The Glass Puzzle

by Christine Brodien-Jones

  Slowly, they made their way, moving as a unit down the steep staircase. Zoé stepped on something squishy and her heart knocked against her ribs: those creepy-crawlies seemed to be everywhere. At the bottom of the stairs, they entered a freezing-cold room and Zoé pulled her cape tighter over her shoulders.

  “A pantry,” said Ian, beaming his headlamp across bottles of sauces, jellies, chutneys and relishes, all labeled in Iris’s shaky handwriting. Everything looks ordinary, thought Zoé, reaching through a sticky cobweb and plucking a jar marked Gooseberry Jam off the shelf.

  “What’s that?” whispered Ian, pointing to where the room stretched back into the shadows. Across the earthen walls rippled waves of luminous green light. “Stay here, I’ll check it out. Back in a flash.”

  “Wait, Ian—” Zoé started, but he was already disappearing into the shadows.

  Watching his headlamp bobbing up and down, she thought how brave her cousin was—and suddenly she was frightened for him. She’d never forgive herself if anything happened to Ian. He was irreplaceable.

  “It’s an old wooden cabinet with water in it,” Zoé heard him say in a loud, excited whisper. She could just make out his outline in the eerie green light. “Something’s moving around! Looks like—”

  “What’s wrong?” shouted Zoé, starting to run.

  “Er, stay where you are,” said Ian, his voice thick with fear. “Don’t come any closer, guys.”

  Sliding on a wet patch, Zoé skidded into a big old wooden cabinet, the kind Iris might use for displaying wax vampire teeth and tacky souvenirs. Water splashed over the sides, along with clumps of seaweed and black snails. As Ian grabbed her arm, pulling her away, she felt a deep and sudden terror.

  “What’s in there?” she gasped.

  Judging by the look on Ian’s face, she knew it was something really scary, like a twelve-legged octopus or a giant sea worm. She broke away from her cousin’s grasp, peering into the bubbling water, feeling her breath clog in her throat. It was something else. Someone else.

  Transfixed, Zoé stared through the glass as a figure rose dreamily through the water. Tendrils of hair floated beneath a spangled hairnet, flowing in eerie slow motion around a face devoid of expression—green gashes for eyes, a lamprey mouth, needle-sharp teeth—and gills along the neck. Leathery wings rippled out and talons sprouted from the ends of its fingers.

  She felt as if her brain cells were all stuck together, making it impossible to form a coherent thought.

  “That’s Iris Tintern?” she said in a stunned voice.

  Ian nodded dully.

  “Ugh, look at her feet.” Pippin pointed to a knot of eels, curled around Iris’s mossy talons.

  “This is proof, isn’t it?” said Zoé, feeling as if she’d swallowed a lump of ice. “Scravens are real—and Iris is one of them.” Her words sounded oddly detached, as if they were coming from somewhere outside of her.

  “I keeping thinking about that movie Brides of Dracula,” said Ian. “Remember Granddad took us to see it last summer?”

  Zoé tapped on the glass. “Yeah, but Iris isn’t a vampire.”

  “She’s something worse,” said Pippin.

  “Worse than the pods left by the body snatchers,” murmured Ian. “Iris is a Scraven.”

  “Yeah, but is she The First?” said Zoé, watching the Thirteenth Piece fade to a dull blue in her hand.

  “Maybe we’re supposed to look at Iris through the glass,” said Ian. “Try it, okay? We have to be absolutely sure.”

  Hand trembling, Zoé put the glass to her eye and saw Iris grinning at her with long sharp teeth. She staggered back, nearly dropping it.

  “It’s still blue,” she croaked.

  “Maybe the water’s protecting Iris,” suggested Pippin.

  “Good point,” said Ian. “It’s possible we can’t get an accurate read because she’s floating in water and it acts as a barrier.” He studied the cabinet, making quick calculations. “Miss Glyndower said the Scravens sleep in the bottomless swamps of the Harshlands. I bet Iris comes here every night to rejuvenate—she’s used to a swampy habitat. Okay, we need to get the water out so we can get a reading.”

  Zoé nodded, reassured by the quiet authority in his voice. Gripping the edge of the cabinet, the three of them pushed, tipping it up on two legs. Stomach heaving, Zoé watched Iris float to the top, water bubbling out of her froglike nostrils.

  “Steady,” said Ian.

  Gritting her teeth, Zoé pushed again, giving a stifled scream as Iris’s eyes flew open.

