by Lissa Evans
The camera tilted way down, as if it were filming a beetle crawling on the ground, and Stuart looked up at it, no longer half embarrassed, but totally, completely and utterly embarrassed.
‘I wasn’t a museum-hating vandal,’ he said. ‘It was an accident.’
‘So, Stuart, what happened when you found the workshop?’ asked Rowena, talking to him as if he were a toddler.
‘Well, me and my friend April saw that there was a notice board on the base of the bandstand, and we realized it was a bit loose, and when we looked behind it we realized there was a huge room underneath us …’
As Stuart told the non-magic version of the story, Rowena did a lot of nodding, but he got the feeling she wasn’t really listening. Looking up at her was making his neck ache, so he dropped his gaze and saw the small dog sidling round the edge of the Fan of Fantasticality.
‘And then,’ he continued, ‘I turned a wheel which I thought would open a door, and instead of that, the whole middle of the bandstand started to sink, and sudden—’
The man with the beard and the headphones started tapping his watch and signalling to Rowena.
‘Wow!’ said Rowena, interrupting Stuart in the middle of a word. ‘That’s incredible. Now let’s talk to the chief curator of the museum, Rod Felton.’ She walked past Stuart to where Rod Felton had been positioned in front of the opened Fan of Fantasticality.
‘So, Rod, tell me the impact that having these fabulous items has had on your museum.’
‘Well, Rowena,’ said Rod, ‘it’s certainly an exciting find, one that’s going to keep our summer programme ticking along nicely – but perhaps we should ask a visitor. Oh look!’ he added, with obviously fake surprise. ‘Here’s one you could speak to!’ He gestured rather woodenly to his left, just as Stuart’s father walked round the side of the fan.
‘Oh no,’ muttered Stuart, wanting to crawl into a hole at the thought of his father on television.
Rowena shot a puzzled look at her producer, and then managed a professional smile. ‘Good morning, sir,’ she said. ‘Can you tell us what you think of this exhibition?’
‘I would classify it as both serendipitous and recherché,’ replied Stuart’s father.
Rowena’s smiled slipped a bit. ‘I think what our viewers want to know is whether you enjoyed it or not.’
‘An unequivocal affirmative to the former. But I am also ardently anticipating the forthcoming opportunity for examining our present conurbation in its pre-Saxon context.’
Rowena gawped at him. ‘You what?’ she asked.
‘Aha!’ said Rod Felton, stepping forward. ‘You must mean the Roman Beeton exhibition, opening here at Beeton Museum in ten days’ time – Tuesdays to Sundays ten a.m. to six p.m., except on Wednesdays when we close at three. Packed with interest for both the expert and the beginner! See you there!’ He smiled and waved at the camera, resting one foot, in a relaxed sort of fashion, on the edge of the Fan of Fantasticality.
There was a loud doinggg, the fan snapped shut, and Rod Felton flew sideways through the air and knocked over Rowena Allsopp.
May Kingley’s camera flashed.
‘CUT!’ shouted the producer. ‘CUT! CUT! CUT! BACK TO THE STUDIO! Are you all right, Rowena?’ he added, running forward.
‘No I am not!’ shrieked Rowena, struggling to her feet and dusting herself down. ‘In my entire professional career I have never taken part in such a fiasco. Children who won’t shut up, adults who talk total gibberish, amateurs who try to take over my interview, and now a vicious attack by a dangerous machine, all on live TV and watched by my millions of fans. And I’ve broken a nail and’ – she frowned down at herself – ‘and there’s something on my jacket. Something wet. And there’s a … a puddle on the floor just where I fell.’
Everyone looked down at the small puddle. Then everyone looked over at the small dog.
Rowena screamed.
‘I am so, so sorry,’ said Rod Felton.
‘You will be,’ said Rowena hysterically. ‘The whole of the Midlands has just seen me land, live, in a pool of dog urine. Apologies aren’t good enough. I’m going to call my lawyer and get this entire museum shut down!’
