“Why, I was here not long ago,” said Granddad. “George Marriott sold me a second edition of The Count of Monte Cristo. Fabulous illustrations. After all these years, that story is still my favorite.”
Pleased to have remembered to bring his favorite book, Zoé pictured her Granddad reading it in a comfy chair next to the fire in Dr. Marriott’s upstairs front room.
“Dr. Marriott says we can stay here with him. Brilliant, eh?” said Pippin with a wide smile. “Just until the pipes and gutters get sorted out at your cottage,” she added quickly.
At first Zoé had wondered if all these fabrications might be wearing Pippin down, but she’d soon realized that wasn’t the case at all: Pippin seemed to be enjoying herself immensely.
Ian clanged the knocker and the door swung open. Mrs. Prosser stuck her head out and Zoé tensed, seeing blue-tinted half-moon glasses perched halfway down her nose. “You’ll be wanting to see the professor again, is it?” said the housekeeper, not looking at them directly. “Four of you this time? Well, I never. Come in out of the rain, then.” She pointed to the goddess with a look of distaste. “That stays outside.”
“No way, I’m not leaving her out in the street,” said Zoé, refusing to be intimidated by Mrs. Prosser. “She’s too valuable.” She marched into the hallway, noticing the housekeeper eyeing the goddess warily, keeping a safe distance from it.
“Put that thing in the umbrella stand,” ordered Mrs. Prosser. “I won’t have you dripping water over the professor’s good carpets.”
Setting the goddess next to the umbrellas, Zoé felt her anxiety ratchet up a few notches. With a sigh she followed Mrs. Prosser into the room piled high with timeworn books and furnished with a threadbare rug.
“The professor will be with you momentarily,” said Mrs. Prosser, the door clicking firmly shut behind her.
“She didn’t have glasses before, did she?” Zoé whispered to Ian.
He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
“A fine collection of old books, George has,” said Granddad, wandering over to inspect the shelves. “Some of them extremely old, and most are in excellent condition.”
The three children huddled by the window, whispering to one another and gazing out at the fog.
“I never saw Mrs. Prosser wearing glasses,” said Zoé, feeling chills down her arms.
“She didn’t look us in the eye, either,” said Ian, gripping his messenger bag. “And you know what that means.”
“Well, it could mean she’s a Scraven,” said Pippin, “but maybe she’s had them glasses forever, for knitting or whatever. Or maybe she’s turned and Dr. Marriott doesn’t know. He’s afraid of Mrs. Prosser, if you ask me.”
“People don’t wear tinted glasses to knit,” argued Zoé.
Ian nodded grimly. “She’s one of the Afflicted.”
Just then the door flew open and Zoé’s heart fell to her feet. There stood Dr. Marriott—like one of those pod people was all she could think—wearing a pair of black horn-rimmed glasses with blue lenses.
“Hello, George,” said Granddad. “Nice to see you, old man.”
Dr. Marriott gave John Blackwood a curt nod, then turned to the others, not making eye contact with any of them. “I trust you’ve brought The Book of Astercôte,” he said. It almost sounded like his normal voice, but Zoé detected a slight change. “And the runestone, have you that as well, Philippa Jenkyn Thomas?”
Pippin seemed to wither for a moment, then quickly pulled herself together. “The book’s in your hallway.” She threw a sidelong glance at Zoé and Ian. “The runestone as well. Bron did a cracking job.”
Pippin guided Granddad out into the hallway, the two cousins following as Dr. Marriott breathed down Zoé’s neck.
“We can’t stay,” Zoé said as she rushed to the goddess, knocking over the umbrella stand. I’ll never let you out of my sight again, she promised Arianrhod.
“Oh no, I’m afraid I can’t let you leave—not yet,” said Dr. Marriott, briskly sidestepping the goddess. He flashed a cold smile that chilled Zoé to the core, and she felt a sudden ache of loss. She could hardly believe their trustworthy friend George Marriott had been taken over by Scravens—now he was the enemy!
“And do you know what happens next?” he said in a cracked whisper. “You will become one of us!”
“Run, guys!” shouted Ian, and they fled down the hall, Zoé brandishing the goddess at a snarling Dr. Marriott. His front teeth seemed to have grown and looked frighteningly sharp. Ian kicked the front door open as Pippin, snatching up her backpack, bundled their grandfather outside.