  “She’s waking up!” cried Pippin.

  “Don’t look into her eyes!” shouted Zoé, remembering all the late-night horror movies she’d ever seen.

  “Almost there,” puffed Ian.

  The cabinet weighed a ton. Water sloshed over the sides, giving off a hypnotic light; then suddenly they let go all at once and the cabinet righted itself, the lid flying open.

  The Thirteenth Piece was glowing faintly. So I guessed wrong, thought Zoé. Iris is just an ordinary Scraven.

  Two talons shot out of the water and into the air as a strange archaic shape rose out of the glass cabinet. Clutching one another, Zoé and Ian and Pippin recoiled in fright. Dripping black snails and seaweed, Iris Tintern swayed in the glimmering darkness, her shadow filling the room.

  Zoé threw the vial as Iris lurched forward. It smashed against the floor, sending waves of mist swirling around them. Screaming in unison, the three children bolted, Zoé tripping over her cape, running up the stairs as fast as their legs could take them.

  Through torrential rain, Zoé and Ian made their way to meet Pippin outside the apothecary the next morning, leaving Granddad by the fire reading The Count of Monte Cristo.

  “Bron will have my head, she will,” moaned Pippin as they crowded under Granddad’s big umbrella. “There’ll be blood on the moon when she finds out her key’s stuck in the back door of Iris Tintern’s café.”

  “Wasn’t your fault,” said Zoé. She found it hard to imagine a cool character like Bron losing her temper. “The key was a dud.”

  “I wonder if all the Afflicted are sleeping in watery places,” said Ian. “Iris Tintern can’t be the only one. Makes sense, right?”

  “Gives me the collywobbles just thinkin’ of it,” said Pippin with a shiver.

  “I’ve never seen anything so awful in my life,” agreed Zoé, haunted by the image of Iris rising out of the murky water.

  Soaked to the skin, they marched up to Dr. Marriott’s house, where Zoé lifted the knocker, letting it fall against the lacquered door.

  “Ye-eees?” warbled Mrs. Prosser, blinking her watery eyes. Zoé was relieved to see she wasn’t wearing glasses, tinted or otherwise.

  “We’d like to speak with Dr. Marriott,” said Ian. “It’s urgent.”

  Mrs. Prosser shook her head. “I’m afraid the professor isn’t seeing visitors at the moment. He has a dreadful head cold.”

  “We have to see him, he’s expecting us,” insisted Zoé, infuriated by the way Mrs. Prosser was so overly protective of Dr. Marriott.

  “We’ll keep our distance if he sneezes,” said Pippin, but Mrs. Prosser was already closing the door.

  “Who’s out there, Mrs. Prosser?” wheezed a voice, and Ian grabbed the door before it shut.

  “Dr. Marriott, Dr. Marriott!” shouted Zoé, peering around Mrs. Prosser to see their friend ambling down the hallway in sheepskin slippers and flannel robe, a watch cap pulled over his bald head. She thought she could smell lemon cough drops.

  Tugging at the scarf wrapped around his neck, the professor broke into a smile and welcomed them in. Moments later they were sitting inside a second-floor room overlooking Tenby Harbor—the upstairs front room, Dr. Marriott called it—with a coal fire crackling in the hearth.

  “Now then, bring me up to date,” he said in a throaty voice, prodding the coals with a wrought-iron poker. “Have you found the runestone?”

  Before anyone could say a word, Mrs.
Prosser charged through the doorway with a tray of tea and cakes. Zoé could tell by her stilted movements and sharp tone that she was annoyed.

  “I’m not one to pass judgment, Professor,” said the housekeeper with a stern look, “but you’re in no state to entertain visitors.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Prosser, I quite understand, but I’ve my reasons for allowing these young guests in, so let’s leave it at that, shall we?” Dr. Marriott eased himself into an oversized leather chair, reminding Zoé of Granddad. “Would you mind pouring the tea, Mrs. Prosser?”

  Mrs. Prosser doled out four cups of tea with an indignant sniff, then stormed out. Seeing Dr. Marriott wince, Zoé wondered if the professor might be a little afraid of his housekeeper.

  “Help yourselves, my friends,” he said. “Mrs. Prosser makes a mean Welsh cake, I guarantee.”

  Ian and Pippin grinned at Zoé and she knew they were all thinking the same thing: That’s because she is mean!

