The Secret of the Key

by Marianne Malone

  “Jack, remember when you did that report last fall about medieval knights? Wasn’t there something about family crests?”

  “Yeah, they were symbols that represented family names. They put them on their shields and flags and stuff.”

  “And rings like this one,” Dr. Bell explained. “I bet Minerva McVittie could help you identify it.”

  “She can also help with the hallmarks on the inside of the band,” Ruthie added, pointing to three stamped symbols: a leopard’s head, the number 750, and the initials A.B. written in fancy script.

  Dr. Bell looked at the other ring. “And this one looks like the mood rings that were popular when I was a kid. Do either of these have any magic?”

  “Not that we’ve seen,” Jack answered. “But that gives me an idea.” He unsnapped the pocket of his cargo pants and pulled out Duchess Christina’s key. “Put the mood ring next to it.”

  Ruthie set them side by side. Nothing happened.

  “Try the other one,” he suggested.

  Ruthie switched the rings, and they all saw it at once: Christina’s key beamed and glistened, like it had suddenly awakened, each magical flash setting off question after question in Ruthie’s mind. But she was certain of one thing: it was trying to tell them something!

  IT WAS A SCORCHER AGAIN on Friday and Ruthie was happy to be back in the air-conditioned shop. When she was in the long dim space, with its walls lined with books, she felt as though she were deep in the recesses of a cool cave.

  “If getting stuck in another century isn’t enough warning, Narcissa Thorne’s letter should be!” Mrs. McVittie declared after Ruthie and Jack recounted what had happened yesterday and showed her the letter. “She was clearly worried about the power of the key. This danger is all too real.” Like Caroline Bell, Mrs. McVittie had also visited the rooms as a young girl, long ago. Although neither one of these grown-ups had experienced the time travel, they understood how it was possible, having held the magic key in their own hands.

  “We’re going to be more careful,” Ruthie promised. Mrs. McVittie looked skeptical. “And we’re trying to figure a way to return the key.”

  Jack nudged Ruthie. “Show her the rings.”

  She set the bejeweled ring under the bright desk lamp. Jack placed the key right next to it and they watched it pulse steadily with light.

  Mrs. McVittie eyed it through a magnifying glass that she kept at hand, ready for inspecting items such as this. “Interesting.” She swiveled in her chair toward the shelf next to her and searched for a particular volume, which she opened in her lap.

  “What’s that?” Jack asked.

  “A directory of family crests and coats of arms. It’s a useful reference.” She thumbed through the index. “We know the ring was made in England.”

  “How do you know?” Ruthie asked. “I didn’t see the lion stamp.”

  “It’s this leopard’s head. That shows it came from London. Although sometimes with very old pieces, the markings aren’t reliable.” She held it for Ruthie to see, pointing with the tip of a pencil. “And the number 750 refers to the gold content. This is eighteen-karat.”

  “What about the initials, A.B.?” Jack wanted to know.

  “Those could be the maker’s initials, but I don’t think they are because of the script. They look engraved, not stamped. I think they more likely belong to the owner of the ring.”

  That sounded enticing to Ruthie: one clue closer to … what?

  “Here.” Mrs. McVittie held up the book after a minute or two of searching. The page contained several coats of arms. They were all roughly shield-shaped, with lions, fleurs-de-lis, eagles, stags, and other symbols. “I think this may be a match.”

  They held the ring next to the image. It was nearly identical.

  “It’s the crest of the Brownlow family,” Ruthie read. “Who were they?”

  “You’ll have to do some research on that,” Mrs. McVittie answered. “But I suspect the initials belong to a member of that family.”

  “Can you tell how old it is?” Ruthie asked.

  “Very old. I would place it in the early eighteenth century, perhaps even earlier,” she answered. “You can tell by the cut of the gemstones.”

  While Ruthie and Mrs. McVittie spoke, Jack used his phone to search the name. “I found a few links,” he said. “Have you ever heard of Belton House? It’s some kind of mansion in England that you can take tours of. It’s owned by a family named Brownlow. Look—here’s the website.”