Oh no! thought Zoé. Granddad can’t run fast enough!
There was a high-pitched scream and Zoé froze as Mrs. Prosser leapt from the staircase, wings unfurling from her bony shoulders. Ian wheeled around with the vial and Mrs. Prosser’s taloned hand lashed out, sending it flying. Glass shattered against the wall, with waves of silvery mist engulfing them.
Sprinting out the front door with Ian, Zoé could hear Mrs. Prosser’s furious shrieks.
“Hurry!” cried Pippin, and the four stumbled into the fog.
Granddad had trouble moving quickly, so they were forced to slow down. Zoé hoisted the goddess into the air, ready to wield her against anything that threatened them.
“Do you think the mist worked?” whispered Ian. “Like maybe it paralyzed or confused them so they couldn’t come after us?”
Zoé glanced back. There was no sign of Dr. Marriott or Mrs. Prosser running down the street. “Yeah, something like that. The mist gave us time to get away! Good work, Ian.”
“Let’s head over to Bron’s cottage,” said Pippin. “Cob Lane’s not far, and Bron’s our last hope, really.”
They wound their way up the narrow cobbled path of Quay Hill, past the Tudor Merchant’s House. But as they crossed St. Julian’s Street, Zoé noticed shadows milling about on Cob Lane—and what seemed to be the glint of blue lenses.
“Scravens!” she warned.
The four of them hurried away, Ian and Pippin holding Granddad on either side. He had a look of confusion that nearly broke Zoé’s heart.
They made their way through Castle Square, following the old walls of the castle. As they neared the archway Zoé screeched to a halt, seeing a shadow step out of the mist, a gaunt shape not much taller than she was.
“There are unearthly creatures afoot in the fog,” said a splintery voice, and Zoé tightened her grip on the goddess. “You one of ’em, eh? What’ve you done with the runestone, I’d like to know? And where’s my key to the Tombs?”
Stokes! Heart pounding, Zoé stared at the man’s pitted face and oily hair, his scowling expression. Stokes wasn’t wearing glasses: a good sign. Even so, she didn’t trust him. If Stokes really is The First, she thought, we’re done for.
“Ah, Mr. Stokes,” said her grandfather. “A treat to see you, old chap.”
Stokes squinted at them. “That thing yer holdin’ looks a relic,” he rasped, pointing to the goddess. “Been plundering the tunnels again, have you?”
Zoé had no idea whether Stokes was joking or not, but before she could reply, Granddad cut in: “We’ve had a devil of a time today, Stokes, what with the storm blowing my weathervane off the roof and water problems at the cottage and people acting rather, well, strangely, to put it mildly.”
Stokes rubbed his grizzled chin. “Aye, and that’s not the half of it. The whole town’s gone mad. Another boat’s gone missing off Caldey and people I’ve knowed fer years are going off their heads. Dr. Thistle, he’s gone odd all of a sudden, lost all interest in the Black Barty exhibit.”
Zoé felt relief wash over her. If Stokes was The First, he wouldn’t be saying these things.
“What do you know about the Scravens?” she asked. Stokes struck her as the secretive type, which meant he probably knew more than he was letting on.
“I knows more than most.” Stokes gave a loud sniff. “You’re the ones, ain’t you? The word is out that
you kids took a smugglers’ tunnel to Caldey looking for a monk who’s been years dead, and you left the island with an ancient treasure. Is that so?” Not waiting for an answer, he continued, “You’re in serious danger, mates. I heard that your sorceress friend nicked a stone from the tunnels. Very old, it is, and worth a few bob. And something else you have that them Scravens are after.” There was a dry whistling intake of breath. “A puzzle, is it?”
Zoé felt her stomach drop. How on earth did Stokes know about all those things?
“Rumor has it the Scravens have orders to find you and”—Stokes hesitated, eyes darting between Zoé and the others—“well, dispose of you. Same as in the old days, when pirates and wreckers got rid of their enemies. Dead men tell no tales, as they say.”
Dispose of sounded like the kind of term the CIA would use, thought Zoé.
“Just where are you getting your information, Stokes?” demanded Pippin angrily. “Or are you making it up?”
