by Lissa Evans
In the distance, April was kneeling, peering down the spiral staircase.
“Do I smell?” asked May, squelching up the steps and leaving a repulsive smudge on each one.
“No,” lied Stuart, trying to breathe through his mouth.
“I do. I smell like an outside toilet.”
And then April straightened up again, and Stuart realized that she was holding something brown and white with a briskly wagging tail.
“You got him!” he yelled, arms in the air.
“I got him!” repeated April. “I heard little footsteps coming up the stairs and I knew it was him!” And she started back toward the steps, her arms firmly wrapped around Charlie.
“What’s happening to the path?” asked May.
“What?”
“The path behind April.”
Stuart looked toward where she was pointing, and his blood seemed to freeze. The paving stones were turning white, one by one, as if a giant paintbrush were sweeping along the path, blanking the patterns, filling in the holes and cracks. “Run!” he screamed at April, his voice scratchy with fear. “Run!“
She glanced behind her, gave a yelp of fear and began to hurry.
“Come on!” screamed May.
“This bit of the dream must represent a more major worry,” remarked June. “Perhaps my upcoming Grade Two Piano exam.”
“Will you shut up about your stupid piano exam!” shouted May over her shoulder. “Don’t you get it? For once in your life, you’re wrong. This isn’t a dream, this is real.”
“Hurry!” shouted Stuart, his voice cracking, but April was only a few stones ahead of the paintbrush now, and her footsteps were uneven with panic. She managed the long jump from Tone to Hee Haw, but then stumbled, tried a desperate half-hop, and landed squarely on the picture of the lightbulb.
And she was stuck there, like a mouse trapped in glue.
“I can’t lift my feet,” she shouted, struggling frantically. “You’ll have to help me.”
Stuart leaped forward, but May was even faster, knocking him aside as she thundered down the steps to save her sister, and he was just picking himself up again when June surged past, shouting, “I can’t work out the logic of this at all, but I’m coming, April! I’m coming to rescue you!” and treading heavily on Stuart’s foot along the way.
So he was a few steps behind them when they reached the pathway, and could only shout in horror when the white tide engulfed first April and the dog, and then both her sisters, leaving nothing behind but blank stones and emptiness.
CHAPTER 33
“Come back!” Stuart yelled. “Please!” but no one answered. Lights in the huge room began to dim.
“April!” he called, his voice lost in the vastness. On the path ahead of him a glowing letter I flickered briefly on every paving stone, and then, with a neck-clicking jolt, Stuart found himself back in the shed again.
The door opened, and a man in overalls looked in.
“You still here?” he asked. “I’m just locking up for the night, and Mr. Kingley asked me to check around before I left. Where are the girls?”
“Gone,” said Stuart. He felt limp with shock, his voice a husk.
“Okay, well, out you come.”
“Just a minute….” Desperately needing some time to think, he looked about for an excuse, and saw his own feet, one in a sneaker, one in a filthy, slime-covered sock.
“My shoe,” he said. “I’ve lost my shoe in here somewhere.”
The man shrugged. “You’ve got two minutes while I go and get my stuff. After that you’re out of here, shoe or no shoe.”
He left the door open and the late afternoon sun flooded in. Only one of Great-Uncle Tony’s illusions seemed to reflect it back; the only illusion that hadn’t been used yet—the Book of Peril, its dented satin surface glowing in the reddish light, the lettering on its door a fiery warning:
OPEN AT YOUR PERIL
And Stuart knew that the only possible route to getting the triplets back was through that door—a door that was damaged, a door that might lead to a world that was more dangerous than Great-Uncle Tony had ever intended.
you wanted to go on the last adventure on your own, he reminded himself grimly. you wanted to be the only one to find that final clue. Well, you’ve got your wish. It seemed so trivial now, all those worries about April finding the will first.
