Mark Twain was almost always there, as were Charles Dickens, James Barrie, and Alexandre Dumas. Jonathan Swift would occasionally join them, as would Rudyard Kipling, who, like Verne, was not a resident of the gallery but a tulpa—a younger, virtually immortal version of himself.
More unusually, Franz Schubert had often joined them as well, although he never spoke. Schubert virtually never joined in any of the activities at Tamerlane House unless they were a matter of official Caretaker business, for which his attendance was compulsory.
“I agree,” Charles Dickens said, picking at his teeth with a pewter toothpick. “Something has changed.”
“What do you mean by that?” Rose asked as she came down the stairs to join them.
“Ah, Rose, my dear!” Bert proclaimed, jumping to his feet. “When you didn’t come down at six, we assumed you wanted to sleep in, especially with such an eventful day ahead. I’ll summon the Feast Beasts back,” he finished as he started to reach for a silver bell.
“No need,” she replied as she took a crust of bread and sat down next to Twain. “I ate a snack rather late, so I’m not all that hungry. What did you mean when you said that something had changed?” she asked, looking through Twain’s smoke at Dickens.
“It’s the storm last night,” Dickens answered, with a surreptitious glance at Bert. “Storms are omens of change, especially in the Archipelago. And after all the Time Storms that had battered the lands in recent years, we were keeping a close watch on this one.”
“I thought the Time Storms had nearly stopped?”
“They had, young lady, indeed,” said Twain. “That’s part of the bother and the worry. Their absence meant that the energy was going elsewhere, not that it had disappeared altogether.”
“Perhaps it was an Echthroi … or is it an Echthros? I can’t remember.” She looked at Bert. “Whatever it is that the primordial Shadows are called.”
All the Caretakers sitting at the table, including the dead ones and the nearly immortal ones, had gone white.
“Where, pray tell, my dear Rose,” Twain said, having regained his composure first, “did you hear those names?”
“I had a strange visitor in the night,” Rose replied. “You’d be quite pleased, Bert. I was very hospitable, although I don’t think she really liked the liverwurst and cream cheese sandwich I made for her.”
“What did this visitor say to you, Rose?” asked Bert, still a bit shaken. “How did she come to mention the Echthroi?”
“She told me that history was broken, and that it would be up to me to fix it, otherwise the Echthroi would win, and the world would end,” Rose said as she reached for the silver bell on the table. “Does anyone mind if I request something more to eat? It turns out I’m feeling hungrier than I thought.”
The table was soon restocked with baked goods of all kinds and fresh fruit. The Caretakers waited patiently as Rose heaped a pile of crepes, strawberries, and whipped cream onto a plate—which she put on the floor for Grimalkin, who wandered in preening with his just-sharpened claws. For herself, she made a sandwich of lettuce, mayonnaise, and crunchy peanut butter.
“It’s when I watch her eat,” Dickens confided to Twain, “that I suspect Bert and Jules are teaching her all the wrong things.”
“Never mind that,” said Bert, more irritated at the pause in the discussion than the fact that he agreed with them about Rose’s dining habits. “Tell us about your visitor, Rose.”
As she ate, Rose recounted the discussion that had transpired in the attic, occasionally pausing to answer questions or clarify points she wanted to make. When she was done, she had some questions of her own.
“What is this about a Dragon’s apprentice?” she asked. “I thought they were all gone. I would know—I freed most of them myself.”
“All the Dragons in this world, save for Samaranth, were corrupted by the Shadow King,” Bert said with a still tangible melancholy, “and any apprentices they might have had were lost long ago.”
Rose waited patiently for Bert, or any of the others, to continue. Twain leaned over to Dickens and whispered something, which Dickens wrote on a piece of paper and passed to Grimalkin under the table. The Cheshire cat’s eyes narrowed as it scanned the paper, and it seemed about to protest about being a mere messenger, but a sharp look from Twain silenced it, and the cat disappeared.
