by Lisa Samson
“Well, now.” She adjusted her skirts, skirts not in the manner of the late sixteen-hundreds. Madrigal had also opted out of costuming, as she did not give one, two, or three hoots about such theatrics. In other words, Ms. Pierce is stuffy and haughty and will look down her nose at you even if you top her by a good eight inches. “By the looks of things around here, I suppose you’re reading The Three Musketeers?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Ophelia was learning how to handle Madrigal.
“And?”
“Well, I don’t really know why Dumas (pronounced Doo-Mah) named it The Three Musketeers, as much of the story seems to be more about D’Artagnan, who wasn’t even one of the musketeers for whom the novel was named.”
D’Artagnan, the headstrong country boy who travels to Paris determined to be a musketeer, was good with his sword, and even better at romancing the ladies. A perfect literary hero.
A dreamy look settled into Madrigal’s eyes. “Ah yes. D’Artagnan!” She made it sound more French.
Well, thought Ophelia. The woman has a romantic bone in her body. I never would have guessed.
“And your brother?” Madrigal asked. “What has he been reading?”
Of course, Ophelia knew. He’d been re-reading It’s All Reality: Traveling Through “Imaginary” Realms in Five Easy Steps. But instead she said, “You’ll have to ask him, Ms. Pierce.” Linus would have to have a real conversation—just desserts for going into that fire!
Ms. Pierce stood up on her high-heeled shoes and gathered her fine shawl around her shoulders. “And so I shall!” she declared. When she got to the door, she turned. “Thank you for your help, Ophelia. I heard you called 9-1-1.” And before Ophelia could say, “You’re welcome,” she’d clicked her way down the hall toward the stairs.
Professor Birdwistell’s voice blustered in from the kitchen where he was telling Walter what a miserable waiter he made. The rotund little man, who was one of Uncle Augustus’s best friends, should have been named Professor Sharpthistle or Toughgristle. Ophelia had never known someone so crabby. She was normally adept at finding at least something good in everyone, but for the past three months she’d only been able to come up with one thing. Professor Birdwistell did not smell.
The professor, who looked like a round little bird, puffed his chest out. “I keep wondering why Augustus allows you three to serve at his party. Children!” he spat out.
“We don’t charge,” said Walter. His neck began to turn red. “And furthermore —”
Ronda turned from the stove. “That’s enough, Birdwistell. This is my kitchen and my crew, and if you don’t like it, you know where the stairs are.”
Ophelia wanted to cheer. Instead she hurried in. Birdwistell was one of Aunt Portia’s best customers. “Hello, Professor! Lovely evening, isn’t it? My you look handsome!”
On his way out of the room he awarded her compliment with a narrowing of his beady eyes. The man wasn’t congenial, but that doesn’t mean he’s stupid. He knew a lie when he heard one.
“Way to go, Ronda,” said Ophelia. “Really.”
“Oh, I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time,” she said.
Walter shook his head and swallowed his ire. “Thanks.”
“Where’s Linus?” asked Ophelia.
Nobody knew.
Actually, Linus was somewhere. We always are, every single one of us, every single moment of every day. Although not always where we’d like to be, like when stuck at the top of a Ferris wheel. Oh my! I hate that, don’t you? Even worse, going down basement steps in old houses. The dirt! The cobwebs!
Linus had gone to the front steps of the bookshop to get away from the masses. Normally Linus didn’t mind group settings. He spent so much time in his mind, spending time with others recharged his batteries. Whereas Ophelia, always the more outgoing of the two, needed to retreat to her bedroom with a good book to be able to face the writhing, germinfested horde that is humanity.
Nevertheless, Linus’s shoes bothered him. They were a bit too tight at the sides. When feet have to support that much height, they spread out a bit.
He removed his shoes, reaching down to squeeze his feet. I do hope he thought to wash his hands when he went back inside. If he didn’t, well, then I’m glad I was once again left off the guest list!
He leaned against the stair railing and had just closed his eyes when the sound of a motor disturbed his peace.
Figures.
