by Mira Bartók
Quintus was pointing out the headmistress and her partner-in-crime to a pair of policemen. The officers began striding toward them, wielding billy clubs. “Is there another way out?” Wire asked under his breath.
“Yes! But we must go back inside to get there.”
“Run in a zigzag,” said Wire. “It’ll throw them off. Go!”
As she and Wire zigzagged past Quintus and the officers, Wire, who had always fancied having a cat of his own — for if anything, he was a Rat who aspired to greatness — snatched up Squee, who was still disguised as a cat.
At that moment, a ginger-haired woman in an indigo cloak was climbing down the firefighters’ ladder and into the courtyard, frantically calling out her daughter’s name. “Linette! Linette! Where are you?”
“Over here, Mama! I’m safe,” cried Linette, waving her arms. The woman started toward her daughter but stopped. Heading straight for the door were her very own sister and a very large Rat.
Phoebe Nightingale ran — arms open, tears streaming down her face — toward the sister she had not seen in thirty years, her cloak billowing out behind her.
“Clemmy! Stop! Please! Clementine!”
But Miss Carbunkle did not turn back. Instead, she and Wire, who was dragging poor Squee by the scruff of his neck, dashed right into the burning building.
And then Arthur watched in horror as a tiny mouse with an acorn helmet and sword scurried right after them.
“Peevil!” screamed Arthur. He tried to follow, but a burly fireman held him back.
“Place is gonna burn down,” said the fireman. “We gotta get you lot up and over that ladder fast.”
Inside Kestrel Hall, Miss Carbunkle and Wire dashed down to her office. “I know a way out, but first I must get those plans!” she cried. Just as they reached the Grand Hall, though, flames shot up from the cellar door inside the clock, and all at once, it burst into flames. The fire began to spread toward Miss Carbunkle’s glass office. “I must get those plans!” she shrieked again, and fumbled in her pocket for her key. But when she tried the lock, the door, which was burning-hot now, wouldn’t budge. She kicked and kicked it, trying to break it down, then started beating the door with her now-hollow cane, but the door stayed just as unyielding as she had built it.
She was so furious, she raised her cane over her head and threw it at the burning clock. It blazed a brilliant red for a moment, then was consumed by fire.
Wire shouted at her to follow him and pulled her away.
Thus, the woman with the bright-orange wig and the Rat with the black pebble eyes disappeared through a secret passageway only she knew about, to a tunnel far below the burning cellar and far, far away from the Home.
And the orphanage, which had been built centuries ago in the shape of a giant cross and had been so many things — a monastery, a prison, a workhouse, and a sorrowful home for wayward and misbegotten creatures — went up in flames.
The whole of Kestrel Courtyard began to fill with choking smoke. Even if Belisha — blindfolded and exhausted — could carry some of the groundlings, and Quintus and the others could carry some on bicycles, with only the one ladder it was doubtful that everyone could get over the Wall in time.
But still, they tried. The firefighters and police officers, along with Quintus, his friends, and Linette and Phoebe, threw themselves into action — helping groundlings up the ladder, onto bicycles, and onto Belisha’s back.
Arthur and Trinket were watching the door, hoping against hope that Peevil would appear. Tongues of fire were bursting through the infirmary window now. Arthur strained to listen for a mouse’s squeak but could hear only the fire roaring inside.
“Arthur,” said Trinket. “Look!”
She was motioning with her beak at all the groundlings huddled around them. There were more than a hundred, way too many to save. The orphans seemed doomed.
“What can we do?” asked Arthur, his heart sinking fast.
“I don’t know, Arthur! Look at them, the poor things. They’re frightened to death.”
Arthur stared at all the orphans sitting together on the ground, dressed in tattered gray pajamas, clinging to one another and crying. Their crying pierced his heart and every fiber of his being.
He was at a loss at what to do and so just stood there shaking his head.
And then an idea came to him — an idea so simple it seemed ridiculous. And it certainly wouldn’t save them — he wasn’t so arrogant as to think that. But he thought it might help in some small way.