  Ruthie’s eyes got wide as Jack held his phone for her to see. “Belton House! I know that name! Do you have the catalogue here, Mrs. McVittie?”

  “Of course. Just over there.” She pointed to the end of her reference shelves.

  Ruthie leapt for it and swiped the pages open to one of the first rooms. “E4! I knew it!”

  “Is that one we’ve been in?” Jack asked.

  “Not yet. But listen to this: ‘William Winde designed Belton House for the Bronlow family,’ ” she read. “It’s spelled differently, ‘Bronlow’ instead of ‘Brownlow,’ but it must be the same! And it says, ‘Mrs. Thorne was particularly drawn to this room.’ ”

  “We seem to be getting somewhere!” Mrs. McVittie clapped her hands together.

  “What else does it say?” Jack asked.

  Ruthie scoured the page. “Not much else that’s useful. Just stuff about the design of the room.” She snapped the book shut. “We should take that ring into the room and investigate.”

  The L-shaped corridor that ran behind room E4 was short—sort of an extension of the main corridor after it was interrupted by the alcove. It was odd to be in this space, all in all only about ten feet long, compared with the main corridor, which ran behind the majority of the European rooms.

  At the end was the huge thirteenth-century church room, by far the oldest period represented. Then came E1, Christina’s room, where they had learned about the enchantment of the key and where Ruthie had magically heard the voice of Duchess Christina reading from her book. Next were two more English rooms and then E4, which was described as a drawing room.

  After they had used the key to shrink and crawl under the access door, they got big again. Jack took the rolled-up ladder out of one of the pockets in his cargo pants. It worked perfectly when all they needed to do was climb to the ledge. He set it up and gave it a little tug to make sure it was secure.

  “Before we get small we should try something,” he began. “Maybe the ring’s got the power to shrink you. Like my pirate coin. You were already small when you held it in the rooms, and then you put it in your bag.”

  “Good idea.”

  Jack took the ring from another pocket and dropped the jewel in her hand.

  “You feel anything?”

  Ruthie waited a few beats, then shook her head. She gave it back to Jack.

  “I would’ve bet money it was going to shrink you!” he said, reaching down to pick up Christina’s key from where it lay on the floor. He held the two together in his palm and once again the key flashed brightly in the dim light.

  “There’s no doubt—it’s telling us something,” Ruthie said. “But what?”

  Jack handed the ring to her. “You might as well keep it now.”

  Ruthie dropped it in her messenger bag and then clasped Jack’s hand, with Christina’s key in the middle. The gentle gust swept around them and the space loomed huge once again.

  By now they were expert climbers, and in no time they were on the ledge looking through the cracks in the framework to find the entrance to room E4.

  “There’s a door,” Ruthie said, and they stepped through the wooden structure to the back wall of the room. They listened for a few moments before turning the brass doorknob. The hinges were on their side, so the door opened toward them, making it easier to peek into the room. It was Saturday morning and the museum hadn’t filled up yet; the coast was clear and they went in.

  Directly in front of them was a tall painted folding screen, u
seful if they had to duck out of sight fast. The walls of this room were of very dark stained wood—almost black—with ornate carvings of plants and birds and vines. Intricate detailing and gilding covered almost every surface, from the chairs and cabinets to the chandelier hanging in the center of the room. Even the ceiling was decorated with carvings of flowers and fruit. A portrait of a man with a horse hung above the yellow marble fireplace, and a grandfather clock stood in the corner.

  The air in the room felt as though it had been warmed by sunlight. That was the first sign that the room was alive. The second was the bird’s nest they saw in a tree outside the window. A mother bird arrived with a wiggly worm in her beak just as they approached the window.

  The view was long and green. The tree with the nest stood just past a patio and beyond it stretched a long grassy path, with trimmed shrubbery on either side. A very large house sat in the distance at the end of the lawn. Ruthie wondered what year it was out there.

