The Secret of the Key

by Marianne Malone

  “I wonder what the animator is,” Ruthie said, referring to the antique object that turned the miniature rooms and the painted dioramas outside of them into portals—passages to the real, live worlds of the past. A closed door on the far wall led to one of these worlds.

  “Could be anything—a statue, a book, one of those candlesticks.” Jack nodded to the set on the mantel.

  The walls were painted creamy white and the high, vaulted ceiling was decorated with an all-over pattern of carved octagons. A bookcase filled with colorful bound volumes stood at the back of the room. Gold and blue silk covered the chairs, and a landscape painting hung above the fireplace. Urns and vases, some small statuettes, and a grand crystal chandelier decorated the room.

  “Here’s the hourglass,” Ruthie said, walking over to a round table. It was the kind of hourglass with sand that pours from the top through the narrow middle to the bottom. It had a wood top and base. “It looks … off.”

  “What do you mean, off?”

  “It’s a little too rough. Everything else in this room is really well made.”

  They heard voices nearby in the gallery. Jack ducked behind a curtain, Ruthie behind a sofa. They waited, listening.

  When the viewers had moved on, Jack came over to Ruthie.

  “I think this was made as a miniature, not magically shrunk,” she said. They had discovered that a surprising number of objects not made by Mrs. Thorne or her craftsmen had found their way—somehow—into the rooms.

  “Why not?”

  “The grains of sand look too big. They’re almost pea size.”

  “Hmm, yeah, I see what you mean.”

  Ruthie turned it over to look at the bottom, the way Mrs. McVittie had taught her, hoping to find a signature or some other kind of marking. The chunky sand poured none too smoothly through the narrow middle. She squinted at some smudged and faded ink.

  “ ‘New Hampshire/E.K.’ I’m not positive, but I bet E.K. is Eugene Kupjack, one of Mrs. Thorne’s master craftsmen. He might have marked it so he’d know where to put it. I remember seeing an hourglass in one of the New Hampshire rooms—A2, I think.”

  “Maybe the museum people put it in here by mistake.”

  “Could’ve been anyone,” Ruthie added. “We know more people than us have been in the rooms.”

  “Let’s return it to the New Hampshire room later. After we explore,” Jack suggested, tipping his head toward the closed door to the outside.

  Ruthie put the hourglass carefully into her messenger bag. “I brought this,” she said, and pulled the ring dial out, holding it in her open palm. The sight of it reminded her of why they had come to the museum today. “I want to see if it works.”

  “Good idea.” Jack turned the stiff knob and pulled the door open. He stepped out, leaving Chicago and the twenty-first century behind. Ruthie followed. They stood on a slate patio in the shade of some tall trees in eighteenth-century England.

  Crossing the threshold, she felt a tiny burst of heat and a slight flutter in her hand. The sensation was coming from the ring dial. Before her eyes the scuffs and tarnish on the surface melted away and the brass underneath reflected the sunlight like a golden jewel. “Did you see what I just saw?”

  “Cool!” Jack exclaimed.

  “I guess it makes sense. We’re in the time period when the dial was made, so it’s brand-new out here.”

  They had never seen this happen before because they had never brought antiques like this into the past. What they had learned was that it was impossible to bring things from the past worlds into the present. When they had tried, the objects vanished before their eyes. (What they had also discovered was that Mrs. Thorne had put a few true antiques in the rooms, things like those they might find in Mrs. McVittie’s shop. Some were antique miniatures—but some had been magically shrunken!) Ruthie put the ring dial back in her bag.

  The day was bright and warm as they walked away from the door and farther out onto the patio, which was surrounded by a garden. The air smelled fresh and green and was scented with the wild roses that grew along the roadside beyond the garden, very different from Chicago with its bus fumes and Lake Michigan breezes. They had learned that the areas immediately outside the rooms were part of the magic, invisible to the people of the past. As long as they stayed on the patio, they could not be seen by anyone who happened to pass by.

  “Too bad we don’t have the right clothes,” Ruthie said.