STUART AND THE triplets stood in the corridor outside Rod Felton’s office and listened to the row going on inside. Phrases like ‘personal injury liability’ and ‘health and safety inspection’ were being shouted really loudly. June was doing a lot of scribbling in her notebook. Stuart’s dad had wandered off to the bookshop.
‘They can’t actually close the place down, can they?’ whispered April.
One by one the camera crew trailed past them, lugging their equipment towards the entrance. The last one to leave was the teenage boy, balancing a column of coffee cups. A couple of metres behind him came the small dog. It was brown and white with a pointed muzzle and very short legs.
‘Shoo,’ said the teenage boy, turning. ‘Go home.’
‘Isn’t it yours?’ asked Stuart.
The boy shook his head. ‘It followed us in. Must be a stray.’
The dog paused uncertainly, and Stuart watched as it turned and trotted back into the exhibition room. Something was tugging at his memory.
At the same moment the door to the office was wrenched open, and Rowena Allsopp stalked out, followed by Rod Felton, who had turned a bit pale.
He looked down at Stuart and April. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘er … we’ve reached a useful compromise. Rowena won’t sue us for criminal injuries and personal humiliation if we immediately close down the magic exhibition and replace it with a temporary display of her favourite outfits from Midlands at Midday. We’ve also agreed to stock copies of her brand-new biography, Rowena’s Way, in the museum shop, as well as placing a full-size cardboard cut-out of her just by the till.’
Stuart and April turned to watch Rowena leave the building, the main door crashing shut behind her. ‘On a brighter note,’ added Rod Felton, ‘she’s agreed to come and open the Roman Beeton exhibition, which should get us quite a lot of publicity. She’s going to combine it with a book-signing.’
‘But what about Great-Uncle Tony’s tricks?’ asked Stuart indignantly. ‘Where are they going to go?’
‘Yes, you’ve put your finger on a slight problem,’ admitted Rod. ‘Our storeroom’s pretty full at the moment. I wonder if one of the larger regional museums might take them until we’ve got some free space again. I’ll start making some phone calls.’ He went back into the office.
Stuart looked at April. ‘What are we going to do?’ he asked. ‘If they end up in a warehouse in Birmingham or somewhere, we’ll never get to see them.’
‘Let me think for five seconds …’ said April, screwing her eyes tight shut. ‘Perhaps we could—’
‘A petition!’ announced one of her sisters.
‘What?’ asked April, opening her eyes again. ‘What are you on about, June?’
‘Save Beeton’s Magical Heritage,’ said June, making every word sound weighty and important. ‘It’s precisely the sort of thing the Beech Road Guardian should be doing. It’s a matter of civic pride. We can print up a special edition – with photographs,’ she added, looking at May, who nodded eagerly. ‘And I’ve got an idea for temporary storage of the magical tricks.’
‘What is it?’ asked Stuart, feeling left out.
June held up her hand like a traffic policewoman. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘First I need to put down my thoughts while they’re fresh in my mind.’ She turned to a clean page in her notebook and started to write.
‘And I’ve got some brilliant photographs of the whole dog-wee incident,’ announced May, beaming.
April nudged Stuart. ‘Shall we let them get on with it?’ she whispered.
He nodded, but distractedly.
‘What’s up?’ she asked.
‘I’ve just remembered something,’ he said, and walked quickly back to the exhibition room.
The dog was sitting on the bronze throne of the Reappearing Rose Bower, curled in
a neat circle. It raised its ears as Stuart approached.
‘What have you remembered?’ asked April, catching up.
‘I’ve seen this dog before. When I was in the desert, just as I’d managed to piece the pyramid back together, I caught a glimpse of it.’
‘This dog? This actual dog?’
‘I think so. And in Great-Uncle Tony’s message it said that he’d ‘lost an old pal’, and pal means friend, doesn’t it? So I’m wondering if this is who he meant. I mean, we haven’t seen any people, have we?’ The dog lifted its head and regarded them with anxious brown eyes.