If he had to die, he decided, he would die singing. And doing what he knew now was his destiny: to sing to the lonely, comfort the frightened, and awaken the love in sleeping hearts.
And so Arthur began to sing. It was the lullaby his mother had sung to him that night under the stars, the song that had comforted him and kept him alive all those years:
“In every tree and every forest, birds are singing a hopeful chorus. . . .”
The groundlings looked up at the one-eared orphan’s red furry face and his chestnut eyes flecked with gold, the groundling they had known as Number Thirteen. And just as the voice of the beauty of the world had flowed from the Songcatcher into him, his song now flowed into them. As he sang in his pure, sweet voice, their spirits began to lift and they felt less afraid. And as their hearts lightened, Arthur’s song floated over the courtyard, and over the Wall to the tall white birch on the other side. And then a twittering began, and a chirping and cooing from the birds who nested there, and their song spread to other trees, and soon the valley beyond the Wall was filled with song. As the air reverberated with music, a dark force began to lift from somewhere deep below. The flames that moments before were consuming the building began to smolder, then die.
The Wall started shaking, just as it had when the manticore turned to stone, and a dark mist rose up all around it, shrouding it in blackness. Then, in an instant, the mist drifted up and away into the clear, cloudless sky.
“Look!” cried Trinket and the others. They were all pointing at the Wall now, to where the ancient arched door had once been. The stones that Miss Carbunkle had used to cover it up thirty years before began falling away, one by one, until before them was a beautiful arched door made of oak and decorated with a tree filled with birds. There was no need for a key now; the door swung open by itself.
No one could speak, they were so wonder-struck. As Quintus, Trinket, and Arthur ushered the little ones to the open door, Arthur heard a jubilant and victorious squeak. There, scampering out of the charred building, was Peevil, the bravest of knights, along with fifty or more mice and rats, carrying the scroll of Songcatcher plans on their backs. Arthur let out a wild cheer, and everyone joined in, crying “Huzzah! Huzzah!” for Peevil and his comrades.
“Well, I never,” Quintus said to Arthur. “If rats an’ mice can work side by side, I reckon there’s hope for us all.”
IT WAS CHRISTMAS EVE DAY, and Phoebe Nightingale’s house was swirling with festivities. Phoebe was wrapping presents with her friend Mr. Pitch, while Linette was putting up last-minute decorations. The cook was hard at work in the kitchen, preparing an extraordinary feast in honor of Arthur’s first birthday in his new home, and Arthur, Trinket, and several of the other groundlings whom Phoebe Nightingale had taken in until things were sorted out were decorating the tree. Peevil was squeaking directions from the entrance of his new home: a well-appointed dollhouse that had been refurbished to accommodate a mouse — or, rather, a knightly mouse. Peevil wanted everything to look perfect because his family, whom he had finally found, was coming to spend the holidays with him.
Six months had passed since the fire at Miss Carbunkle’s Home for Wayward and Misbegotten Creatures. Phoebe had declined to file any charges against her sister, but Miss Carbunkle was still on the lam. No one knew her whereabouts or, for that matter, those of her accomplice, the Rat. And Squee, Arthur’s friend from Wildered Manor whom Wire had snatched in the courtyard, was still missing in action.
&n
bsp; Still, there were so many things for which Arthur could be grateful.
For one, thanks to Constable Floop and Miss Phoebe, he was no longer a wanted criminal, and all the horrible posters had been taken down in the City. Second, he now had a new name besides Arthur and “the Wonderling.” He never could recall the full name his mother had given him. But Miss Phoebe had adopted him, and he was now called Arthur Nightingale — and would never again be known only by an unlucky number stamped on a tin tag hanging around his neck.
Phoebe had pulled a lot of strings to adopt him, since humans were rarely allowed to adopt groundlings, but it all worked out in the end. As it happened, the official in charge of the matter was one of her biggest music hall fans. And while Arthur still had to be registered with the authorities, he had more freedom than he ever imagined.