He looked up to see a green Westfalia van (VW camper van) pulling up to the curb in front of The Pierce School. A tall man, at least four inches taller than Linus and as thin as Ms. Pierce, climbed out of the driver’s seat, walked around the vehicle, and opened the passenger door. He grabbed a messenger bag and a duffle bag.
That’s Madge’s brother, thought Linus. He carried himself just like her.
He strode through the school’s garden gate.
Ah-ha, dear reader! You’re getting the picture, aren’t you? No dullard, you! You know exactly who he is, don’t you? The fire-setter! But the twins and Walter and Madrigal Pierce don’t know, and you have no way to tell them, do you? Ha-hah!
Ophelia slid her arm through Father Lou’s and guided him into the kitchen. “Now I know you don’t get haircuts very often, but you need to meet Ronda. She owns that little salon down the street. Hey, Ronda!”
Ronda turned around to face them from where she was sautéing something French at the stove, most likely something disgusting like snails. “Yes?”
“This is Father Lou, from across the street.”
“Oh! At All Souls? Pleasure to make your acquaintance!”
A buzzer buzzed.
“So sorry! Time to get the lamb out of the oven.”
“Nice to meet you too,” said Father Lou.
His jaw could have been scraped off the floor.
Well, thought Ophelia, this is interesting.
Father Lou was so nice, such a good person, he deserved a good woman like Ronda. Ophelia didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of this before.
six
To Die Will Be an Awfully Big Adventure
or We Don’t Think About Death Like That Nowadays
Peter Pan quoted the above phrase, and to put it mildly, only someone who doesn’t know better would mutter such utter nonsense.
I don’t know about you, my dears, but you can skip your awfully big adventures if it means never eating Thanksgiving dinner or feeling an autumn breeze glide across your face ever again. Do not sign me up for adventure dying. Please take note of that. If my cousin from Jersey City suggests going skydiving, please talk me out of it. Thank you.
These days, most people think death is worth it if the sacrifice itself is worthy. For instance, one might consider someone pulling fifty people out of a plane only to sacrifice his own life to have died a worthy death. But if a person risks their life to get their fifteen minutes of fame on some reality television show, their death is not noble, it is stupid.
And one should not die a stupid death, even those reality television show dullards. (I trust, because you are smart enough to be reading this book, that you will never be counted among them.)
The reason death has become the topic of current discussion is because blustery, passionate swordsmen from the sixteen-hundreds are a bit like Peter Pan. They get quite lackadaisical (not caring much one way or the other) about dying during their swordfights. And not just about their own deaths, oh no, but also about what constitutes a valuable human life.
Ophelia, Linus, and Walter were considering this very element as they waited for the enchanted circle to begin its display.
“I think d’Artagnan makes the most sense.” Ophelia looked down at the two boys who were sitting on the floor by the couch.
“You would.” Linus slid off his buckled shoes and yanked off his socks.
“Of course she would, mate.” Walter took a look at the shiny, black leather boots he wore and decided to keep them on. “What lassie wouldn’t pick the handsome hero to s
pring out of the pages? We may have come to love Captain Ahab and Quasimodo, but they weren’t exactly charmers.”
He winked at Ophelia, and Ophelia’s heart sped up. She cleared her throat. “He just seems the most interesting. Let’s face it, the other musketeers already know what they want out of life.”
Linus leaned back. “Such as?”
Walter nodded. “Yeah. You might want to fill us in before the circle opens up.”
“Aramis wants to be a priest. Porthos doesn’t care much about anything as long as he has a lot of women to choose from and a great wardrobe. And Athos is perfectly content feeling haunted about love lost. D’Artagnan is young. He’ll relate to us better. And besides, he is a hopeless romantic.”
“So?” asked Linus. A one word response! He grinned.
Ophelia set her copy of The Three Musketeers beside her on the couch. “I was thinking that maybe we could use a little romantic interference.”
Walter’s mouth dropped open. “For who?”
Now it felt stupid. “Madrigal Pierce?”
Linus couldn’t contain his laughter. Madge? Loveable? Yeah, right.
