by Holly Grant
The ballerinas began bobbing like manic jack-in-the-boxes. Saskia’s gaze lit on Anastasia, and she pranced to the edge of the stage. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re going to help paint sets,” Anastasia muttered.
“Really? You joined art club?” Saskia smirked. “How cute. But do try not to muss anything up—it all has to be perfect for my Triumphant Debut.”
“Anastasia is a brilliant artist,” Ollie huffed, but Saskia was already pirouetting back into the gaggle of dancers, her giggles spiraling up into the stalactites.
“Goodness!” Miss Ramachandra exclaimed. “Imagine, one of your classmates starring in Sugarplum Bat! You must all be so excited!”
“Ugh.” Ollie mimed vomiting. Anastasia nodded, but her cheeks prickled pink as Ludowiga’s sneers sniped her memory: Saskia’s triumphs bring glory to the royal family. She stared wistfully at her ballerina cousin, dainty and fair as a little tutu’d figurine spinning inside a jewelry box. Anastasia’s heart panged.
But only for a moment. She balled her hand into a fist and thumped her sternum, drumming the schmaltz up her windpipe and releasing it in a hiccup. She didn’t care about bringing glory to the royal family. She cared about bringing home its missing members—Fred and Nicodemus. That’s what mattered.
A portly man in a paint-spattered jacket and breeches emerged onstage, pushing through the huffing Twinkle Toes to descend a staircase adjoining the proscenium. “Miss Ramachandra, I presume?”
“Oh my gracious! Oh my golly!” Miss Ramachandra twittered. “Signor Mezzaluna, I studied your work at university. It’s such an honor to meet you!”
“I know,” the man agreed. “I’m delighted to give you the opportunity.” He clasped Miss Ramachandra’s hand in greeting, then frowned. “Madam, you’re sticky.”
“Oh! Glue!” Miss Ramachandra said. “My kindergartners were making macaroni mosaics this afternoon.”
Signor Mezzaluna extracted a lace-edged handkerchief from his waistcoat and scrubbed at his palm. “Macaroni is the scourge of pastas. I never eat it, let alone use it in my work!”
“I like macaroni,” Jasper piped up.
“You are not an artistic genius. I am.” The great signor returned the hanky to his blotchy vest. “Under normal circumstances, I would never agree to let schoolchildren muck around with my sets, but we’re over budget and behind schedule. Sugarplum Bat opens in May! Do you know how long Michelangelo and his flunkies spent shellacking the Sistine Chapel ceiling? Four years! I have less than two months to whip up a fake fairyland for this blasted ballet.”
“Well,” Miss Ramachandra flustered, “we’re ever so pleased to help you.”
Signor Mezzaluna sniffed. “I just hope you lot know how to handle a paintbrush.”
He led them up the little staircase and past Madame Pamplemousse’s leaping troupe, veering through the wings and into the backstage fug of turpentine and sawdust. Carpenters hammered at the wooden skeletons of half-finished platforms. Painters hunkered over props, daubing gilt and sprinkling glitter.
“There are eight of you? You two”—Signor Mezzaluna gestured at Ophelia and Jasper—“will help varnish these fake lollipops. You three”—he indicated Anastasia and Gus and Ollie—“will stencil snowflakes on the winter forest backdrop. And the rest of you will polka-dot these papier-mâché Dalmatians. We keep the supplies over here….”
Armed with pots of silvery lacquer, the Dreadfuls weaved through the obstacle course of paint cans and jumbo lollies and scurrying stagehands, halting by a canvas panel ashimmer with a pale forest scene. They set to their stenciling. Dunk, dab, dab. Dunk, dab, dab.
“When should we sneak off ?” Ollie asked, craning his neck around the tarp to peer toward the Dreadfuls’ secret egress. “I hope the way to Sickle Alley hasn’t been blocked. There’s stuff piled everywhere.”
“Ollie!” Gus said. “You’re dripping paint on my shoes!”
“Oh!” Ollie jerked his errant paintbrush, flicking a wave of silver flecks over Anastasia’s cheeks and hair. Pippistrella squealed and launched from her mistress’s braid, alighting on the leg of a capsized chair.
Anastasia wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing glitter across her freckles. “Ollie, try using less paint.”
“I told you I’m not an artist,” Ollie huffed.
“Oh, but of course you are!” Miss Ramachandra cried, swooping in like a scatterbrained fairy godmother. “Your soul is sopping full of creative juice, Oliver!”