He only had a minute before the workman came back, and he hurried over to the Cabinet of Blood, feeling around between the sword hilts for the Magic Star, but his fingers found only an empty gap. He looked around wildly; it must have fallen onto the floor, but the floor was a mass of shadows and cracks—it could have rolled anywhere.
“Found it?” asked the man, returning.
“No, not yet.”
“Sorry, mate, you’ll just have to go home in your sock. I’m sure the boss will let you in first thing on Monday to find it.” He was steering Stuart by the shoulder as he spoke, guiding him out into the yard.
“Monday?” echoed Stuart stupidly. “But today’s Friday. I can’t wait two whole days.”
“You’ll have to—we’re closed all weekend. And I’d hop across here if I was you—you don’t want to get a nail through that foot, do you?” He was locking the shed door, pocketing the key, and pointing to the exit. Stuart was left with no choice but to accompany him (hopping) across the builder’s yard and out. The gates clanged shut, and the man bolted and padlocked them and then strode away whistling, and Stuart was left standing alone, staring hopelessly up at the high wall that ran around the yard, knowing only that he had to get back in. Somehow.
“Ladder,” he said out loud. “I need a ladder,” and then pictured himself trying to scale the wall in full view of passers-by. Not that there were many—across the road from the yard there was only an empty shop, an empty lot, and a large locked garage with ELECTRIC painted on the doors. Even so, it would be best to wait until dark before starting.
Flashlight, he thought. Screwdriver. Shoe. Some kind of brilliant story to explain to my father why I have to go out for the entire evening (and possibly half the night as well).
He still hadn’t thought of one when he turned the corner onto Beech Road, and his worries weren’t helped by the fact that the first person he saw was Mrs. Kingley, the triplets’ mother. She was standing on the front step of her house, peering along the road, and she smiled in relief when she saw Stuart.
“Aha, here’s someone who can tell me when those girls are getting back.”
She waited expectantly, and Stuart summoned up all his acting powers and replied, “Oh, I don’t think they’ll be long—they were a bit busy when I saw them last,” and then limped quickly toward his house before she could ask him anything more.
His father was in the kitchen, chopping beetroot and frowning at a recipe book, opened at a page entitled “Multi-Vitamin Bake.” A radio program about the history of encyclopedias was on in the background.
“Dad,” said Stuart hurriedly, “I’m not being rude or anything, and I’m sure that the Vitamin Bake would be really delicious, but if it’s okay with you, I’ve got to dash out again and I wondered if I could just have a sandwich. A healthy one, obviously. It’s only that I’ve got to go and … and …” His imagination failed him, and he found himself (sort of) telling the truth. “I’ve got to go and get the triplets. They’re lost in a book.”
His father smiled nostalgically. “Ah yes, how well I know that feeling. How many times have I found myself wandering in a pathless thicket of words…. Beet sandwich?” he added. “Or I could offer curly kale, spinach, or shiitake mushroom.”
There was a pause.
“Cheese?” suggested his father.
“Yes, please.”
“And about this post-prandial book-extraction expedition—can you assure me you’ll be safe with the Kingley sorority throughout?”
Stuart swallowed. “They’re waiting for me, and I won’t come back without them, I promise, Dad. I absolutely pr
omise.”
His father nodded, satisfied. “Before I forget, you’ve just missed an unexpected maternal telephonic communication. However, I assured your mother that your health was fully restored, which I hope was an accurate report?”
“Yup,” said Stuart, grabbing his sandwich and taking a large bite. “Thanks, Dad. I’ve just got to get something before I go out again.”
He headed for the hall and rummaged around in the cabinet under the stairs. The only flashlight he could find was a miniature key ring in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, and the only screwdriver was bright pink and about an inch long. The ladder was just a kitchen stool with a couple of steps attached—mainly useful for getting jars of pickled onions out of high cabinets—but it was better than nothing, and he was about to hurry out with it through the front door when the phone rang.
“Hello?” he said, snatching up the receiver, expecting to hear his mother.
There was a rattle of static on the line.
“Hello?” he repeated.