‘But in that case, how did it get out of the pyramid and into our world?’ asked April, and then she clapped a hand to her mouth, her eyes wide.
‘What?’ asked Stuart.
‘I’ve just remembered something too. When I was in the Arch of Mirrors, after I shouted all that useful advice to you about choosing the right reflection, the lights started to dim, and I could feel myself being sort of pulled back to the museum. And just as it got completely dark I heard something behind me. A clicking noise. Like little toenails on a hard floor, following me back to the real world …’
They both looked at the dog, and after a moment it twitched its tail in a half-greeting.
Stuart reached out and gave it a cautious pat, and it wagged its tail harder and craned round to sniff at his fingers. It occurred to Stuart that the last person to pat this dog had been Great-Uncle Tony. Its coat was warm and wiry.
‘I’ve never had a dog,’ he said. ‘Only goldfish.’
‘Stuart,’ said April tentatively. ‘Sorry to change the subject and all that, but since we’ve got a bit of time here, do you think we ought to make the most of it? After all, there’s still three spokes of the star left. And that must mean three more clues – three more letters to find.’
Stuart felt in his pocket and took out the awkward little metal object. The next place it would fit was the throne of the Reappearing Rose Bower.
‘You know we can’t both go on this one …’ he said.
April nodded. She clasped her hands in front of her, like someone being good in class, and Stuart could see that she was desperately hoping to be picked.
And he had an idea – a slightly mean idea, but a good one; an idea that would ensure he’d be the only one who found the final letter clue, and therefore the only one who’d be able to find the will.
‘If you go on this adventure,’ he said, ‘when we get to the very last one, can I do it by myself?’
She gave a little hop of pleasure. ‘Absolutely. Thanks, Stuart – and I’ll be as quick as I can, because hanging upside down isn’t very nice. Er … can I suggest something?’
‘What?’
‘Go to the loo before you strap yourself in there.’
Five minutes later, Stuart climbed onto the throne of the Reappearing Rose Bower and handed the Magic Star to April. ‘Look after the dog, would you?’ he asked. He could see it pottering around the room, its stump of a tail wagging briskly.
‘Of course,’ said April.
‘And good luck.’
‘Thanks. See you soon.’
She was grinning as he pulled the lever; the silver stems of the rose bower closed in a tangled thicket around him, and the metal strap snapped across his middle. He pulled the lever again, and managed not to yell as he spun upside down into utter darkness.
‘You OK?’ shouted April, sounding very far away.
‘Mmmm,’ was all Stuart could manage by way of an answer.
‘I’ll be off then.’
There was a little pause, an odd scuffling noise, and then a metallic clink directly above him. For a second the seat shook like the top of a washing machine on spin cycle, and then all was quiet again.
‘April?’ he called. There was no reply. She was in whatever world the Magic Star had flung her into. So now all he had to do was wait.
It was massively uncomfortable, the safety strap digging into his stomach, the blood rushing to his head. He braced his arms and legs against the sides to take the weight off the strap, and wondered how long he’d have to stay there. He started counting, and got to 2,000 before losing track of the numbers.
Time passed. It was quite warm in the interior of the Reappearing Rose Bower, and despite his awkward position, he began to feel sleepy. He tapped out a couple of tunes on the metal walls, and then searched his pockets to see whether he had anything interesting in them. It took a bit of wriggling, but he discovered a fluffy boiled sweet, a paper clip and a peach stone. He dropped them, one by one, into the darkness. He wondered what the dog was doing. He wondered what his mum was doing. He tried to think of what the dog’s name might be – Great-Uncle Tony’s message had said it began with Ch: Chance. Chocco. Charlie. Charlie was a good name. Stuart yawned.
He was woken by his head banging against the side. The whole illusion was lurching, tipping, swaying, moving. It was being carried. He could hear muffled voices and the rattling of a metal roller door.