“Do you really think so?”
“I’m sure of it! You just need a little help with your technique.” Miss Ramachandra took the brush from him and swiped it lightly over the canvas. “Think of it like glazing a pastry. See? Thin layers.”
“Well, I am good at glazes. You should see my plum Danishes.” Ollie dabbed paint through the stencil, then lifted it to behold a neatly formed snowflake.
“Magnificent!” Miss Ramachandra praised. “Keep up the good work! Oh—Parveen—on that Dalmatian, strive for dots, not spots….” She drifted away.
Ollie glared at his single silvery hexagon. “This is going to take forever! This canvas is huge! How many snowflakes have you made, Anastasia?”
“Twelve.”
“I don’t think—Q!”
Quentin edged around a downed chandelier and stooped. “I told Maestro that I had a stomachache and had to go home early. Do you think anyone would notice if you ducked out now?”
Anastasia scanned the backstage activity. Miss Ramachandra was helping Jasper mop up a puddle of spilled paint, and Signor Mezzaluna was arguing loudly with two apprentices about the dimensions of a cluster of papier-mâché clouds.
“Let’s go,” Anastasia whispered.
The Dreadfuls set down their paintbrushes and edged deeper into the jumble of props, all the way to the crawlway hidden in the cavern’s farthermost corner. Mrs. Honeysop’s parlor was just a hop, skip, and jump down Sickle Alley, but the Dreadfuls neither hopped nor skipped nor jumped. They ran the entire way.
As Anastasia and Quentin unscrewed the bolts fastening the metal screen in front of the fire, Ollie riffled through the old witch’s tattered cookbook.
“I thought there might be weird recipes in here,” he commented. “But there isn’t any eye of newt or tongue of dragon or silver powder. These ingredients look completely normal…but, my gosh! Putting cinnamon in the batter…ingenious!” He looked up. “Hey, Gus! Why are you so interested in that old clock?”
Gus rattled the wooden cuckoo chalet. “I’m interested in it because it doesn’t make sense. Why would there be a cuckoo clock here?”
“Even witches have to tell time,” Anastasia reasoned.
“Sure,” Gus said. “But remember what Franz said about the cuckoo mechanism? The weights drive the clock movement. But in here, without gravity”—he touched one of the buoyant metal pinecones—“there is no weight. So the clock can’t work.”
Ollie shrugged. “Maybe Calixto or Mrs. Honeysop charmed it to run on its own.”
“Or maybe it was just a decoration,” Quentin suggested. “Cuckoo clocks are terribly attractive. I wouldn’t mind having one in my room, actually.”
Gus twitched open the cuckoo’s door. “There isn’t even a bird in here. Anastasia, would you pass me that screwdriver?”
With a few twists of the wrist, Gus removed the cuckoo’s back panel. “Not a single cog inside! It’s empty—except for this.” He pulled out a small scroll of paper tied with a narrow black ribbon.
The Dreadfuls swam toward him. “Unroll it,” Anastasia urged.
Gus undid the ribbon and unfurled the scroll. There, in Calixto Swift’s unmistakable, sprawling cursive, was a note:
January 2, 1756
A—
If something should happen to me, follow my M.O. to Stinking Crumpet. Tell no one.
Through this doorway clear and crystal
Whisk me on a whirlwind trip!
Take me where your whirlwind twinkl
es
Make me a globe-trotting witch.
—C
“Who’s A?” Ollie asked.
“Mrs. Honeysop?” Gus asked. “The clock was in her house, after all. Calixto must have left the note for her.”
“I wonder what A stands for,” Quentin mused. “Amelia? Agnes?”
“Aggie!” Anastasia said. “It stands for Aggie!”
“Why Aggie?” Gus asked.
“That was his witch-nanny,” Anastasia said. “I read it in one of the Calixto Swift biographies from Cavepearl Library. Mrs. Honeysop must have been Calixto’s nanny!”
“Why on earth would a grown warlock need a nanny?” Ollie demanded.
“She was his nanny when he was a little boy, Ollie,” Anastasia said. “But they must have kept in touch. She taught him nursery rhymes.”
“So is this a nursery rhyme?” Ollie tapped the couplet about twinkling doorways and globe-trotting witches.
“I don’t think so,” Gus said slowly. “Might it be the spell to get through Calixto’s magic doors? Whisk me on a whirlwind trip? Wasn’t that a line from his travel journal?”
“Yes!” Anastasia cried. “It was!”