“Stuart.“
That voice again; a vigorous rasp, old yet full of life.
“Miss Edie,” said Stuart.
CHAPTER 34
“Made any progress?”
“A bit.”
“Only I’ve just recalled something else my grandma told me about the will. It jumped into my mind when I was sitting thinking about her. She was a stern lady as well as a smart one, and when she talked, you listened. Are you listening now?” she added sharply, almost as if she could see that Stuart was distractedly hopping from foot to foot.
“I don’t have much time,” he said. “Something’s happened.”
“You’ve got a problem?”
“Yes, a huge problem, and I’ve got to sort it out.”
“Don’t forget what I told you. If you’re rich enough, then problems just melt away.“
“It’s not that sort of problem. I could have fifty billion pounds and it wouldn’t solve this one. I’ve got to go.”
“No, you’ve got to stay and listen.” Her voice was suddenly fierce, and Stuart felt as if he’d been poked with a skewer. “I told you that my grandma said Tony Horten’s will was well hidden—he told her that himself—but what I’ve recalled now is this: she said you should use the male to find it. The male. Does that help you any?”
“No.”
“You sure? You haven’t put your mind to it for more than a single second. Take some time and see if you can figure it out.”
“Don’t you understand?” Stuart was almost shouting with exasperation. “I don’t have time to worry about the will—I’m trying to find something that’s loads more important than a piece of paper. I’m trying to find my friends.“
There was a short, sharp pause.
“Well now,” said Miss Edie coldly. “My grandma always said that you were nothing but trouble and sass, and I can see now that she was—”
There was another burst of static on the line and then nothing but an echoey hiss. Stuart stared at the receiver; his mouth was dry, and he felt as if someone had just dropped an ice cube down his back.
“Your grandma never met me,” he whispered into the silence. “She died years before I was born.”
The kitchen stool was awkward and surprisingly heavy to carry, and it was dusk by the time Stuart arrived back at the builder’s yard. A woman was walking her dog along the road, but once she’d gone past there was no one else to be seen. Stuart climbed onto the stool. Stretching to his full height, he was still nowhere near the top of the wall, and he could now see that there were pieces of glass embedded in the mortar at the top. He got down again, went over to the double gates, and fingered the enormous padlock. He took out the elf-sized screwdriver, compared it to the size of the screws in the gate hinges, and put it back in his pocket again. It was too small. He was too small. In frustration, he kicked at the base of the gates and heard the hollow boom of metal. He kicked at it again, and missed, his foot slipping into the gap between the gates and the ground.
“Ow,” said Stuart, rubbing his ankle. He knelt down to look. The road surface beneath the gates was heavily rutted and potholed, and near the center was a gap that was just possibly large enough for a small, thin person to wriggle through.
Just possibly.
Night was falling rapidly now. The street was still empty, but from the ELECTRIC garage opposite, a small yellow diamond of light shone through the only window. Odd sounds of hammering came from within.
Stuart lay down and started to inch forward, head first. The ground was rough beneath his cheek, and the lower edge of the gate scraped through his hair like a toothless comb. He wriggled forward a little further, and something tiny and painful and pointy dug into his cheek—a screw or a stone chip, perhaps—and he flinched and felt his opposite ear fold agonizingly beneath the gate. And that was it: he was stuck fast, panic bubbling through his limbs. His legs flailed helplessly across the sidewalk, and he must have cried out because he suddenly heard the noise of the garage door opening. He held his breath.
“Hello?” called a man’s voice that seemed somehow familiar. “Anyone in trouble?”
Stuart kept absolutely still.
“Close the door!” called another voice urgently—a woman this time. “You’ll let Gerald out!”
“Oh. Sorry.”
Across the road, the door scraped shut again, and Stuart took a breath. He reached up with one hand and tried to unfold his ear, and he had almost managed it when he felt something climb onto his ankle.
Something small, with claws and whiskers and wiry fur, which paused for a split second and then shot up the leg of Stuart’s jeans.