  “Let’s check all the drawers to see if there’s a clue—maybe something that might go with the ring. A jewelry box, or some kind of design that matches it,” Jack suggested.

  “I’ll take this side of the room—you do that side, okay?”

  While Jack checked in the drawers of the large secretary between the windows Ruthie went straight for a chest of drawers across the room. It stood on curvy carved legs and was made of a kind of wood that had swirls like marble. She opened each one of its thirteen drawers.

  Empty.

  She looked around the room for anything that might help them figure out where the ring came from and how it had ended up in A2. She scrutinized the pattern on the rug but nothing stood out. She inspected the inlay in the furniture. Her eyes scanned the patterned surfaces, searching for some element that might lead them in the right direction.

  Ruthie crossed over to a small table next to the fireplace. Its one drawer turned out to be empty, but there were two books lying on the table. She lifted them up and discovered they were fakes, props made for the room—they didn’t open at all. Her gaze drifted toward the fireplace and something caught her eye. The cast-iron grate for holding wood had a carving on it. It was sooty and hard to make out at first, as it blended in with the charred blackness of the fireplace, but she saw on it a design that looked similar to the center of the ring. And worked into the decoration was a date: 1687.

  “Jack! Bring the ring over here.”

  “Awesome,” he responded as soon as he focused on what she was pointing at.

  “I know. I bet that’s the year out there. The catalogue said the real Belton House was built between 1685 and 1689,” Ruthie added.

  “The design is almost the same as the ring.”

  Ruthie put the ring in her messenger bag. Together, they headed straight for the other door in the room and crossed the threshold to the patio. The sun shone in a cloudless sky and its position overhead meant that it was about noon. A gentle breeze blew. Squirrels skittered across the lawn just past the patio. On their right they had a view up a gentle rise, toward a stately mansion.

  But they couldn’t see very far on the left, because the corner of the brick structure that was the Thorne Room, their portal, was in the way. They would have to leave the patio for a better view.

  Ruthie didn’t want to be seen in her modern clothes, but Jack was already off the patio. Still nervous about having been separated from him before, she followed.

  After a few paces they reached the edge of the building and were no longer shielded by it. To the left they saw a village in the distance. But nearer to them a woman sat on a bench under a small stand of trees with a circle of children in front of her. They were reading silently, so Ruthie and Jack didn’t notice them until it was too late. They were seen.

  One of the smaller children, not attentive to her reading, spied them right away.

  “Who are they?”

  The woman also saw Ruthie and Jack. She looked them up and down, especially seeming to notice their shoes. In all of their time travels, the shoes were what stood out the most. But the woman reacted differently than all the others. She gave a quick gasp and put her hand to her face as if she didn’t want to be seen. She turned away from them and stood up.

  “Children! Come! Immediately!” she ordered, and rushed away in the direction of the large house.

  “That was weird,” Jack said.

  “I know. That woman seemed … scared of us. How are we going to explore if we keep freaking people out? We need the right clothes.” Ruthie bit her lip in thought. “The problem is, I don’t think we’ll find any clothes in this corridor.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The first room is the church room. E1 is Christina’s room and we know it doesn’t have a closet. Neither does E2. E3 is a fancy reception room and E5 is a kitchen.”

  They walked back to the patio.

  “I know—the Wentworth room!” Jack said. “It’s almost the same period. Those clothes will work!”

  Ruthie brightened for a moment but then slumped. “I didn’t bring the climbing chain. I didn’t think we’d need it.”

  But Jack grinned. “I know how we can get there!”

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE I SHOWED you this. Really?”

  Ruthie was astonished as Jack led her to a small nook to the right of Gallery 11 that held a door. Less than a month ago they had gone back to the time of Jack’s pirate ancestor and inadvertently changed the course of history, putting Jack’s very existence in jeopardy. When that happened, an alternate version of Ruthie’s life started seeping into her memory. In that other life, Ruthie had discovered a completely different way into the corridor behind the American rooms.