“It’s possible,” Twain said into the silence, “that there are still Dragons somewhere, somewhen, in the Summer Country. But as Samaranth said, they would likely never return to the Archipelago, even if they exist.”
“Mother Night said he wasn’t a Dragon yet,” Rose reiterated. “That he was an apprentice, who still had to choose.”
“There have been rumors of such men and women,” said Verne, who was looking cautiously at Bert as he spoke, “but none since the Histories have been recorded, and none since the creation of the Geographica.”
“That we know of,” said Twain.
“That we know of,” Verne confirmed. “Although there’s one possibility, which would make a strange sort of symmetry if it were true—”
“I’m more concerned about what this moon told Rose about the Shadows,” Bert said, interrupting. “For her to have even spoken the name of the primordial Shadows …”
“Echthroi,” another voice said. “Echthroi. Echthros.”
It was Schubert.
Up to now he had been silent as he usually was, and so everyone had ignored him as they usually did. The Feast Beasts had dutifully placed trays and platters of food in front of him, but most of it remained untouched, save for a few cherry tomatoes, which he ate when no one else was looking.
“The Shadow. The Darkness. The Many-Angled Ones,” Schubert said dully. “The Lloigor. The Nameless. The Unwritten. The Anti-Erl Kings. The Un-Makers. The Un-Namers. By all these names and more are they known. Against these, by any name, we fight. But they are always the same. …” He stood, looming over the table.
“They are the Enemy. And we must be strong, for they will not relent.”
For the first time since Mother Night’s visit, Rose felt genuinely frightened. For the Caretakers Emeritis to be taking this discussion so seriously was alarming, but for Schubert to be so actively involved sent a thrill of fear up her spine. Bert had once explained to her that he was more attuned to the supernatural than any of the rest of them, with the exception of Poe himself. And for Schubert to speak meant that there was something dangerous brewing.
“The Echthroi,” Twain said gravely, “are why there must always be Caretakers, my dear Rose. They are who we protect the world against.”
“But the Winter King—,” she began.
“Was merely their agent on this planet,” Twain interrupted, “and he had a mere fraction of their power.”
“Why are they worse than anything else the Caretakers have faced?” Rose asked. “We’ve defeated shadows before.”
“We’ve defeated their agents,” Dickens corrected. “We have not yet faced the true Shadows. But,” he added with a tense expression on his face, “it seems that time is finally upon us.”
“Rose, dear girl,” said Twain as he laid a reassuring hand over hers, “don’t worry. This is what we do, we Caretakers. And we are going to use all the powers at our disposal to protect you.”
That may be part of the problem, Rose thought. If I am able to choose, and I don’t because I know you’ll try to protect me, will that be a mistake? Will we all pay a price, just because I’ll be afraid to act on my own?
“At any rate,” Bert said as they all stood, “we should be discussing this with your three uncles when they arrive for the party. They’ll feel terribly left out if we don’t.”
“Agreed,” said Barrie. “I’m looking forward to their return as well.”
“The storm has passed,” said Dickens. “Take some comfort in that, Rose.”
“What do we need to do now?” asked Rose.
“We have to prepare the banquet hall,” Verne said as
he swept past her into the foyer. “Today Time finally catches up with itself, and we want to make the Caretakers’ return to the Archipelago a day they won’t forget for centuries.”
CHAPTER THREE
Chronos & Kairos
Celebrations, like many things, are happiest after a long separation, or a period of trials and tribulations—and the event at Tamerlane House came at the end of decades of fear, and conflict, and dark days. Several of the Caretakers Emeritis had come into the front reception hall to receive the new arrivals, and everyone was moving about in a swirl of hugs and handshakes, greetings and salutations.
“Rose!” Jack exclaimed as she hugged each of the companions in turn. “You’ve cut your hair!”
“It has been seven years, Jack,” said Charles as he kissed the young woman on the top of her head. “I’m surprised we even recognize her.”
“Seven years for you, you mean,” Rose corrected as she hugged John a second time. “For me, just days.”