The Reappearing Rose Bower was set down with a crash, and Stuart banged his head again. The roller rattled down, a door slammed violently, an engine started with a deep growling note, and the rose bower jerked forward. Stuart banged his head for the third time, but he was panicking too much to think about the pain. He was panicking because it was clear that he was no longer in the museum but in the back of a lorry.
He was in the back of a lorry and he was being driven away.
AS APRIL WATCHED Stuart climb onto the throne of the Reappearing Rose Bower, pull the lever and disappear from sight, she clutched the Magic Star in her hand, and tried to keep her breathing steady.
One of the disadvantages of being a triplet was that she hardly ever did anything on her own – there was always at least one sister tagging along. Now she had the prospect of a whole magical world which she could explore without interference, and she felt almost dizzy with excitement. It took her a moment or two to realize that, mingled with the excitement, there was a good dollop of nervousness. It was always easier to be brave when you were with someone else.
She could hear Stuart pulling the lever again. The mechanism clicked and ratcheted, and the silver stems eased apart to reveal the empty throne. At its centre was the socket for the star.
‘You OK?’ she called to Stuart, and heard a vague noise by way of an answer.
She stepped forward, and at the same moment the dog skittered across from where it had been lurking and bounded onto the seat. It looked at her keenly.
‘Do you want to come too?’ asked April. The prospect of not being quite on her own was rather nice. ‘I’ll be off then,’ she shouted, laying one hand on the dog’s head and, with the other, placing the three-pointed star in its socket.
And, like a page turning, the view changed.
She was in the most splendid room she had ever seen. The bronze throne was still directly in front of her, but now it stood on a velvet dais, and red and purple silk banners swayed gently from the ceiling above.
The windows were high and narrow, and she could see nothing out of them except treetops and wheeling swifts.
The walls were gold, and hung with tapestries, their colours brilliant and fresh: stags leaping through green woodlands, white castles standing in meadows jewelled with flowers.
The floor had a carpet so soft that her feet sank gently with every step; she reached down and stroked it, and it was like brushing the gossamer coat of a puppy.
Which reminded her of the little dog. She looked around and saw it had jumped off the throne and was sniffing around the edge of the room.
‘What am I supposed to do?’ she asked it. ‘What’s the puzzle?’
It was really odd not having anyone to talk to. She had the sudden wild thought that Stuart might have come with her to this magical palace, and she knocked on the throne and shouted, ‘Stuart, are you there?’ but there was no answer. He must still be in the museum, and she thought of him hanging upside down, getting cramp in his legs
and nausea in his stomach, and she knew that she had to hurry up with her task.
As she turned away from the throne, she thought she saw a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she spun round there was no one there – or at least, no one real. There was a painting, though, that she hadn’t taken note of before – a full-length portrait of a queen in royal robes, sitting on a throne.
She walked towards it, and again seemed to see someone moving, and her heart started thudding painfully. It wasn’t until she was near enough to touch it that she identified the source of the movement. Instead of a painted face, the portrait had a small oval mirror set into the canvas.
Standing below it, April could only see a reflection of one of the windows, but a thought occurred to her, and she walked back to the platform on which the Reappearing Rose Bower stood. She climbed the steps, sat down on the bronze throne and looked straight ahead at the portrait.
And now it was herself – her own face, fitting perfectly into the oval mirror, above a painted body adorned with finery. A blue fur-trimmed cloak was draped over her shoulders, an enormous diamond ring glinted on one finger, a sceptre (like a golden rolling pin) was gripped in her right hand, an orb (like a cricket ball carved out of a giant ruby) in her left. On her head was a crown, the stones a brilliant green.
April grinned at herself, but the grin didn’t really match the regal sternness of the pose. She tried a frown instead and it looked much better.
‘Right,’ she said, ‘and now what?’
There were no obvious doors out of the room, but she remembered Stuart’s description of the gallery he’d gone into, where every painting was a door, and she went back to the portrait and gave the right-hand side of the frame a sharp tug. It opened so quickly and smoothly that she almost fell over. She looked into the room beyond, and almost fell over again.