“And don’t lie to us!” said Zoé.
“Whose side are you really on?” asked Ian.
“It’s Gawd’s truth, I swear,” said Stokes. “Dr. Thistle’s been holding secret meetings in his office. I put my ear to the keyhole and find out all sorts of int’resting things. He says you kids and Bron Gilwern are trouble, and he’s sent his minions to follow yer. Calls them Scravens, he does.”
“And who exactly goes to these secret meetings?” asked Ian, sounding dubious.
“Iris Tintern, for one. Mirielle Tate and Ned Larkin. I saw them through the keyhole,” said Stokes, counting on his fingers. “Then there’s Mrs. Owen from the bakery, Dr. Brown the optometrist, and a slew of others from Zival’s. Kids your age, too: a pie-faced girl with rhinestone glasses.”
“Catherine Beedle!” said Ian, and the three children gaped at one another.
“It’s Zival, isn’t it?” Zoé burst out. “Zival’s the one giving orders!”
“Are you discussing Dr. Zival, the new optometrist in town?” asked Granddad. “Folks say he’s got a whopper of a sign outside his shop.”
“Sounds to me like Dr. Thistle is second-in-command,” said Ian. “I bet it was Zival who told him to smash the runestone!”
Stokes rubbed his bristly jaw. “Zival weren’t at the meetings, but come to think of it, they did keep mentioning his name.…”
“I knew it!” said Zoé. “Zival’s The First!”
Pippin’s eyes flashed angrily. “All this time he’s been spying on us! I’ll wager he knows where we are this very minute.”
“We’re trying to get to Bron Gilwern’s flat on Cob Lane,” Ian told Stokes. “It’s really important that we find her, but the Scravens are all over the place and there’s no way to get there.”
“Why not ring her up?” said Stokes.
“There’s a thought,” said Pippin. “Can I borrow your cell?”
Stokes stared at her as if she had two heads. “I don’t have no cell.”
“Neither do we,” said Zoé.
“Our American cell phones don’t work here,” explained Ian. “And Granddad prefers his landline.”
“Then we need to find a telephone kiosk,” said Pippin. “One that’s not been vandalized.”
“Follow me,” said Stokes. “There’s a kiosk outside Tenby Museum—if the vandals haven’t got to that one, too.”
As they headed toward the museum, Zoé hoped Stokes wasn’t planning to charge them for finding a telephone. Remembering how he wanted to trade secrets for gold, saying everything comes at a price, she knew it was definitely the kind of thing that Stokes would do.
Minutes later, Zoé was crunched inside a red telephone kiosk between Pippin and Granddad, hugging the goddess to her chest and feeding the telephone with coins she’d collected from everyone.
At last there came the brrr-brrr, brrr-brrr of the phone on Bron’s end, and Zoé heard someone pick up.
“Bron?” said Pippin. “It’s us, Bron; Cob Lane’s cut off by Scravens and we can’t get to you! What? Oh aye, the incantation worked: the goddess weathervanes were absolutely crackin’. Scravens were all in a kerfluffle—”
As the two talked, Zoé peered through the kiosk windows at Ian and Stokes, standing as lookouts in a thick fog.
“Right, then, ten minutes.” Pippin hung up the phone and they all piled out. “We’re to meet Bron at Dragon’s Mouth. She’s certain The First will be there.”
“But Dragon’s Mouth is a sacred space!” argued Zoé. “Why would The First go to a cavern full of spells and enchantments?”
“Hold on, think of all the power and energy inside that cavern,” said Ian. “The First is probably thinking he can just go there and grab it all for himself. I bet he knows we’re going there with the puzzle, because he’s sent out his spies and they’re watching our every move.”
“No way can The First get the puzzle,” said Zoé through clenched teeth.
“Then it’s war,” said Pippin. “The battle begins.”
Ian nodded. “We fight to the death.”
“Can you take us to Dragon’s Mouth, Stokes?” asked Pippin.
“I knows the way,” he growled, “if you’re not afeard of goin’ down into the tunnels.”
“The tunnels don’t scare us,” said Ian.
Through swirling fog, Zoé glimpsed a wraithlike figure sneaking around the back of the telephone kiosk. For a fleeting moment a face appeared, blurred by the mist; then it melted away.
