ve ever seen!"
Polland went red, and Sewey spluttered.
"In all my life, I have never seen a balder head!" Sewey gasped. "My goodness, two hundred and forty apologies about the gnome business, small, bald sir!"
"Apology accepted," Polland said, and he hesitated, but then reached his hand out.
"My name is Polland," he said, and Sewey looked at the hand, stretched up in his face. He twisted his mouth around curiously, but finally reached out and shook it.
"Mr. Wilomas," Sewey said, giving it a good strong shake, and Bran realized that Sewey had broken his rule: he had shaken hands with a gnome, without even knowing it. They all looked at each other, and suddenly started laughing simply because they couldn’t hold it in. For the first time in a long while, Bran’s soul was happy once more.
Sewey twisted his face up, looking at them as if they were insane.
"Well then," he said. "Now that this ridiculous trip is over, it’s time to go home."
Bran told everyone good-bye, and as the car drove off, he saw his friends waving back at him.
When he and Sewey arrived home, the sun had cast a golden glow all across Bolton Road. Mabel and the children were out shopping. Needless to say, there was no Megamus Maximus and no elephant, though Mabel had a great deal of new medicine bottles, and cabinets lining the walls to store them. Sewey made a beeline for his office. Bran went up to the attic and hung the Friendship Gift over his bed; it looked as if it had been meant for that place all the time, right next to the picture of him and Rosie.
"Good thing it’s all over," Bran said to himself, sitting on his bed. Fatigue from all that had happened was finally beginning to set in. He was looking forward to some much-needed rest.
He was settling down when suddenly Sewey shouted for him to come downstairs—so he did, as much as it irked him. When he got to the landing, he was shocked to see that Sewey had changed clothes. Now, he was dressed up in camouflage pants and a vest, with a dark hat on his head and a fishing pole with no string in his hand.
"What the rot are you doing upstairs?" Sewey griped. "We have serious business to attend to."
"More?" Bran said with dismay. "Haven’t we had enough of that?"
"Hardly," Sewey nodded solemnly. "I’ve realized that since Rosie’s gone, and I’ve got my inheritance, and gnome burglars are burning the bank down, there’s only one thing left to do."
He tapped the pole on the floor. "We’re are off gnome-hunting before my fortnight is over."
Bran couldn’t think of anything to say. Sewey still didn’t get it.
&
nbsp; "But wait," Sewey said, narrowing his eyes with a sudden, puzzled expression. "You don’t think they’ve skipped town, do you?"
Bran was aghast, but then, a smile crossed his face as he looked at Sewey’s ridiculous costume. He didn’t say anything, but simply turned around and went back up to his room, leaving a very befuddled Sewey Wilomas behind.
Epilogue
The judge Pounded his gavel, and Mr. Rat awoke from his sleep. He looked about groggily. Everyone in the courtroom was staring at him, and the judge cleared his throat.
"As I was saying!" the judge barked. "You have been charged with multiple counts of attempt to sell magic objects, as well as indecency in public: namely, your attempt to sell these magic papers at our city’s own Twoo’s Day celebration! And you have pled not guilty." He gave a snort. "Now that the city’s prosecutors have spent the last eight hours proving your ultimate guilt, we will give you five minutes to convince us otherwise, or hopefully confess so we can get to our dinners."
The judge picked up a plastic bag that was next to him, in which were two pens and a stack of papers. He sniffed them and then held the bag out with disgust.
"You can start by explaining where you got these hideous, blasphemous objects!" the judge said, and he quickly handed them to an officer. He reached for some disinfectant and washed his hands with it, then graced the air with some Mage-Be-Gone spray. That finished, he looked down at Mr. Rat with strong eyes—so deeply that Mr. Rat felt as if he might melt under them.
"Well?" the judge growled. "We’re waiting…"
Mr. Rat gulped and looked about the room, his shackles and chains rattling as he moved. All around him were faces, and each held stony contempt. They practically wanted to eat him alive.
"Please officers, judge, jury!" Mr. Rat began, trembling. "I found those in someone’s house!"
The judge choked. "You mean you took these items from the house of another Duncelander?"
Mr. Rat’s head bobbed up and down. "That I did! Came to the house, slipped through the doggy door, took some silverware, then I heard a noise…so I ran upstairs."
"What sort of noise?" the judge asked.
"A…a noise like a very tiny man, walking down the hall," Mr. Rat stammered.
"Like a gnome?" the judge pressed.
Mr. Rat’s head bobbed again. "Right it was, sir!" he said. He put his hands out. "So I run up the stairs, see, down the hall, through the door, into the office," he said quickly. "I was scared for me life, I was, and I tried hiding behind the desk."
"Desk?" the judge said.
Mr. Rat nodded. "I was leaning against the wall," he said, "and all of a sudden, it gave a lurch! The bookshelf moved, so I pulled, and there it was: a door to a stairway!"
"Stairway?" the judge echoed.
"Right, sir," Mr. Rat said. "So I runs into the room beyond, then I hears the noise, the little man, coming behind me. So I says to meself, ‘I can’t break into this house for nothing!’ so I took some papers off the desk, and some pens next to it, and slid out the window by the drainpipe."
The judge stared at him. Mr. Rat stared back.
"You…did all this," the judge said, blinking, "and then you slid down the drainpipe?"
