The 39 Clues: Cahill Files: Silent Night

by Clifford, Riley

  Are You Ready to Save the World?

  Title Page

  Letter

  Silent Night

  Special Bonus!

  The Cahill Files

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  In the winter of 1914, there was a battle waging between two great powers in Europe. There was that world war, too, but Rupert wasn’t concerned with that at the moment. No, his battle was being fought in the Davenport dining room, and his rival sat right across the table, wearing a military uniform with the bright star badge of a newly made second lieutenant. Rupert eyed that star like it was about to explode.

  The enemy had the advantage at the moment, but Rupert was about to make his move.

  The dining room at Southington, the Davenports’ small castle in Essex, was a comfortable place for a war. The vaulted ceilings were gilded, and golden statues of women hung in the corners, silently playing their harps and lutes and panpipes for those seated. The walls were hung in rich tapestries and lush paintings depicting some of the greatest moments in family history — the crowning of King Louis XIV, Napoleon’s victory at Austerlitz, the assassination of Peter III by Catherine the Great. And there, at the head of the room, behind where Father sat, was a portrait taller than Rupert and wider than his arms could reach. It was of a thin, hard-looking man in sixteenth-century garb who was hiding a dagger beneath his cloak.

  Luke Cahill liked to keep a close eye on things, even if he’d been dead for over three hundred years.

  “Tell us more about the Marne, darling,” Mother said to Albert, reaching over to pat his arm but really taking the opportunity to see what her diamonds looked like in the light of the chandelier. Father didn’t look up from the documents spread out next to his plate. He rarely paid attention to anyone during dinner, especially while preparing for a Lucian leadership council, but to Rupert’s surprise, he nodded in agreement. “Let’s hear about when they made you an officer,” said Mother.

  “Well,” said Albert, with modesty so false that Rupert almost snorted. And yet he still listened, silently and with great attention. “The Germans thought that if they could get to Paris, they’d win the war in one fell swoop.” With his right hand in a fist, Albert made a swooping motion like he was going to swim across the dining-room table. He spread his fingers. “They would fan out and catch us! Like foxes in traps! But we stopped them. I was there and so cool under pressure, they made me an officer.”

  Mother gave him a satisfied pat on the hand, and Father nodded again. “That’s very impressive,” said Father, finally looking up from his papers. Compliments from their father were about as rare as poor children getting ponies for Christmas, and Rupert felt a coil of jealousy begin to tighten around his stomach. But he forced himself to smile placidly. He had news of his own to share — a victory that would force his family to accept that he was the son to watch. Because while Albert might have the shiny star, Rupert was destined for greatness. It was something that he’d always known, deep down in the bones of his soul. And now, he had proof.

  He cleared his throat. “Well, speaking of remaining cool under pressure, I —”

  “Quiet, Rupert,” Mother scolded, shooting him a disapproving look. “Don’t interrupt your brother.”

  Rupert sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. He didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. From what he gathered, Albert’s biggest accomplishment so far was managing not to die. He hadn’t demonstrated nearly the same cunning Rupert had during his most recent act of bravery.

  “It’s all right, Mother,” Albert said. “I think it’s best to move on.” He closed his eyes dramatically. “There are some things I’d rather not remember.” He blinked and then gave Rupert an exaggerated smile. “What were you going to say, Rupe?”

  Rupert ignored Albert’s patronizing tone.

  “Well,” said Rupert, sitting up straighter. “I managed to get our exams postponed until after the Christmas holidays.” He beamed as he looked around the table, but no one reacted. “I, uh, gave all of the proctors a bit of food poisoning so we wouldn’t have to take them. It was brilliant. I got the idea from that book Grandfather left to me.” Rupert smiled expectantly. After years of being lectured at for not living up to his potential, he’d finally proved that he was a real Lucian — a cunning master of strategy and sabotage.

  “That’s how you were ‘cool under pressure’?” Albert asked, raising one eyebrow.