There were more good things, like Phoebe’s plans for restoring the parts of the Home that had been damaged in the fire and turning it into a free boarding school for the study and practice of the arts. All the groundlings who had lived under her sister’s tyrannical rule would receive a real education. And when the building was finished, they could sing and dance and play and draw to their hearts’ content.
Plus, Arthur would have a tutor! Any day now, a certain Erastus Pennywhistle, a distinguished and scholarly hare groundling, was to arrive by ship. After six months of, as Miss Phoebe put it, “Arthur’s idle amusements” — touring the City with Trinket, playing countless board games, sliding down banisters, and reading everything he could get his hands on about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table — Arthur would finally have a real teacher. He would be instructed not only in music (which, to Miss Phoebe, was the most important subject in the world), but in philosophy, philology, archaeology, Ancient Greek, Latin, alchemy, mathematics, botany, astronomy, literature, and just about every other subject under the sun.
Trinket, who was now living at Phoebe’s house, had also been offered the services of Professor Pennywhistle, but she had declined. “A tutor?” she had said. “Spend my days learning Ancient Greek and Latin and other silly things when I could be inventing something no one has ever invented before? With all due respect — and gratitude for your kind offer, Miss Phoebe — I think I’ll pass.”
In the parlor, a cozy fire roared and sputtered in the hearth, while a gentle snow fell on the street outside the blue-shuttered windows of the House of Nightingale. Arthur was sitting by the window, gazing out at the peaceful white street. He wondered if it was gently snowing inside the Wall too, or if the Home was still being pelted with rain. He had a feeling that from now on, the weather would only get better and better there.
He remembered something Belisha had told him that day in Kestrel Courtyard after the miraculous door appeared. He had asked her if the place had become so evil and corrupt because of the manticore, and she said — in typical night crow fashion — yes and no. She said that sometimes people have a strange habit of inviting hate into their house when they don’t get what they want or when someone hurts them. “Don’t ever let that happen to you, Foxling,” she said. He hugged her neck and assured her he wouldn’t.
Arthur still couldn’t believe his luck. All his friends were with him now — at least most of them were. He watched as Trinket flitted around the glittering tree, adding finishing touches here and there, including a bright-gold bird at the top. Trinket had invented a very useful Christmas cranberry stringer, and Baby Tizer was making sure it made enough cranberry strands for the tree. Arthur got up and began placing tinsel all around, and Peevil (who insisted on being called Peevil the Bold ever since the Great Fire) gave persistent and unsolicited advice, which Arthur was forced to translate. Trinket, who now had her own workshop at Miss Phoebe’s, promised Arthur that after the holidays, she would invent some kind of translation device so Peevil could communicate with everyone.
There was a knock at the door, and Linette went to answer it. She returned in a moment and said, “Arthur, you’ll never guess who’s here! I’ll give you a hint: he came in whistling a tune and is wearing a fancy red hat.”
Arthur ran to the foyer and threw his arms around his old friend, who was elegantly dressed in red velveteen tails, a top hat, and a black overcoat.
“Quintus! It’s been so long! Why haven’t you stopped by sooner? Come in, come in! Shall I put the kettle on? Can you stay for tea?” He called out to Linette to ask if there were any biscuits left from the morning.
“Yes, Arthur,” she called from the parlor. “Is your friend staying for tea?”
Quintus lowered his voice and said, “Listen, lad, can’t stay for tea, but can we talk private like? I needs to tell you somethink. I came on a mission. To make good on somethink I shoulda done long ago.”
“Of course,” said Arthur, then called out to Linette not to bother with the tea. He turned back to his old friend and looked up at him with concern. “What is it, Quintus? What’s wrong?”
“I made a promise to you, lad, and I aim to keep it. But first, take this. ’Twas always meant for you, not me. Should’ve given it to you ages ago, but I felt too shameful like.”
Quintus handed him a small piece of paper that had been crumpled up and folded many times over. It was creased and smudged with grease and dirt. Arthur opened it and read the message, which had been written quickly on the day he had escaped with Trinket from the Home:
Arthur — If you make it to the City, go to my mother Phoebe Nightingale’s house. She’ll be out of town until the second week of June, but the key is below the stone bird next to the back door. Make yourself at home. I’ll let her know you’re there.