  The tea was stewed and had a bitter taste, but Zoé thought the Welsh cakes were superb. Munching away, the three took turns telling Dr. Marriott about the runestone, landing on the wrong side of the wall in Wythernsea (which sent him into a coughing fit), their mission to locate The First, finding the Thirteenth Piece on Caldey Island and, most dramatic of all, their horrific encounter with Iris.

  Zoé watched Dr. Marriott’s face turn a sickly white. “Iris Tintern, floating inside a glass cabinet? Positively chilling. However, given the fact that Scravens dwell in the deep waters of the Harshlands, I am not surprised. I’ve no doubt that all the other Afflicted in Tenby have also found dark, swampy places to sleep.”

  “I knew it,” said Zoé, biting into another cake. “Didn’t I tell you guys a hundred times? Scravens are down in the tunnels where it’s real clammy and wet, and in the underground streams, too. I bet the Afflicted are sleeping down there.”

  “But that’s not our main worry, is it?” said Ian. “We need to identify The First! We’ve eliminated Iris, so … who could it be?” He stared into his tea as if it might hold the answer.

  The cakes were nearly gone and Zoé, noticing that Pippin had piled up four on her saucer, grabbed two more. Dr. Marriott sat gazing into the fire, his thoughts far away, until at last he appeared to remember the three children were there.

  “The First will be someone out of the ordinary,” he told them. “The First will choose to inhabit someone aloof and distant, perhaps a bit enigmatic, who doesn’t mingle on a daily basis with the average citizen.”

  “I’m racking me brains,” mused Pippin, “but I can’t think who it could be.”

  “Stokes chased us down the tunnel and swore at us,” said Zoé. “Then there’s Zival. They’re both strange characters. And I don’t trust Stokes,” she added darkly.

  “But Zival works with the public,” said Ian, “and so does Stokes.”

  “Yeah, but Stokes keeps a low profile,” argued Zoé. “And nobody even knows what Zival looks like, which is pretty weird.”

  Opening a box of cough drops, Dr. Marriott popped one into his mouth. “Sounds as if both these chaps are viable candidates for The First. I know Stokes by sight—bit of a slippery sort—and there’ve been disturbing rumors about Zival the optometrist.”

  “I think Zival’s The First,” said Zoé, swallowing her last bit of Welsh cake. “Remember the prophetic writings in the tunnels that Bron told us about? ‘Beware the Measurer of Sight … moving unseen through Tenby.’ ” Goose bumps went up and down her arms as she recited the words.

  “I vote for Zival,” said Ian. “It fits. Optometrists measure sight.” He threw Zoé a grim smile. “Maybe it’s time to go for an eye exam.”

  Zoé shivered, despite the warm fire.

  The door cracked open and Mrs. Prosser angled her head into the room. “Time for your medicine, Professor. And time for you children to go home. Dr. Marriott is not a well man.”

  “Yes, of course, Mrs. Prosser,” said Dr. Marriott. “A few minutes and they’ll be on their way.”

  Mrs. Prosser tapped her watch. “I’ll be timing you.”

  “The Runestone of Arianrhod,” said Dr. Marriott as the door clicked shut. “You’re saying the Astercôtes put a spell on the stone?”

  “Miss Glyndower said they needed to protect it,” explained Ian. “They didn’t want anyone reading the incantation.”

  “Bron Gilwern has it now,” said Pippin. “If anyone can fix it, she can.”

  “As I mentioned at our last meeting, there’s a chapter in The Book of Astercôte about the runestone,” said Dr. Marriott, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Perhaps the book would be of use to your friend Bron.”

  “You mean … we can borrow your special book?” said Pippin.

  “That would really be helpful,” said Ian.

  “Certainly you may take it. Just look after it, that’s all I ask. The book is, as you know, irreplaceable.”

  “We won’t let it out of our sight,” promised Zoé.

  Looking more rumpled and ill than ever, Dr. Marriott stood up, dabbing his swollen nose with a handkerchief. “Take care, whatever happens, and good luck with your endeavors to find this blackguard Zival. And should you fall into trouble, don’t hesitate to knock on my door. I’ll be here for you.”

  That is, if Mrs. Prosser lets us in, thought Zoé, trying not to giggle. Yet she knew he meant every word of it: Dr. George Marriott was a true friend.

  Zoé, Ian and Pippin stood in line for nearly an hour outside Zival’s Optical Shop before they were allowed inside. Since Pippin lived in Wales and was on the National Health Insurance, she was the logical choice to request an eye exam.