  “Of course,” Rupert said, looking to his parents for support. Rupert’s father shuffled his papers, and his mother dabbed her mouth with a napkin.

  “Indeed.” Albert smirked. “Well, in that case, I suppose we are to commend you for your bravery.”

  “I was brave,” Rupert said, narrowing his eyes. “If the proctors had found my stash of poisons, they might have —”

  “Poisons?” Albert interrupted. “Rupert, no one uses poisons anymore. Nowadays, it’s all about steel and machinery. You’ll need to keep up with the times if you want to be any sort of help with the Clue hunt.”

  Rupert was just about to tell Albert exactly what he thought about his stupid medal when their father cleared his throat. “I quite agree,” he said without looking up. Rupert felt his chest tighten, as if the three words had knocked the air out of him. He’d been so sure his father would be pleased with his scheme.

  “Oh, and I forgot to mention,” Albert continued airly. “I saw a Madrigal.”

  A chill swept through the already cool room, and despite the white-hot anger welling up inside him, Rupert shivered. Mother gave a little gasp, and Father looked up.

  “I did,” said Albert. “At the Marne. He was tall, and in all black. He had a funny hat and a walking stick. You know there’ve been some rumors floating around that the Germans are actually being mobilized by one of the other branches. Which is really rather ridiculous, because who else but the Lucians would be able to handle an undertaking of that size and complexity? But that’s just what they were — rumors. No doubt the Madrigals are trying to sniff it out. How very like them to try to take advantage of a war.”

  “We can talk about that further at the meeting,” said Father.

  “Albert’s going to the meeting?” Rupert blurted before he had a chance to think. Neither he nor Albert had ever been allowed to attend the Lucian leadership council. But as soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

  “Yes, but don’t feel too bad about it, Rupe,” Albert said with false cheeriness. “Really, you’re lucky to be too young to worry about things like bombs and machine guns,” said Albert. “I say, I almost envy you for getting to stay at school, safe and sound, orchestrating your little pranks. If you keep it up, you might even manage to make yourself useful in a few years, although the war will be over by then, of course.”

  When the war had started back in August, everyone thought it would be over quickly. The year 1914 would be marred by a blip of conflict, a scuffle deep in the belly of the Continent, and then the world would settle back into itself for 1915. But November was over and December had just swept in with the first brushes of gray snow, and the war still burned in red and muddy stripes all up and down Belgium and France, like a bad rash.

  But Rupert wasn’t scared of that. Not half as scared as he was of being left behind and shut out.

  “I could go,” said Rupert, before he quite knew what he was saying.

  “What was that?” said Albert, lifting an eyebrow.

  “I said, I could join up,” Rupert said, a little louder. “I could go to war.”

  Mother pressed her lips together, and Albert tried to hold back a laughing choke. Father finally looked up from his papers, lo
cking his eyes with Rupert’s. Rupert squirmed.

  “Rupert, darling, you’re not serious,” said Mother. Her mouth curled upward, making her look just the slightest bit amused.

  “I am serious,” he said, feeling a surge of anger blend with the hurt already curdling his stomach. “Albert thinks I can’t do it, but I can. I could. I will.”

  “You will what?” said Albert. “Join His Majesty’s armed forces?”

  “Yes!” said Rupert.

  Father put down his fork and leaned forward over the table. “Rupert. Do not be ridiculous. You have not proved yourself capable of handling that sort of responsibility.”

  “I just haven’t had the chance yet,” said Rupert, lifting his chin. He glanced over at Albert, hoping for something, anything. Hoping that just this once, Albert would nod and agree and say, “Yes, Rupert. I think you could.” But Albert was steely faced; he looked offended that Rupert would dare to infringe on his war.

  “We don’t wait for chances in this family,” said Father. “We make our own.”

  “Fine,” said Rupert, pushing back his chair and scrambling to his feet. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

  “You’re not serious,” said Albert.