"Yes, sir, that’s what," Mr. Rat assured him. "’Twas not till later when I was addin’ how much the two forks and spoon I’d taken from the kitchen was worth that I found what the papers did."
"Hmm…" the judge said. "So you didn’t make the papers magic?"
"No, sir, I didn’t!" Mr. Rat said assuredly. "But I know, I knows for sure who it was. Sure as day, I always know who owns the house before I break in."
"And who, pray tell," the judge waved his fingers, "did this house of the magic papers belong to?"
Mr. Rat swallowed. He looked about the room, and he could feel them all leaning forward, waiting to hear what he was about to say.
"It was…" he began, and he swallowed again. "It was Adi Copplestone’s house!"
All of a sudden, the entire room burst out in a roar of laughter. The police, the audience, even Mr. Rat’s own lawyer. The judge was laughing so hard, he started to pound his fist on the desk.
"That’s the best one I’ve heard in years!" The judge chuckled. "Adi Copplestone! The most respectable woman in all of Dunce, a mage! " He took a deep breath. "Obviously, you are not a mage, but simply stupid: and in return for this rotten comedy, I hereby sentence you to a fortnight of community service, scrubbing the walls of the Dunce Sewer System!" He beat his gavel on the desk like a drum. "It is so ordered!" he said, and he stumbled away as the crowd continued to laugh.
Mr. Rat trembled and shook. Two officers approached him and something was shoved into his hands. He jerked his gaze down to see what they had given him.
In one hand was a bucket of soapy water. In the other, a sponge.
"Oh, no…" he moaned, but the officers gave a tug on his arm, and Mr. Rat was hauled from the courtroom.
Acknowledgments
In writing this book, many people have helped tremendously, and without each of them it would never have been possible.
Dad: still the Great Idea Giver.
Mom: for forcing me to write one page a week when I was nine, in spite of my protests.
Jaden, Maddi, Blaise, and Avery: for being the first to read any of it, and for not disowning me when I took Mrs. Tubtom out.
Carol Teltschick-Fall: for actually suffering through editing my first drafts, again and again and again.
Brendan Forsling: for ripping my story to bits so we could sew it back together without any holes.
Sarah Brown, Catherine and Anna Biewer, Mr. and Mrs. Forsling, and everyone else who read the endless stream of drafts.
Rachul Gensburg, Becka Grapsy, and Lauren Suero: for being my pro-bono publicists, and my brains after one a.m.
Michael Gaudet: for helping polish my grungy rock of a story into something shiny.
Lyron Bennett: for believing in a new teenage writer and the story I had to tell.
Daniel Ehrenhaft and the Sourcebooks team: for all your hard work and dedication to making this book the best it could be.
And last but certainly not least, thanks to my agent, Richard Curtis: for making my dreams a reality.
About the Author
Kaleb Nation
On the third night of the third month of 2003, fourteen-yearold Kaleb Nation suddenly imagined a boy and a banker on a roof, waiting for a burglar to come. From that original idea was born the story of Bran Hambric, a novel that would take most of Kaleb’s teenage years to write.
Aside from writing, Kaleb is a blogger and a former radio host. He turned twenty in 2008 and currently lives in Texas.
Visit Kaleb online at www.kalebnation.com.
About the Illustrator
Brandon Dorman
Brandon currently lives near Mt. Rainier with his wonderful wife, Emily, and their two boys. He loves to eat nachos, string cheese, and once ate a pig’s eyeball. Since graduating from Brigham Young University–Idaho in 2005, Brandon has created over 400 illustrations for books and magazines. Please visit him at www.brandondorman.com.
Table of Contents
Cover
Prologue
Part I
Chapter 1 - Strange Happenings on Bolton Road
Chapter 2 - Chasing Shadows In the Dark
Chapter 3 - The Creature and His Master
Chapter 4 - The Note in the Grass
Chapter 5 - The Man, the Van, and Dan
Chapter 6 - Secret Letters
Chapter 7 - Sewey Wilomas Versus the Oncoming Train
Chapter 8 - The Duncelander Fair
Chapter 9 - The Box in the Bookstore
Chapter 10 - Inside the Hidden Room
Chapter 11 - Another Burglary
Chapter 12 - The Telephone Call
Part II
Chapter 13 - Burglars on Third Street
Chapter 14 - The man at the Tavern
Chapter 15 - The Name on the Necklace
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br /> Chapter 16 - A Path in the Woods
Chapter 17 - Noises in the Kitchen
Chapter 18 - The Man beneath the House
Chapter 19 - The House on Hadnet Lane
Chapter 20 - The Gnome in the Home
Chapter 21 - A Room behind the Bookshelf
Chapter 22 - The Truth
Chapter 23 - The Face in the Mirrors
Part III
Chapter 24 - The Girl from the Alley
Chapter 25 - Lopsis Volgitix
Chapter 26 - The Good-Bye
Chapter 27 - The Escape of Rosie Tuttle
Chapter 28 - The Garage
Chapter 29 - Inside the Black Van
Chapter 30 - Fire and Books
Part IV
Chapter 31 - Into the City
Chapter 32 - The Spirit Awakens
Chapter 33 - The Farfield Curse
Chapter 34 - The Battle on Farfield Tower
Chapter 35 - Clarence
Chapter 36 - The Grave of Emry Hambric
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Illustrator