  The three sat in a dark, airless waiting room overflowing with people of all ages, and Pippin was told to take a number. Zoé was tempted to whip out the Thirteenth Piece and sneak looks at everyone, but she knew it was too risky. Instead she held the glass inside her fist. I wonder if it knows things, she thought, remembering Granddad saying there was old memory in glass.

  At last Pippin’s number was called and they rushed to the front desk, where a pinch-faced man with rectangular blue-tinted glasses stood holding a clipboard. “Philippa Jenkyn Thomas?”

  “Aye, that’s me. Are you Dr. Zival?”

  “I’m Dr. Brown,” he replied, staring at them as if they were insects he wanted to squash.

  Zoé experienced a sudden burst of nervous energy as the glass seemed to beat like a tiny heart inside her fist. Staring down at the floor, she thought, Watch out, we’re in enemy territory.

  “Dr. Zival has gone to Caldey Island at the behest of the monks,” Dr. Brown continued, “so Dr. Davies and I are doing eye examinations today. We’re both highly qualified optometrists.”

  “I’d like Dr. Zival to do the exam, if that’s okay,” insisted Pippin.

  “Then you’ll have to come another day,” said Dr. Brown, pushing aside a strand of lank hair.

  “When is he coming back?” asked Pippin.

  “I really can’t say. Dr. Zival comes and goes when he pleases, so there’s no telling when that will be.”

  Zoé threw a fierce look at Dr. Brown—she was sure he was lying—but he ignored her. Zival’s the one, she thought, and these guys are covering for him.

  Zival, she knew with absolute certainty, was The First.

  Sitting cross-legged on the attic floor, Zoé and Ian sorted through the puzzle pieces as morning light flooded through the window. Without warning, the door flew open and they both jumped.

  “Good news!” announced Pippin, standing in the doorway, arms clasped around the runestone. “Bron used The Book of Astercôte to unlock the spell! Took her half the night, but she says we can read the incantation now.”

  “Superlative,” said Ian. “Bron’s a genius.”

  “I wish Bron could come with us,” said Zoé wistfully. “Are you ready for this, Pippin? The Harrowers’ Expedition is about to roll.” She loved the label harrower that Bron had given them. It had a medieval ring, spic
ed with a hint of adventure.

  “Your granddad said I’d find you up here,” said Pippin, handing the runestone to Zoé. “I said, ‘We’re playing a board game and we’ll be a rather long time,’ and he was fine with that. He was talking away with a posh lady in a fur coat, then this gothic twosome showed up wanting directions to the train station.”

  “Granddad loves talking with people,” said Zoé, “even when he’s not feeling well. He’s a real conversationalist.”

  “Granddad has the gift of the gab,” added Ian, handing a flashlight to Pippin.

  Zoé noticed that Pippin’s hand looked a bit grubby and her shirt had stains and the sleeve was torn. She wondered what Pippin’s life was like on a day-to-day basis, because there were times when Pippin seemed sad and secretive.

  “Based on our past two visits, I’ve calculated that three hours in Wythernsea equals fifteen minutes of our time here,” said Ian. “If we leave at ten o’clock this morning and stay there six hours, we’ll be back in Tenby by ten-thirty. Then we’ll seal the puzzle.”

  Zoé felt her heart crumple: she couldn’t bear the thought of losing her friends and never seeing Wythernsea again.

  “What about the Tenby Scravens, eh?” asked Pippin.

  “We’ll deal with them when we get back,” said Zoé, though secretly she wondered if Miss Glyndower’s magic was a bit antiquated. “First let’s deliver the runestone.”

  “Our timing’s perfect,” said Ian as they began assembling the puzzle. “We were last in Wythernsea three days ago and today’s June twenty-first, the longest day of the year, when Miss Glyndower said the Scravens would be most vulnerable.”

  As the last piece slotted in, Zoé wrapped her arms around the runestone, feeling the invisible power of the puzzle drawing her into its shimmering depths. Her breath caught, the way it always did, as her gaze fell on the circle of blue glass swirling with mystical light, an image of a dragon rising from the center.

  The first thing Zoé saw, through swathes of dark smoke, was the Wythernsea wall. Relief flooded through her: this time they’d managed to land on the right side. The wall was still standing, although more sections had fallen; drab-coated workers were shoveling rubble and sods of earth into the gaps.