  “I am,” said Rupert. “My talents are obviously wasted at school. It’s time I put them to good use. I’ll come back with loads of medals. You’ll see.”

  “Don’t be stupid,” said Albert. He had a funny look on his face, one that Rupert almost mistook for concern. “You’re just a kid. It’s war, Rupert. It’s not a joke.”

  “Which is why you’ll see that I’m not laughing.” Rupert took a deep breath. “Right, well, I suppose I should go pack, then.” He nodded at his parents and spun on his heel.

  “Rupert.” Mother sighed as he strode toward the door.

  “Let him go,” Father said mildly, as if he were speaking about a dog who’d wandered too far in the park. “He’ll be back before dinner tomorrow.”

  “But what if he actually —”

  “Then we’ll see if he’s a real Lucian” — Father cleared his throat — “or just an overly coddled embarrassment.”

  Rupert’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn around. The next time they saw him, he’d be a decorated officer. A hero they’d be begging to attend the council meetings. He stomped out noisily, hoping to obscure any further cutting remarks. But it wasn’t necessary. The clinking of china and the scrape of silver were the only sounds that pierced the heavy silence.

  After a very quick stop in London for some necessities and a ferry ride across the Channel, Rupert enjoyed a beautiful train ride through the French countryside. Outside, it was lightly snowing, and inside he had hot cocoa and a comfortable seat and biscuits. From that first-class seat, Rupert could feel his anger and hurt give way to excitement as he sped toward glory. Albert had been half-right — he was a little young to be a soldier. But there were many ways to fudge things, especially if you were a Cahill.

  His background only made it natural for him to succeed. He was grafted from the same tree as Napoleon, and countless kings and queens of not only England, but the whole world. And he expected the same rights and privileges as had been afforded to them — the officers’ camp, with a map spread over a huge table and pawn pieces to slide across it, pages in matching livery, and well-mannered horses with gleaming saddles. That’s how it was in books. He saw no reason that he should be denied a place in those pages as well.

  All of their deeds and achievements, of course, were linked to the Clue hunt — that race across generations and around the world to piece together the key to ultimate power — a serum that would turn the drinker into the most creative, brilliant, cunning, and athletic human to ever walk the earth. Over four hundred years ago, Gideon Cahill had figured out the secret to that power, and his descendants had been fighting over it ever since. The Cahills were a cut above, of course, and the Lucians were the cream that rose to the top. Descendants of Luke Cahill, Rupert’s family branch, were cool and cunning and — if he did say so himself — altogether handsome and brilliant. Luke had done well to take the piece of the serum that had given him such gifts — had twined them into his very cells and passed them down to his children and his children’s children, all the way to Rupert. And Rupert was determined to be deserving of that legacy, no matter what his father thought of him.

  The snow had stopped a while back, fizzling into a gray, misty drizzle as the train took him farther and farther into France. To the Continent, December had brought a chilling, persistent wetness that could barely be kept at bay by the comforts of a bright and heated first-class train ticket.

  He went to the first-class water closet and changed into his uniform. He’d had one, and a spare, made up at a tailor in London — it fit perfectly and was lined in silk, which he felt was both practical and best up to his standards. He wasn’t exactly in the army yet — his plan, he thought, worked better if he handled all of the paperwork at a later date. And there were certain perks to breaking into the army on your own terms — he doubted that soldiers were regularly permitted to ride first class on their way to the field of battle. Besides, paperwork wasn’t the fun part, and Rupert only wanted to do the fun parts.

  In his new and comfortable uniform, Rupert stepped off the train. He was ready to take over this war. But instead of being full of cheering villagers, the train platform was practically empty. And the people who were there walked with their heads down, their children tucked close to their sides. It was so quiet — like everyone was afraid to make sudden noises. Rupert straightened his collar, walked up to the ticket counter, and inquired as to where he might get a car to take him to the field.

  The man at the counter raised his eyebrows at the question. “Je suis désolé,” said the man. “No cars. All of the cars are in use for the armies. No cars. Désolé, désolé. So sorry.”