  “We’re only going to look around. We don’t have to talk to people,” Jack said, but he took off his hefty wristwatch. “This would be hard to explain, though, if we bump into anyone.” He slipped it in one of his pockets. “Where do you want to go first?”

  The portal seemed to be at the edge of a small village. “How about there?” Ruthie pointed to the left, away from the town.

  The road meandered past a few houses, made of stone with thatched roofs, and some other structures clustered near them, and then on into the quiet countryside. It seemed like farmland, of sorts, but not the kind that Ruthie and Jack were used to seeing outside of Chicago, with row upon endless row of corn or soybeans. Here, hedgerows divided the properties into cultivated areas and grassy meadows where sheep and cows grazed. Wooded areas punctuated the landscape, making a patchwork of small, uneven shapes and textures.

  Not too far down the road, they came to a church, its steeple cutting the air as it came to a point. As they approached, they saw that the church was bordered by a stone wall enclosing a small graveyard. They counted about thirty simple headstones.

  “These are really old!” Jack observed. Many of the stones were weathered and eroded, but they saw that some had sixteenth- or seventeenth-century dates chiseled in them.

  “Any idea where in England we might be?”

  “The catalogue said Mrs. Thorne based the room on one in a house in a place called Buckinghamshire.”

  They came to an intersection. To the right, in the distance, they saw what they would call a castle. It was a large stone building and had a center turret with a crenellated top. It sat in the middle of a broad grassy area, high on a hill.

  Straight ahead, the road angled downhill and ended at a clear blue lake, just visible through the trees.

  “The castle, right?” Jack asked.

  “Of course!” Ruthie answered.

  THEY HAD TAKEN A DOZEN or so steps when they heard a crashing rumble coming from behind them and getting louder—fast. Ruthie and Jack spun around and saw a horse-drawn carriage heading in their direction. The sound of horseshoes clomping on gravel and the creaking of the wooden carriage thundered in the peaceful countryside. The vehicle rounded a bend and careened toward them.

  Jack grabbed Ruthie’s sleeve and yanked her to the side of the road. They ducked behind a tree as the carriage sped by. A young boy sat in the driver’s seat, alone.

  “Whoa! Whoa!” the boy shrieked, tugging frantically at the reins.

  “C’mon!” Ruthie yelled over the sound of the horse whinnying. “He needs help!”

  They ran back out onto the road. Even though they were running as fast as they could, the carriage was well ahead. They were about to give up when it veered to the side, a wheel caught in a rut, and the whole carriage lurched and tilted crazily, nearly toppling over. The boy was thrown from his seat like a rag doll. Also propelled into the air were a water-filled bucket and four glistening fish. The boy and the fish landed in the grass, the flipping fish a contrast to the boy, who lay motionless as Ruthie and Jack raced toward him.

  The horse, now without a driver, slowed down and reared before wandering off without regard to what had just happened.

  Ruthie knelt down to look at the boy. He was smaller than them, probably a year or two younger. He was breathing, but his eyes were closed and he wasn’t moving.

  “I’m going to tie up the horse, if I can,” Jack said, jogging off to catch the aimless animal.

  The boy moaned, shifting his head a little. That was a good sign, Ruthie thought; a
t least his neck wasn’t broken. His hair lay in a lopsided mess of disorderly curls, his white linen shirt torn and grass-stained.

  “I tied the horse to a tree over there,” Jack said when he came back. “How does he seem?”

  “He’s moving a little.”

  “Do you think we should get help?” Jack looked around.

  “I think he might be coming to,” Ruthie said, noticing the boy’s eyelids fluttering.

  “Ow … where am I?” The boy groaned, reaching up to rub his head. “And who … you wouldn’t be angels, would you?”

  Jack chuckled. “Do we look like angels?”

  From the ground, the boy looked them over. “You don’t look like you’re from here.”

  “We’re not,” Jack replied. “We’re from the Colonies.”

  The boy’s eyes popped into focus.

  “Are you okay?” Ruthie asked.

  “Beg pardon?” the boy responded.