“Hugo is sorry he couldn’t come,” said Jack. “Warnie, too. They’ve both missed you terribly. You should come to visit as soon as possible.”
“Now, lads,” Bert said, even though they were well into middle age, “we shouldn’t go rushing to make plans so quickly. We’ve got time to do things now.”
“We’ve waited a long time,” Jack protested. “What’s wrong with a short trip to Oxford?”
“We’ll discuss it later, Jack,” Bert said, trying to change the subject. “Let’s just enjoy the celebration, shall we?”
“Fine,” said Jack as he hugged her again. “But Rose will be coming to see us shortly, I think.”
“I agree,” said Charles.
Rose folded her arms, closed her eyes, and smiled. “That’s what we’re going to do, then.”
Jack grinned at Charles. “That’s it and done,” he said. “There’ll be no persuading her otherwise, not now.”
“Well enough and good,” Bert said, knowing he was beaten. “But we’ll still be having a discussion before you leave.”
“What’s this?” a gruff voice said. “I smell Caretakers about.”
“Hello, Burton,” said John, reluctantly offering his hand. “It’s, ah, good to see you again.”
Behind the self-professed barbarian were his two colleagues, the former Caretakers Harry Houdini and Arthur Conan Doyle, who were arguing about something.
“Three is a good number,” Burton had said when the Caretakers Emeritis had pressed him for the whereabouts of the other members of the Imperial Cartological Society. “Consider us the Society’s version of your three Caretakers—emissaries to an unknown region.”
“All secrets out, Sir Richard?” Twain had asked him. “All trust, in the open?”
“That’s a journey, not a destination,” Burton had replied. “We should just focus on the progress we’re making, and not on what we expect of the future.”
“Benevolent, malevolent, what does it matter?” Houdini was saying, making frustrated gestures with his hands. “I just want to know how it was done.”
“How what was done?” asked Jack.
“We made the mistake of showing Harry the Serendipity Box,” said Twain, “and of course, he opened it straightaway.”
“What happened?”
“It vanished,” said Doyle. “Disappeared into thin air. He’s been trying to suss out what happened. I keep telling him it was the faeries who took it.”
“Oh, spare me,” said Houdini. “They’d have returned it by now if they had.”
A deep compulsion for finding things out was a trait shared by the Caretakers and members of the Society, and it had served them all well in various circumstances—but in none of them was the compulsion as deeply rooted as it was in Harry Houdini. He simply could not tolerate not knowing how a trick was done—even a trick involving time and space.
“All tricks involve time and space,” Houdini huffed. “Any decent illusion is nothing but the manipulation of the viewer’s perceptions. That’s it, and that’s all.”
“What do you think, Bert?” John asked as they moved from the reception hall into the banquet room, where the rest of the Caretakers and their guests were waiting.
“I think,” said Bert as he and Verne opened the great double doors, “that it gave him exactly what he needed. It’s just going to take him a while to realize it.”
Two of the special guests at Tamerlane House were among those the companions most wanted to see: Laura Glue, the Lost Girl who had grown up to become the leader of the flying Valkyries; and the badger Fred, who was Charles’s apprentice Caretaker. Both completely ignored decorum and bounded across the table the minute they saw their friends.
“Hello there, Laura dear!” Jack exclaimed as the girl threw herself into his arms and hugged him tightly.
“That’s Laura Glue,” she chided gently. “I’m so happy to see you all!”
Fred was only slightly less reserved and couldn’t stop himself from hugging Charles before he stepped back to offer a more dignified handshake.
“Good to see you, Scowler Charles,” he said, still beaming. “I’ve kept my watch in good order.”
“I have no doubt,” Charles said, beaming. “And how are your father and grandfather?”
“Tummeler is well, but not fit to travel out of Paralon,” replied Fred. “As for Uncas, he and Don Quixote are off on some secret mission for the Prime Caretaker, or else you know they wouldn’t have missed you.”