  Because of the way the magic worked, Ruthie had no memory of any of this. But for some reason Jack did. The idea that in an alternate life she had already done it gave her no comfort at all. As Jack directed her under a door to the guard’s locker room, across a short tiled expanse, and then under another door to the information booth, Ruthie felt all the nervous jitters that she’d had the first few times they’d experienced the magic.

  This part was tricky. A volunteer museum worker—a docent—always sat there, ready to answer questions for visitors. Ruthie and Jack peered out and up from under the door to the booth.

  “We have to get to the floor vent over there.” Jack pointed straight ahead to the far side of the booth. “That’ll lead us to a duct that runs under the gallery and into the American corridor.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. We did it before. When we get to the vent we’ll squeeze through the grate. It’s only a ten-foot drop or so. Like hanging from a ceiling and letting go.”

  “If you say so,” Ruthie said. “How will we get back out?”

  “I’ve got some nylon cord in my pocket.”

  Of course he does, Ruthie thought.

  “We can knot it for climbing.”

  They shimmied out from under the door and started running. The vent was about five feet away (sixty feet to the tiny twosome). If the docent turned, or if someone came to the counter and looked past her, they would be seen.

  When they were halfway to the vent, a man came to the counter to ask the docent a question. Ruthie and Jack could see him clearly, which meant they too could be seen by the man.

  “Hey!” the man exclaimed as Ruthie looked way up and made eye contact with him. “I think you’ve got … mice?”

  They raced the rest of the way and reached the vent. The small squares of the grate were big enough that they could easily fit in. Ruthie copied Jack, who was already in up to his chest. She slid feetfirst as fast as she could down into the dark vent. She tried to hold on, but one hand slipped and she dangled.

  “You can do it,” Jack whispered.

  In the dim light Ruthie saw him drop. She felt the vibrations of huge footsteps on the floor near the vent. She let go. Before her feet had hit the bottom she felt a beam of intense light hit her.

  Jack grabbed her sleeve, yanking her
deeper into the duct, away from the light.

  “I don’t know what that was,” they heard the woman say. “Strangest-looking rodent I’ve ever seen!” The light clicked off.

  “Now what?” Ruthie whispered.

  “We follow the duct until we see the other end,” he whispered back, adding, “I’m not going to turn on my flashlight, in case they could see the light through the vent.”

  Ruthie wasn’t sure what was worse, hurtling forward without seeing anything at all or having Jack use his flashlight and find out what—if anything—might be lurking in the vicinity.

  Adrenaline propelled her through the suffocating dark. Finally, the faintest checkerboard glow appeared overhead.

  They stood directly under the grate, looking up. It was about ten feet high. Jack unwound a skein of cord from one of his large lower pockets.

  “What else do you have in there?” Ruthie asked.

  “Just a couple of S-hooks and my Swiss Army knife.”

  The cord itself was only slightly bigger in circumference than a toothpick.

  “Will that hold us?” she asked skeptically.

  “It’s deep-sea fishing cord. It’s strong enough if we go one at a time.”

  “But it’s too skinny to grab hold of,” Ruthie said. Even if it didn’t break, she didn’t see how they could climb it.

  “I see what you mean,” Jack said, chewing the inside of his cheek. “I was kind of picturing it in its full size with us small.”

  “And how are we going to attach it?” The S-hooks in his pocket were now far too small to hook on to the metal grate. The thought of being stuck in that duct, with no way to get out, hit Ruthie like an icy wave. She imagined what would happen if they yelled for help. Would anyone hear their tiny voices, buried deep under the carpeted floorboards? And if they were rescued in their miniature state, what would happen next?

  “I have an idea,” Jack said at last. “Maybe this will work.”

  He knotted the cord, creating loops similar to those of the crochet chain. But the loops were at bigger intervals and large enough to grab hold of and stick a foot into. When he finished, the cord had about five loop “handles.”