  That word again! Ruthie reminded herself. Going back in time made her realize how often okay rolled off her tongue. “I mean, are you all right?”

  “I’m not sure what happened.”

  “You were thrown from your carriage,” Jack explained.

  “Oh … now I remember. Blossom, she was spooked. A rotten little critter ran ’cross the road and I lost control. You won’t be tellin’ on me?”

  “Aren’t you too young to be driving?” Jack asked.

  “Who are you to be askin’?” the young boy demanded. “It’s me own business.”

  “We won’t tell,” Ruthie said. “But let’s see if you’re hurt. Can you move your arms and legs?”

  The boy moved his legs and made small circles with his feet. “They’re fine, I’d say.” His right arm was fine too. But when he went to move the left, he moaned.

  “We can get help,” Ruthie said.

  “No!” He shook his head and struggled to sit upright. “I can manage.”

  “Do you live near here?” Jack asked.

  With his good arm the boy gestured toward the castle on the hill. “I work at the manor up there.”

  “What do you do?” Jack asked.

  “I work in the stables. Sometimes I help in the scullery.” He looked around suddenly. “Me fish!”

  “Right here.” Jack scrambled to grab the four fish, plunking them back in the bucket. “The water’s mostly gone.”

  “No matter. I can take them straightaway.” The boy tried to stand. He wobbled and staggered but made it to his feet.

  “You should see a doctor,” Jack said.

  The boy looked at Jack as though he had landed from another planet. “It’ll heal same as a doctor sees it or not!”

  “I suppose that’s true,” Jack responded.

  “We’ll help you back,” Ruthie said. “I’m Ruthie and this is Jack.”

  “I’m Freddy. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He gave a stiff bow, which caused him to teeter. Jack took Freddy’s arm to help him and led him to the carriage.

  “I’ll lead the horse—you climb on,” Jack directed. Ruthie hoisted the bucket with the fish into the back of the carriage.

  “Why don’t you come aboard?” Freddy said to her.

  “Oka … all right.” Ruthie pulled herself up. It was her first-ever carriage ride and it made her feel like a character in a fairy tale. Jack led the horse slowly along the road but the wooden seat was hard and Freddy winced with each bump in the road.

  “Them colonies is wild-like, I hear,” Freddy said between bounces.

  “It’s not too wild,” Ruthie answered. “Do you go to school?”

  “School?” Freddy looked at her again like she was speaking another language. “Aren’t any round here. Anyway, the groom wouldn’t like me to be gone from the stable. You?”

  Ruthie nodded.

  “Do you like it?”

  “Yes. But we don’t have school in the summer. Jack and I have jobs in a bookstore.”

  “Books!” He shook his head, his curls bobbing like springs. “Don’t have much use for them. But the ladies of the house always have their noses in them.”

  “Do you like your job?”

  “It suits me fine. I have me own bed. And the groom treats me decent, most days.” The carriage hit a bigger bump and he groaned in earnest. “I daresay I won’t be fishin’ for a while.”

  “You looked worried when Jack asked if you were too young to drive the carriage.”

  “I went fishin’—I’ve a secret place—without botherin’ to ask. It was early—no one was needin’ the carriage.” He looked up at the sun. “It’s later than I thought. Lost track of the time down at the lake, I did. But they’ll be happy ’bout the fish. You’ll see.”

  “What’s that?” Ruthie pointed to something in a basket wedged under the seat between them.

  “Oh, that? Just me whittlin’.”

  In the basket Ruthie spied five or six pieces of wood, in various stages of carving, and a sharp knife. “Can I take a look?”

  He shrugged, so Ruthie took that as a yes. She picked up one of the more finished pieces. It was a finely carved sculpture of a fish.

  She looked further and saw a mouse, a rabbit, and a bird—even a toad. “Did you make all of these?”

  “That I did. Just something to pass the time waitin’ for the fish to bite.”

  “These are amazing!” The wooden fish was about six inches long, complete with scales and gills and a tail fin captured in mid-swish. She held it up. “Jack—look at this.” Jack stopped the horse and, holding the reins loosely, walked back to the carriage.