“Clear and crystal,” Quentin murmured. “Maybe the magic doors are made out of glass!”
“Like the revolving doors at the bank?” Ollie asked. “I always like going through those.”
“But what do you suppose the M.O. might be?” Gus quizzed. “And who—or where—is Stinking Crumpet?”
“I don’t know about the M.O., but look at the date!” Anastasia exclaimed. “January second, 1756! Calixto Swift wrote this note the day of the Dastardly Deed.”
A THOUGHT FLASHED INTO Anastasia’s cranium, bright as a thunderbolt and twice as shocking. “I bet Stinking Crumpet is where Calixto hid the Silver Chest!”
The Dreadfuls’ eyes glittered as though someone had shoved sparklers right up their nostrils. If she had not been floating midair, Anastasia would have danced a little jig right then and there. “What an incredible clue!”
“Hear, hear!” Ollie cheered. “Do you reckon that spell might work on the cabinet, too? After all, it’s clear and crystal. Maybe Calixto had one all-purpose getting-through-glass spell.”
“It’s worth a try,” Anastasia breathed.
Up in the warlock’s study, Quentin cleared his throat and intoned:
“Through this doorway clear and crystal
Whisk me on a whirlwind trip!
Take me where your whirlwind twinkles
Make me a globe-trotting witch.”
No doorway clear and crystal appeared upon the cabinet’s breast. Gus and Anastasia ran their palms over its flanks to check for invisible-to-the-Morfling-eye seams or hinges, but the glass was still entirely unblemished.
“Nope,” Anastasia sighed. “No magic door. Maybe that spell doesn’t work for non-witches.”
“Or maybe it’s the wrong spell entirely,” Gus said.
“But you sounded good, Q,” Ollie said. “That sounded wonderful! You should narrate audiobooks! Your denunciation is spot-on.”
“I think you mean enunciation, Pudding,” Quentin said. “But thank you.”
Gus gave the cabinet a frustrated little kick. “So it’s back to the books.”
“Cheer up!” Quentin said. “That note is a spiffing discovery! And now we know to look for glass doors.”
“And once we find the magic door to Stinking Crumpet, we’ll know how to go through it,” Anastasia added.
“Do you think the cuckoo clock was a sort of—er—mailbox for Calixto and Mrs. Honeysop?” Gus asked. “So they could secretly leave messages for each other? They could just shove the note through the cuckoo’s door.”
“I bet it was!” Ollie said. “But for some reason, Mrs. Honeysop never got that letter.”
The Dreadfuls fell into uneasy silence. If Calixto had written the note on the day of the Dastardly Deed, Mrs. Honeysop might not have had any opportunity to open the cuckoo clock mailbox. Morfolk had stormed Dark-o’-the-Moon Common and killed Calixto in the middle of a puppet show, and then the Perpetual War erupted. Had Mrs. Honeysop remained in the Cavelands to fight? Had Morfolk dragged her from her house? Or did she escape to one of the secret witch towns abovecaves?
“Speaking of clocks, we should probably get back to the theater,” Gus said. “Miss Ramachandra won’t notice we’re gone, but Ophelia Dellacava might, and she’s a tattletale.”
“All right,” Anastasia agreed reluctantly. “Let’s see…which books should I borrow from Calixto’s library today?” She selected a few leather-bound journals from the floating archives, and Gus and Quentin slid some teensy ledgers into their vests. Ollie hesitated, and then he handed Mrs. Honeysop’s cookbook to Anastasia. “Would you put this in your satchel for me? I don’t want to get caught with witch things.”
“Ollie!” Quentin protested. “How is a cookbook going to help us?”
“We need snacks while we’re on our great mission, don’t we?” Ollie asked. “And there’s a brilliant recipe for gingerbread in here.”
“Well,” Quentin pondered, “I do like gingerbread.”
“I know you do.” Ollie beamed. “Anastasia, can you copy out the recipes for me on normal, non-witchy notebook paper?”
“Sure.” Anastasia buttoned the pilfered books into her satchel.
“Come on, before anyone notices we’re missing,” Gus urged.
As they retraced their path to the theater’s backstage, Anastasia’s mind jumbled with words plucked from Calixto Swift’s cursive: Doorway clear and crystal. Globe-trotting witch. Stinking Crumpet. Perhaps they didn’t yet know how to open the glass cabinet and retrieve the Silver Hammer, but she felt they were on the right path to tracking down the Silver Chest. And that meant they were getting closer to rescuing Nicodemus and his Fred-finding compass! Her heart skipped a happy little hopscotch. What if—
“Look!” Ollie gasped.