  “Pardonnez-moi,” said Rupert, taking a step back from the window and gesturing to his pressed khaki shirt. “But who do you think I am?”

  “I am désolé,” said the man again, “but they are not here. No cars here. Soldiers — you walk.”

  “Walk? To the front?” said Rupert. And the ticket man nodded.

  “You follow the road à l’est and you will find it.” Rupert thought the old man shuddered.

  “There has to be another way,” said Rupert.

  “I am afraid not,” said the ticket man, and he looked so sad when he said it. “Vous savez,” said the ticket man, “this is the last train going north. After that, all trains will carry only soldiers and food for armies. There will be no more tickets to sell.”

  Rupert looked at him askance. Was he implying that Rupert should go back on the train? He couldn’t do that.

  “The war will be over soon,” said Rupert, not knowing what else to say.

  “Oui,” said the ticket man. “Let us hope. Bonne chance.”

  Rupert lifted his rucksack onto his shoulder and turned away, feeling unsettled. He didn’t know what the ticket man had been implying, but he had other problems to solve. Like how to get himself to the battlefield, and how to save his pride in the process.

  Rupert did not end up walking. He managed to catch a ride on a cart full of sheep and cabbages, being driven by an old farmer and a wheezy gray horse. It was a cranky journey, and the thought of being spotted by a fellow Cahill made his cheeks burn. He was banged about on the back of the wagon like he was the cabbage, and the smell of it all lodged itself so firmly in his nose that he didn’t think he’d ever get rid of it. But it wasn’t walking. He had said he would not walk, and that was the sticking point.

  “Ici, ici,” said the farmer, whom Rupert had paid to carry him in his cart.

  “We’re not there yet,” said Rupert. He could see the beginnings of the front ahead — what looked like a huddle of tents and piles of supplies. “It’s still up there.”

  “Vous marchez,” said the farmer, miming a march.

  Obviously, this was a language-barrier issue.
Rupert leaped down from the back of the cabbage cart, his rucksack over his shoulder.

  “Look,” he said, gesturing out toward the camp. “There. That’s where I’m going.”

  “Marchez,” said the farmer, nodding. “Bonne chance!” And then he flicked the reins and the horse began to amble away.

  “Hey!” Rupert yelled, dropping his rucksack onto the road and waving his arms. “Stop! Come back here! Come back here this instant!”

  But the farmer ignored him, and Rupert was left standing on the freezing road. The camp looked even farther away now than it had before. He looked behind him, to see if another farmer was leaving the town and headed down his way. But there was no one. And a feeling of isolation, like a cold snake, slipped under his skin. He was alone, in a field, in the middle of war-torn France.

  Which at least meant there was no one to witness his humiliation. Rupert picked up his sack and stepped off of the road. His boot gave a sick, wet squelch as it sank into the cold mud. Thunder boomed in the distance, and the last thing he wanted was to get caught in the marsh in a rainstorm. He’d probably drown or get sucked down into the bog. So he squelched his way across the mud fields as the thunder grew louder. What had once been a field that grew wheat or lavender or had pastured cows and sheep had been mashed into the gateway of a war. It was depressing. Rupert was sure better things lay ahead. He would walk into camp and present himself as an officer, and destiny would take its course. His natural leadership skills would reveal themselves in no time at all. It would be, as his nanny Pat always said, easy as porridge and pie.

  Night was falling quickly, and so Rupert hurried. As he drew nearer the camp, the thunder grew louder, but still there was no rain, and no lightning.

  “Who’s that there?” came a voice from the camp. “Oi! Get on in here! You there — get the lead out of your pants and get on in.” It was a young private, waving his cap in Rupert’s general direction. Rupert picked up his pace and trotted over to where the tents and hasty buildings were huddled together. He didn’t quite understand — he was already dirty enough. There was no need to worry about the rain. In fact, he thought it would probably do his uniform some good.