The message ended with brief directions to Phoebe’s house and the words Love, Linette. P.S. Good luck!
“Don’t deserve forgiveness,” said Quintus, “but maybe . . . maybe someday, you might not think of me so unkindly like. We had some good times, didn’t we, Spike ol’ boy?”
Arthur was stunned. So this was how Quintus had chosen Phoebe’s house for their robbery: he had learned from Linette’s note that the place would be empty. It was something a scoundrel would do, and Quintus was a scoundrel. But he was also Arthur’s friend, and if it hadn’t been for him and the rest of the gang, he and Trinket might not have survived the terrible fire.
“Oh, Quintus,” said Arthur. “Of course I forgive you!” And he embraced his friend once more.
“Well, I . . . uh . . .” said Quintus, who was so choked up he couldn’t talk.
Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Quintus said, “I’ll not come in today, Spike. Maybe some other time. An’ if you don’t mind, maybe you can tell Linette and Phoebe that I’m real sorry fer doin’ what I did. Or I’ll tell her meself next time ’round. But you need to walk with me fer a bit now, Spike. I gots somethink to show ya. Bit of a trek, but I’ll get you back in one piece. Turns out it ain’t too far from good ol’ Wildered Manor.”
So Quintus and Arthur walked through the snowy streets of Lumentown, past the great pillared mansions with their stained-glass windows, their pink and white turrets and balconies, and snow-covered topiaries trimmed into the shape of cats. They passed the market and redbrick houses, the cafés and pubs and fancy shops. They passed street musicians playing harps and hurdy-gurdies, and flutes and fiddles in the cold afternoon air.
Arthur stopped at every single one and dropped a coin into his or her cup.
The noise of the streets was muffled from the snow and the holiday hush, and everyone, even the grumpiest-looking High Hats, seemed to be in good spirits that clear, crisp day.
When they reached the river, Arthur asked Quintus to wait while he stopped by a group of Huddlers gathered around a kindling fire on the dock. “I’ll just be a moment,” he said.
He gave each Huddler some of what he had stuffed in his pocket before he left: some rolls, a little cheese, whatever he’d been able to fetch in a hurry. “Merry Christmas,” he said to them. Then, remembering Trinket’s words that day they had parted and he felt so lost and alo
ne, “Be brave,” he said, “and never, ever lose hope!”
“You’re a good ’un, ya are,” said Quintus. He linked his arm in Arthur’s and they went on.
When they got to Stinkbottom Bridge, Arthur was glad to see Constable Floop back at his post.
“Happy holidays, good cheer, an’ all that,” said the policeman in his usual deadpan manner. But when Quintus tried to put a coin in his hand, the officer shook his head no and said, “G’won with ya now. An’ happy New Year to ya both.”
On the other side of the river, they passed the Swan & Whistle, and Arthur told himself that he ought to go back there really soon and learn a tune or two from those musicians. Now that he knew he could sing — that he had to sing — he wanted to learn as many songs as he could.
He glanced down at the riverbank. Maybe, just maybe, the Norahc was waiting there for evening to come. Who would it carry across next? And what would happen to that poor lost soul?
Arthur and Quintus cut through Bloomintown, and even the ramshackle tenements looked clean and cozy in the freshly fallen snow.
Finally, they arrived at 17 Tintagel Road.
“This is it, m’ boy,” said Quintus. He gave Arthur’s shoulder a squeeze. “Hadn’t been a house on this spot back ten years, I’d say. You musta been about one year old, ain’t that right?”
Arthur was speechless. Now that he was finally here, he didn’t know what to feel. He stared at the burned shell of what had once been a lovely home. It looked like the remains of the houses on Quintus’s street, which was only a hop and skip away. Some dwellings nearby had been rebuilt and made into cheap housing for humans.
“I asked around,” said Quintus. “Used to be a fine place, this house an’ this here street. But after . . . after whot they call the Lustrum, well . . . Same thing happened to me.”