“It’s Catherine Beedle!” she yelled, but the girl dashed into the fog and vanished.
“Oh no,” groaned Pippin. “What if she heard us talking about Dragon’s Mouth? She’ll warn Zival and he’ll have the jump on us.” She threw up her hands. “There’s nothing for it, is there? We’ll have to take our chances.”
“I thought the town council closed the tunnel entrances,” said Granddad, looking more baffled than ever as Stokes guided them around Tenby Museum to a sturdy oak door half buried inside the building’s stone exterior.
“Aye, they have,” said Stokes in a gravelly voice. “But some of us were never much fer obeying rules, if you get my meaning.” Extracting a key ring from his pocket, he chose a medium-sized key and turned it in the lock. “Got yer torches?”
Zoé handed her flashlight to her grandfather. “Here, Granddad, I can’t carry this and the goddess, too.”
“Why on earth are we going down into the tunnels?” asked Granddad. “Shouldn’t we get a bite to eat first?”
“No need to worry, Mr. Blackwood. We won’t get into trouble,” said Pippin. “Stokes is taking us on a special tour.”
As the three children exchanged nervous looks, it was clear to Zoé that they were all thinking the same thing: this was the final battle. In Dragon’s Mouth they would confront The First and, whatever the outcome, the fate of Tenby would be determined.
“But it’s gone noon,” said Granddad, squinting at his heirloom pocket watch. “I’ve missed my elevenses.”
“Sorry, Granddad,” said Ian. “All I have is soup, but there’s no way to heat it.”
“It’s quite all right. Back during the war we went days without eating, so I expect I’ll survive.”
“Hey, I forgot about this,” said Pippin, pulling a chocolate-and-nut bar from her backpack. “Here, Mr. Blackwood, this should tide you over.”
Zoé shot Pippin a grateful smile.
“Mind how you go,” warned Stokes, opening the door. “There’s moss and weed all over them steps, and Gawd knows what else.” He laughed deep in his throat, and Zoé thought it sounded like someone gargling.
Carrying the goddess under her arm, she descended a metal ladder, freezing to the touch, straight down into what looked like an impenetrable darkness. Ian switched on his headlamp and she could see a faint glaze of moss on the walls around them.
“You okay, Granddad?” Zoé called out. “Are you warm enough?”
“Everything’s tip-top, Magpie, don’t worry about me.” Her grandfather’s words echoed back up
to her. True to his nature, Granddad seemed to be keeping his spirits high.
Stokes led them down a much more disquieting tunnel than the one they’d taken to Caldey Island, and Zoé grew increasingly uneasy, noticing how it branched out into numerous smaller tunnels. Smells all salty and seaweedy, she thought, sniffing. It’s like we’re walking under the sea again.
The juddering beam of Stokes’s flashlight cast uneven shadows on the stone walls as they moved through a labyrinth of echoing passages, each colder than the last. Zoé moved warily, afraid that at any minute a Scraven would come leaping out. Her teeth rattled noisily inside her head—at least, it seemed that way to her—as she shivered with the damp.
“The minute we get to Dragon’s Mouth, we seal the puzzle,” said Ian quietly, patting his messenger bag. “Then it’s done.”
This time Zoé didn’t object.
The passageway grew increasingly narrow, and after what seemed like endless turns and twists, Zoé thought they’d reached the end. Then she realized the tunnel was shrinking to an even smaller passage, barely wide enough for them to pass through one at a time. The ceiling was so low that Granddad had to duck his head. You’d better not be tricking us, Stokes, she thought, watching him squeeze himself through, because if you are, you’ll be sorry.
Zoé hesitated for a moment, heart thumping, staring at the dark entrance. It looked so small and constricted. Gives me the shivers, she thought. I can’t go in there. Then, holding the goddess to her chest and imagining what the Messengers would do, she stormed ahead, her thin wiry frame slipping right through. Far ahead she could see the others’ heads bobbing up and down.
She stepped into the cavern and, for a moment, felt the weight of her fears fall away. The goddess in her arms began glowing faintly. Breathless, Zoé stared at the glimmering symbols and shapes—elegant, incomprehensible—spiraling across the walls and the archway of Dragon’s Mouth.
The Glass Puzzle Page 21