“I know it,” Charles said as he led them to their seats. “You’re a good fellow, Fred.”
“Where’s Archie?” John asked Rose as they sat at the table. “I would have expected he’d be here too.”
“He usually is,” Rose answered, “but he hates it when all the Caretakers are present for a big party, so he stays in my attic. He says the proportion of authors to scientists fills the room with the stench of arrogance.”
“From which side?”
“He never really clarified that,” said Rose, “but then again, I’m not sure it matters.”
The celebration was in full swing. All of the Caretakers Emeritis had come out of their portraits for the party—including, John noted, one who had gone renegade while still a Caretaker.
“So,” he said to Bert, “you decided to let Lord Byron out, did you?”
“Yes,” Bert said, sighing. “After the truce with the Society, we couldn’t exactly treat him like a traitor any longer, so we took a vote. He managed to squeak through, so he’s here. But on probation,” he added. “Mary and Percy keep threatening to set him on fire again.”
True to form, the contentious friends were already bickering when John, Rose, and Bert sat down across from them. “We haven’t met,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m John.”
“George Gordon, Lord Byron,” the Caretaker-on-probation said amiably. “A pleasure, I’m sure.”
“Your attire is atrocious, George,” sniffed Percy Shelley. “Also, you smell of smoke.”
“Brilliant deduction, Watson,” Byron shot back.
“Manners,” said Doyle, who had taken a seat next to Bert. “At least I’m still in print. No need to show your temper.”
Byron scowled at the Detective. “But,” he continued, undeterred, “might it not be because one of my closest friends, someone with whom I have shared—”
“Mind the young ladies,” said Houdini. Rose giggled, and to everyone’s surprise, Byron reddened.
“—practically everything,” he ad libbed, “tried to murder me by burning my portrait? Isn’t that a good reason to be a bit testy?”
“There’ll be no arguments here today,” Verne said, holding up a glass. “Today we mourn old friends who are lost and celebrate the victory that was won at dearest cost. But above all, we’re here to celebrate the new freedom we have as Caretakers. …”
Burton cleared his throat loudly at this, which got a scowl from Twain.
“The freedom,” Verne went on, “to begin the process we have hoped fo
r, been divided over, and thought might never be a reality—the reunification of the Archipelago and the Summer Country. Today is, as Jack named it, truly our Day of Independence.”
To this, all the celebrants raised their glasses and let out a resounding cheer.
“Independence Day?” Charles whispered to John.
“Jack’s way of tweaking our American counterparts,” John answered. “I don’t think he intended for it to stick. Did you know he was going to say all that?” he whispered to Jack.
“Not exactly,” said Jack. “It’s certainly a long-term goal for the New Society.”
“Which you are in charge of at Cambridge,” Charles whispered. “No pressure, Jack.”
During dessert, which Rose had designed herself with the aid of the Feast Beasts and Alexandre Dumas, who was a surprisingly good cook, another guest dropped in, much to the relief of John, Jack, and Charles.
“So sorry I’m late!” Hank Morgan exclaimed as he strolled in and grabbed a sandwich from one of the trays. “It seems I’ve missed dinner, but the dessert looks exceptionally good.”
“They’re called beignets,” Rose said proudly. “They’re a sort of French doughnut, except for these, we’ve added a special touch—each one you eat will suddenly be filled with something you love. Something delicious. Alex and I made the beignets, and the Feast Beasts arranged the filling.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” said Hank, taking one from the overflowing tray. He bit into it. “Mmm,” he said with real admiration. “Hazelnut.”
“Mine’s chocolate cream,” said Charles. “Well done, Rose!”
“Mine’s plain,” said Fred, “but I like ’em plain.”
“Eww,” said Byron. “Is this spinach?”
“You must have gotten a faulty one,” Dumas said, winking at Mary. “Try another.”
“This is …,” said Byron, making a face. “Is this wax?”
“A shame,” said Dumas. “Ours are delicious.”
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