Glistering snowflakes sprinkled the length and width of the entire snowscape. Snowflakes trimmed the painted pine trees. Snowflakes glimmered against the pale silver sky in swirling curlicues. There were thousands of them. Anastasia gazed at the diadems in wonderment. “Someone stenciled all the snow in while we were gone!”
“How?” Gus asked. “It would take hours and hours to paint all those snowflakes, even with a dozen people working!”
Anastasia wheeled her gaze across the cavern. Whether sawing or gilding or polka-dotting, every drudge backstage seemed to be deeply absorbed in a task. Claudio Mezzaluna caught her eye and weaved through the bustle of activity to stare at the snow-spangled backdrop.
“Santo cielo!” he cried. “This—this is dazzling! It’s magnifico! You children know your stencils, after all! But how in caves did you paint this so quickly?”
The Dreadfuls exchanged a perplexed glance.
“Ah! So you won’t share your tricks of the trade?” Mezzaluna chuckled. “Secretive as Venetian glassblowers, the lot of you!”
Ollie furrowed his brow. “What does blowing glass have to do with keeping secrets?”
“Venetian glassblowers of yore were quite a cloak-and-dagger bunch!” Mezzaluna said. “They guarded their glassmaking techniques very fiercely. In fact, blabbing professional secrets was punishable by death!”
“Crumbs and biscuits!” Anastasia squeaked.
“Gus’s aunt is a glassblower.” Ollie elbowed the gorgon. “Did Celestina live in Venice?”
“Celestina?” Mezzaluna exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say Celestina Wata is your aunt? Allora, there you have it! She schooled you in the art of keeping secrets, didn’t she?” Mezzaluna wagged his finger, eyes twinkling. “Celestina Wata is renowned for her secrecy. She holds on to a secret tighter than an oyster does its pearl!”
“She does?” Gus said.
“Ah, but I’m sure you already know that.” Mezzaluna winked at them.
“I guess Aunt Teeny is pretty quiet,” Gus admitted.
“Quie
t? That woman was born with zipped lips!” Mezzaluna said. “I met her once, and she wouldn’t even tell me what time it was. Hopefully, you children won’t take it that far.” He returned his attention to the drop cloth. “You’re sure you won’t tell me how you finished this snowscape so quickly?”
“But we didn’t—” Anastasia faltered.
“Tut-tut! No false modesty, here.” Mezzaluna clapped. “Attenzione! Attenzione, prego!”
The crowd of stagehands and artisans and Pettifoggers swiveled their faces toward the painted screen.
“Look at this ravishing winter scene,” Mezzaluna commanded. “Less than one hour ago, the screen was dull as ditchwater. It did not sparkle. It did not shine. These schoolchildren”—he leveled a scornful glare at his apprentices, who hung their heads—“transformed it! Let this be an example to you all. Henceforth, I will not accept excuses for shoddy, slow work.”
Anastasia waited for someone to leap forth and claim credit for the beautified snowscape. Nobody did. The woebegone helpers resumed their various chores, and Signor Mezzaluna dashed off to chastise the Dalmatian polka-dotters.
“But who stenciled the screen?” Gus whispered.
“I don’t know,” Anastasia said, tracing one of the frosty whorls with the tip of her index finger. “I guess they know the art of keeping secrets, too.”
May 30, 1751
Today was young Penny’s twelfth birthday. ’Tis strange to imagine she’s already twelve…wondrous-strange, how children grow. I’ve oft pondered, it’s the most magical thing under the moon.
Nico and I staged a shadow spectacle for her, for which I made twelve new puppets. Beautiful as they are, Nico himself is really more ingenious; when he umbrates he can create the most wonderful shapes. Oh, how the children laughed and laughed, to see their Shadowfather skulking about as a tiger!
I admit, in the midst of our jollification, I found my heart tinged with sadness. At times I do sorely feel my lack of a family. But it does no good to dwell on what one doesn’t have—far better to count one’s blessings. I am most grateful for my nieces and nephews, and the Merrymoon children (with the exception of Ludowiga—although I’d never tell Nico that!) are much like family to me. And my apprentice, Dagfinn, is becoming like a son to me. He’s a clever lad, curious and full of potential, although I do worry he tries to rush his craft. It takes time for magic to reveal its secrets, and dark things happen to those who hasten.