Walter rolled his eyes as if to say, This is the weirdest idea you’ve ever had, Ophelia.
“Okay, whatever.” Ophelia looked at her watch. It was 11:10 p.m. “Ready?”
The guys nodded.
“Then let’s see what the brash d’Artagnan will do with the world as it now is!”
She opened the book to the page she’d chosen that afternoon and set it in the middle of the circle. “Ready?”
The boys nodded.
Ophelia began the countdown. Starting with the number eleven, of course.
seven
Big Dresses Don’t Always Cover a Multitude of Mistakes
or Throwing a Twist into What Might Otherwise Be a Predictable Plot Is Never a Bad Thing
Oh dear, what happened next was unexpected, but even the most careful of people flub it up sometimes.
“… one … go!”
Almost as if the circle was listening to Ophelia, it began to glow. A rainbow of colors pulsed on its curve, beginning with deep but vivid green into lapis blue, then indigo, violet. From crimson into a raging red, the circle pulsated an eye blistering orange, transitioned into a blinding yellow, then settled into the purest of white light.
After about three seconds, sparks rose quickly like fireworks, as if shooting from nozzles in the floor, hissing and popping and softly roaring in the small attic space. This was the fifth time the trio had seen the event.
“It never gets old,” whispered Walter.
“Nope, never does,” said Linus, forgetting his two-word minimum. Smoke, more like fog, settled in the circle’s boundaries and a figure began to materialize in the middle, huddled in a heap of … skirts?
Ophelia’s mouth dropped open, her brows almost meeting together in the middle of her forehead in confusion. “Who …?”
“That’s not a bloke,” said Walter as the sparks ceased and the smoke twisted like a tornado, then disappeared with an audible snap, leaving behind yet another figure!
Two?
The portal was closed and nobody in the room knew how to open it back up come what may.
Inside the circle sat the most beautiful woman anyone in the room had ever seen.
And that included Ronda, according to Linus. Now I didn’t see this new woman for myself, but I rather have my doubts she could top Ronda. And next to her a dashing musketeer was passed out cold.
“Who is that?” asked Walter looking at the woman in horror.
“There are at least two beautiful women in the book. I don’t know.” Ophelia grabbed the book and ran her index finger down the page. “Oh no! I was so set on bringing d’Artagnan back during his journey to England — I wanted to warn him about Milady and Lord Buckingham’s fate — I didn’t notice she was on the page too.” She hit her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Stupid! How could I not have noticed?”
“Who’s Milady?” asked Linus, a sick feeling settling in his stomach.
“Pretty much the most evil person in the book. Well, next to the cardinal and the Count de Rochefort. But still.”
“That’s not good.” Walter stood up and gazed at the pair.
“I can’t even tell you how not good it is.”
“And I assume that’s d’Artagnan,” he said, pointing to the male figure lying there as if he was taking the most delightful afternoon nap.
Ophelia nodded. “He’s her enemy.”
“Great,” said Linus. “You’ve done it this time.”
“Me?” Ophelia’s face reddened. “You always leave the research up to me. Oh, Ophelia will read the book …”
Milady, the Countess de Winter, opened her eyes, rubbed them a little, and smoothed the skirts of her yellow silk gown. Lace lined the low neckline and sleeves. Ribbons decorated the fancy dress, and embroidery so fine, only the best of dressmakers could be responsible for such mastery. She was the most beautiful woman any of them had ever seen, true, but it was more than physical appearance. The boys sucked in their breath. Ophelia blinked and blinked and blinked. Milady had the power to draw people in.
Ophelia knew, right there, she had made an enemy, a mortal one, if the Countess de Winter had anything to do with it.
D’Artagnan began to snore.
Milady’s skin, the color of a pale pink rose, shone like a precious pearl in the candlelight. It was impossible to see the color of her eyes in the dim light of the flames, but Ophelia knew they were a clear blue. The pale yellow of her hair added to the fresh pallet of her appearance. The rosebud pink of her lips and the small feet in jeweled shoes peeking from beneath the folds of her skirt all attested to the fact that she was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing is an oft-used expression for someone who is playing the part of a friend but who is, in fact, the enemy. Picture what happens when a wolf gets into the sheepfold. It isn’t pretty, is it? Unless you’re the wolf, and then I suppose it’s like dinner on the grounds. Much is a matter of perspective, you see.
