The Eye of the North
Page 25
“The Order of the White Flower needs a Michel anyway,” said Emmeline, reaching for more toast. “Wouldn’t be right otherwise.”
“What’s this?” said her father. “There is no more Order of the White Flower business. At least, not for you, young lady.”
“Next time you need a Kraken dealt with, then, who’s going to do it?” Emmeline sighed, taking a bite.
“She saves the day once and thinks she’s an expert,” said Mrs. Widget, glancing at her daughter with a twinkle in her eye.
Emmeline swallowed quickly. “But, Mum—you will be going on expeditions again, won’t you? OSCAR’s not been disbanded, has it?”
“You’re still too young, Emmeline,” said Mr. Widget. “We’ve discussed this. Let’s not go over it all again.”
“But—”
“Darling. You heard your father. Now let’s just finish breakfast and get on with having a lovely day, all right? One without mortal peril, if nobody minds,” said Mrs. Widget, going in for another spoonful of porridge.
Emmeline slumped in her chair and was moodily pulling her toast to crumbs when a sharp kick to the sole of her boot made her jump. Her mother was engrossed in her breakfast, and her father was absorbed in his paper, and Thing—Michel, she corrected herself—was staring at her across the table. He grinned and nodded up at Watt. Emmeline glanced at the butler, who threw her a wink, and Emmeline smiled.
“Michel and I are going to—going to play,” she said, grabbing her notebook and sliding down from her chair. “All right?” Her mother waved distractedly, and her father whuffed his mustache, his eyes on the news, and in the next blink the room was empty but for the two of them and the lingering smell of Michel’s kippers.
“How long d’you reckon we have before she stows away in our luggage or something?” Mrs. Widget muttered to her husband. He met her eye and smiled.
“We started as teens,” he reminded her. “Not so much older than she is.”
“Still,” she murmured. “When it’s your own child…”
“Something tells me she’ll be just fine,” said Mr. Widget. “And if not, that young Michel has a head on his shoulders. Don’t worry, dear.”
Watt quietly reentered the room. “The children are in the library, sir, madam,” he said. “Not at all engaged in searching for case notes from previous OSCAR expeditions.”
“Just keep them away from the most dangerous stuff, Watt, particularly the dragons,” sighed Mrs. Widget. “For as long as possible, at least.”
“Very good, madam,” he said, using all his butler training to keep the grin from his face, for that, of course, had been the first file Emmeline had asked him to fetch. “Very good, indeed.”
Every writer’s first book is their dream come true, but not every first book is the book of its author’s heart. This book, for me, is both.
Thanks are due to so many people:
To my parents, who indulged and encouraged my love for reading and turned a blind eye to the fact that I had books stuffed into my bedroom drawers, where they’d probably have preferred me to have socks, or makeup, or magazines, or love letters….Thank you, Mam and Dad. LYTTMAB. I owe everything to you.
To Graham, the single finest human being I have known. Even if you weren’t my brother, you can bet your U2 belt buckle that you’d be my best friend. I love you, but I can’t promise I’ll never call you Hugo again. Thanks for all the stories we share.
To two Alans, one Garner and one Fletcher, for being, in their various ways, my greatest teachers. Alan Garner’s novel Elidor has shaped my life like a potter shapes clay, and Professor Alan Fletcher helped me to believe in myself when I most needed to. I owe a huge debt to them both.
To my friends, who are many. I am lucky, and I know it. Love you guys. To my extended family, thank you for always being proud of me, and helping me to celebrate the good and the bad with equal aplomb.
To my agents, Polly Nolan and Sarah Davies of Greenhouse Literary Agency, whose poise and skill made a rocky road less challenging, and who have fought for me and my book against all odds. Thanks especially to Polly for her incisive and brilliant editing, and to Sarah for her superlative deal-making, and to them both for keeping me between the ditches. I hope I’ve made your hard work worthwhile.
To Melanie Cecka Nolan, whose interest in this story is the reason we’re all here. Thanks for taking it on, and for editing it so expertly, and for loving it so much. Thanks to Erica Stahler, whose meticulous copyediting saved me from breaking the laws of physics once too often, and to Alison Kolani, director of copyediting at Random House, as well as proofreader Amy Schroeder. A special nod of gratitude has to go to Dr. Tine Defour, Sandra Hessels, Caro Clarke, Julia Yeates, Louie Stowell, and Olivia Hope for their help with my French and Dutch; you spared my blushes, ladies. Merci. Bedankt. Thanks especially to Jeff Nentrup, whose artwork on the book jacket brought Emmeline and Thing to such glorious life.
To a tiny girl who didn’t exist when this book was written, or when it was sold, and who will be almost two by the time it publishes: thank you for being the piece I didn’t know was missing until I found it. Of everything that has ever been, or will ever be, I love you the best.
To my husband, Fergal, go thanks for the sacrifices you’ve made to help me get here, for the space and time to write, and for always quietly assuming I’d be capable. Bucket. This one’s for you, and for our little star.
And to you, the reader who has welcomed Thing and Emmeline into your heart and imagination, making them as much yours as they are mine—thank you for being the best part of this journey.
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