  “Freddy carved these!” Ruthie tipped the basket so he could see.

  Jack pulled the bumpy-skinned toad from the basket; its bulging eyes seemed as though they might blink at him. “You’re really good.”

  Freddy gazed at the sky again. “If you please, could we keep on? I’m in for it now.”

  Jack returned to the horse and gave it a gentle tug to start it walking again.

  “Can’t you tell the groom what happened, that your arm is hurt and that’s why you’re late?”

  Freddy shook his head. “Late is late.”

  His matter-of-fact answer left Ruthie worrying about how serious his punishment would be.

  Just before they arrived at the final turn Freddy called down to Jack, “Stop!” Using one hand to steady himself, he managed to climb down before the carriage had come to a full stop. “I’ll take it from here.”

  “Are you sure?” Jack asked, reluctantly handing the reins to him, while Ruthie hopped to the ground.

  “I’m going round the back way to the stable. If luck’s with me, no one’ll be about.”

  Holding his swollen left arm against his torso, he led the horse away from them. He had gone only a few paces when a gruff voice shouted, “Freddy! What trouble are you makin’ for me now?” A stout but muscular man approached, walking with a hulking stride straight toward Freddy. The man had sandy red hair, blue eyes, and crooked brown-stained teeth. “The morning’s over and ya haven’t started with the stalls yet. How many times is this?”

  Freddy shrugged and looked toward the ground.

  “And what’s happened to ya? Your shirt’s torn and smudged! And you’ve hurt your arm too. That’s a fine thing!” He raised his hand as if he were about to slap Freddy but stopped when he noticed Ruthie and Jack, who had been obscured by the body of the horse. “Who might you be?” he growled.

  “I’m Jack Tucker and this is Ruthie Stewart.”

  The man gave them a critical once-over.

  “Freddy was thrown back there,” Ruthie said. “I think his arm might be broken.”

  “We’ll put a splint to it,” the man said. “Serves him right for stealing off and bein’ late again.”

  Jack reached up and grabbed the bucket from the carriage. “He caught these.”

  The man peered into the bucket, his brow softening in momentary approval.

  “Strangers, eh?” the man asked, taking the bucket from Jac
k with a brusque motion.

  “We’re visiting from out of town,” Ruthie answered.

  “From the colonies!” Freddy added.

  “It’s no business of a stable boy,” the man said. He grabbed Freddy by an ear, giving him a yank and a toss toward the stable.

  “Ow!” Freddy hollered, and tumbled into a run.

  Ruthie approached the man and spoke up. “His arm looks bad.”

  “I’ll see to the boy,” the man said, grabbing the reins. He gave them another steely look before leading the horse away, and Ruthie and Jack were left alone.

  “Poor guy,” Jack said as Freddy disappeared into the stable, the groom close behind.

  “I hope he doesn’t get in trouble.”

  “I think he’s used to trouble.”

  “I have an idea,” Ruthie said. She opened her messenger bag and lifted the ring dial. “He could really use this to keep track of time. Come on.”

  Ruthie led the way back to the stable and crept up to a window. They saw the groom ordering Freddy—still favoring his injured arm—to clean out the horse stalls. Soon the man trudged off and out of sight.

  Ruthie and Jack tiptoed into the stable. The smell of hay and manure was pungent but oddly fresh. Freddy stepped out from one of the stalls, saw them, and gave a darting look around for the groom.

  “We have something for you,” Ruthie whispered. She held up the ring dial.

  Freddy’s eyebrow rose. “What is it?”

  “It’s called a ring dial,” Jack answered. “It will tell you the time—so you won’t be late anymore.”

  “Honest?”

  “Come over here.” Ruthie stepped back to the doorway, where the sunlight was strong. They gave him a quick lesson on how to use it and watched him do it by himself a few times. He grinned as the dot of sun told him the precise time.

  “But I can’t take somethin’ for nothin’.” His smile disappeared and he handed the brass timepiece back to Ruthie.