Both Linus and Walter stepped forward and held out their hand.
Milady took one in each of hers and rose easily to her feet. “Why, thank you, my lord …” she nodded at Linus. “And Captain,” she said, nodding at Walter.
So this is a captain’s uniform, he thought, hoping she wouldn’t realize he looked much too young for such a position.
“Welcome to Kingscross, Countess,” said Ophelia. “You are once again the prisoner of Great Britain.”
Milady screwed up her face. “Great Britain? Wherever is Great Britain?”
“England!” Walter practically shouted. “You are now a prisoner of the crown.”
Then he winked at Milady. Ophelia could hardly believe her eyes. Linus said nothing.
“Who are you?” Milady asked Linus.
“Lord Easterday?” he said, turning his head frantically to Ophelia who nodded.
“And I am his sister, Lady Ophelia Easterday. My brother and I have been instructed to hold you here for the next three days.”
Without warning, the Countess de Winter lost all her color and fainted into Walter’s arms.
Now it was Ophelia’s turn to roll her eyes. Oh brother.
eight
When It Rains It Pours
or As If There Weren’t Enough Strange People on Rickshaw Street
Walter picked up the noblewoman and laid her on the blue sofa. D’Artagnan still slept the all-encompassing slumber of youth.
“I couldn’t believe she’d made the trip so easily!” Ophelia crossed her arms in front of her. “Both Quasimodo and Captain Ahab had a time of it.”
“She must have a lot of fortitude,” said Walter. “Unlike that guy.” He pointed to d’Artagnan.
“You could call it that.” Ophelia plopped down on the other end of the couch.
“That bad?” asked Linus.
“I mean, look at her.” Walter touched a blond
curl. “She looks like an angel.”
“Madrigal Pierce is pretty too, Walt,” said Ophelia. Good heavens, she was going to have a time convincing the boys of Milady’s true nature.
“I know, but —”
“You should read the book. Believe me, she is not nice.” Ophelia lowered her voice. “She may not even be asleep right now, guys. It would be just like her to pretend.”
Linus sighed and sat down at the experiment table. This was going to take more than two words. “Do we need to bring anything from the book?”
“I don’t know. This is going to be a mess. Trust me guys, containing the Countess de Winter is going to make keeping Captain Ahab under wraps seem like nothing. And then add d’Artagnan into the mix …”
Walter took another look at the perfect face asleep on the couch cushion and had to admit he thought Ophelia was wrong this time. Thankfully, he wasn’t stupid enough to say so.
Right now I’m setting up internal conflict within the group. Up until this point in our series the trio has always been united in their purpose, if not always their opinion, on how to accomplish it.
But introduce a beautiful woman, and a diabolical one at that, especially with teenage boys, and you can bet the story will get very, very interesting. Of course, Ophelia could simply be wrong about the countess.
Linus and Walter left Milady in the care of Ophelia, who realized that yes, the French woman was actually asleep. She riffled through the pages of Dumas’s novel, looking for a clue as to how she should proceed. Both Linus and Walter, completely ignorant of the story, promised to be no help at all in the grand plan of the next three days before the circle opened back up.
That’s right. The trio had to keep this backstabbing, plotting, and scheming woman from making trouble of a monumental sort in the otherwise highly educated but highly boring town of Kingscross. (If you want to see boring at its zenith, come to the English department where I work and talk with the professors. No better sleeping pill exists! And if you want to suck the heart and soul out of a good story, analyze it to death like they do.)
A little less than sixty hours remained until 11:11 a.m., three days away, when the circle would open up again for the return trip. For the first time, Ophelia thought the acids between Book World and Real World which destroy characters who fail to pass back through may not be a bad proposition for someone like Milady. Ophelia could easily imagine this conniving, manipulating vixen melting away like the Wicked Witch of the West.