Stuart yelled.
CHAPTER 35
And Stuart yelled again.
The garage door opened again, more hurriedly this time, and loud footsteps crossed toward him. “Are you okay?” asked the vaguely familiar voice.
“There’s a rat!” screamed Stuart, head still stuck under the gate, one hand clutching the knee of his jeans to stop the creature from going any further. “There’s a rat up my pant leg.”
“Is that Stuart?” asked the man incredulously.
“Get it out of there.”
“Stuart Horten?”
“yes.“
“It’s Clifford!”
“It’s a rat!”
“No, it’s not,” said the woman’s voice reassuringly. “It’s a guinea pig. He ran out when the door opened earlier. I’ll catch him, and if Clifford fetches the jack for my car from the garage I’ll be able to raise the gate and get you out of there.”
It was only a minute or two before Stuart was sitting on an upturned crate in the garage, ear throbbing, cookie in hand, guinea pig on lap.
“He’s called Gerald after my father,” said Clifford. “They’ve both got ginger eyebrows, you see. Elaine and I were just practicing the guinea-pig disappearing act for our next performance—I really feel we’re starting to improve. The lighting’s still a great deal better than the trick, of course …”
“Have another cookie,” said the woman, Elaine. She was the small, pale-faced electrician who’d come to see Clifford’s first show, and this was obviously her workshop. It was highly organized: tools hanging on the walls, equipment neatly marshaled. In the center of the room stood Mysterioso the Magician’s cart, no longer looking shabby and makeshift, but glimmering with myriad tiny lights.
“I don’t really have time,” replied Stuart. “I have to get into Mr. Kingley’s builder’s yard. Somehow.”
“Why?”
And because it was Clifford who asked the question—Clifford who had seen real magic (who had actually been there, just inches away, when Stuart and the mayoress, Jeannie Carr, had disappeared into the Well of Wishes, dissolving into the past like a splash of water into a pond)—Stuart found that he was able to tell him everything.
Afterward, there was a long silence.
Clifford’s eyes were shining. “Wonderful things,” he said. “Even more wond
erful than I realized. No wonder Jeannie was so desperate to get her hands on them.”
“Wonderful,” agreed Stuart, “but dangerous too.”
“Of course we’ll help you get into the yard, won’t we?” said Clifford, looking over at Elaine.
She nodded, her expression entranced. “And would you like us to come with you into the Book of Peril?” she asked.
“No,” said Stuart firmly. “There’d be too many people for me to keep track of. What if you got lost as well?”
Elaine stood up. “Just give me a minute or two to prepare,” she said.
Quickly and efficiently she filled a tool bag, folded a square rubber mat—”to get us over the glass”—and slung a lightweight set of ladders over her shoulder. “Ready,” she said.
Clifford nudged Stuart. “She’s absolutely marvelous, isn’t she?” he whispered.
Elaine blushed. “Let’s get going,” she said.
With Elaine organizing things, they were up and over the wall within five minutes, and into the shed in another three.
“The magic star …” said Stuart, peering at the floor.
“For that, I have a wand.” Elaine took what looked like a slender steel aerial out of her bag, pulled it out like a telescope, and waved it across the floor.
There was a series of clinks, and when she lifted it into the beam of Stuart’s flashlight, it was encrusted with small screws and nails. Right at the tip was the single remaining bar of the magic star.
“Not magic but magnetic,” said Elaine, grinning.
Stuart took the star. In the light, the dented cover of the Book of Peril was like the entrance to a dark passageway, the silvery letters—OPEN AT YOUR PERIL—floating in the air. Stuart tugged on the handle and the door swung wide, though it groaned as it opened, as if the dent had affected the hinges.
“Where does the star go?” asked Clifford.
By way of reply, Stuart crouched down and pried open the secret compartment where he and April had found Great-Uncle Tony’s message. April was the one who had spotted a single groove in the floor of the compartment, and at the time Stuart hadn’t known what it was for.