“If we can’t leave the key here, maybe we could bring it through the portal, just far enough to say the spell. The box won’t disappear until we are far from the rooms,” Ruthie suggested.
“It won’t work. Objects brought through the portals are illusory, without substance. You might be able to see the box and even hold it in your hands for a short while, but it would not be completely of substance and it won’t have its power. I am certain of this law of the magic.” Mrs. Thorne set the box back in the vault.
“That explains a lot,” Jack said, thinking of all the things they had brought through the portals that had disappeared once they left the museum.
“What can we do with the key, then?” Ruthie worried.
Mrs. Thorne shook her head, sighing. They left the vault and she closed the secret door. “I think you must go. Put the key in the safest place you can think of.”
Walking out into the perfect oceanside paradise made it seem as though nothing at all could be wrong in the world. Mrs. Thorne offered to take them back to the portal of A35. “I’ll just have my driver get the car.”
“Wait!” Ruthie said. They had heard about her driver from Isabelle, and Ruthie wanted to be sure this driver was not the same man. “Is this your driver from Chicago?”
Very carefully Mrs. Thorne answered, “No. This is my California driver only.”
Ruthie exhaled. “That should be fine.”
When the car came around from the carriage house, they were once again startled to see an old car looking so new. This one was a pale yellow convertible and had the brand name DeSoto spelled in shiny chrome. The three climbed in and headed down the winding road to the intersection where Ruthie and Jack had arrived.
Because Mrs. Thorne was not magically in Santa Barbara of 1941, she couldn’t see the stucco wall and the patio garden, as Ruthie and Jack could. What she saw was simply an empty lot, with scruffy trees and overgrown vines. Nevertheless, she got out of the car with them and told the driver to take a spin around the block.
“It’s right here,” Jack said, approaching the opening in the wall.
“If you take my hand, I will see it,” Mrs. Thorne said.
Ruthie clasped hands with Narcissa Thorne, who immediately said, “Ah! There it is!”
They walked onto the patio, the glass doors to the room straight ahead.
“Do you want to look in?” Ruthie asked.
“I think that would be unwise. Seeing the door is enough.”
Still holding Mrs. Thorne’s hand, Ruthie leaned in to see if the coast was clear for them to enter. “It’s safe to … Wait, something’s happening—”
Her sentence was interrupted by violent shaking and rumbling. At first they thought it was an earthquake, but this vibration came from every direction, not just under their feet. They were thrown in the air—air that had become pitch-black in an instant. They were thrust away from where they’d been standing, first rising up, and then tumbling through space. In just seconds they landed hard and the sunlight returned.
They found themselves sitting on the sidewalk, Ruthie and Mrs. Thorne no longer holding hands.
“What was that?” Jack said.
“Are you okay?” Ruthie said to Mrs. Thorne.
“I believe so.” She stood and dusted off her dress. “You’d better go back immediately.”
“Mrs. Thorne,” Jack said with a gulp, for he saw it first: the low stucco wall and patio had disappeared, and all that remained was an overgrown empty lot. “I don’t think we can.”
They waited over an hour for the portal to reappear, while Mrs. Thorne’s driver patiently sat in the car. The breeze blew from the ocean, carrying not a single tinkling of magic bells on it.
“What time is it, Jack?” Ruthie asked.
His watch still ticked off 2014 time. “Almost two o’clock.”
“No, it’s almost three o’clock,” Mrs. Thorne corrected, checking hers.
“The time out here isn’t always the same as our time,” Jack explained.
Mrs. Thorne responded simply with a raised eyebrow.
They had no idea why this was happening. Could someone have taken the animator from the room? That seemed impossible. They still had the key. Ruthie was feeling sick to her stomach from anger at herself. She knew better than anyone that the portals could close, but she had ignored the risk.
“One thing perplexes me,” Mrs. Thorne said. “Just before things went black, I noticed what looked like the room’s gold curtain on the ground near the door, off to one side. Did either of you notice that?”
“Uh-oh,” Jack said. “Mrs. Thorne, just before we left, I tripped and pulled the curtain down,” he confessed. “But I dragged it out of sight so no one would notice.”
“What would that have to do with anything?” Ruthie asked.
“That may explain what happened,” Mrs. Thorne answered. “It wasn’t magic that shut the portal—it was maintenance! Someone removed the room so they could repair it.”
“It did sort of look like the room was rushing away from me,” Ruthie recalled.
“You mean, they took it right out of the wall?” Jack asked.
“Yes—the dioramas and all. We designed them so they could be removed that way.”
“When will they put it back?” Ruthie asked, trying not to get hysterical.
“It could be days. Unless they decide the room needs thorough conservation—in that case, it could be weeks.”
“Oh, man. This is all my fault,” Jack said.
“There’s no sense waiting here,” Mrs. Thorne said.
“But … but …” Ruthie didn’t know what she had meant to say. She felt just like she did when the portal had closed on her before, in eighteenth-century England. She didn’t want to take her eyes off the spot where it would—where it must—reappear. It was the only way back home!
Or was it?
“Jack! Remember when we went to Belton House? After we met Freddy?”
“Yeah, why?”
“We realized that maybe we could go in one room and out another if they were from the same time!”
“Oh, right! I figured out how long it would take us on horseback!”
“Exactly! A37! It’s the same time!” Ruthie nearly screamed.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Thorne confirmed. “But it’s not here in Santa Barbara.”
“I know—it’s in San Francisco. Do you know where the portal is?”
“It’s an apartment belonging to a friend. But it would take at least six hours to drive there.”
“It’s Thursday, right?” Jack asked. “We have till eight o’clock, when the museum closes.”
The timing was tight. They might get there after the Art Institute closed. Ruthie thought about how much trouble they would be in if they returned to the closed museum. But she didn’t care—they would be home! Mrs. McVittie would be waiting for them at the shop and her parents would be expecting her home for dinner.
“Get in the car!” Mrs. Thorne said, grinning widely. “We’ll go to the airfield. I have a small plane.”
They didn’t have to drive far. The airfield consisted of a runway, a large hangar where the planes were kept, and a smaller building where passengers gathered. Inside, Ruthie saw a couple of vending machines that sold Coca-Cola and cigarettes, and a waiting area with several chairs. A somber voice came from a radio. Mrs. Thorne went straight to a man in a gray-blue pilot’s jumpsuit sitting behind a desk.
“Narcissa! What can I do for you?”
“Jim, these are two friends of mine from Chicago. We thought we’d fly up to San Francisco,” she said as matter-of-factly as if they were grabbing a taxi for a ride up the street.
“Great day for flying,” he replied. “I’ll rev her up and have you in the air in twenty minutes.” He headed out the door to the airplane hangar.
As simple as that, Ruthie thought.
“We’ll board as soon as it’s on the tarmac,” Mrs. Thorne explained. “Let’s have a seat while we wai
t.”
“Hey, listen,” Jack said.
All three became aware of the voice on the radio.
“It’s Mr. Churchill,” Mrs. Thorne said, “the prime minister of England.”
His voice was distinctive and rumbling—Ruthie had never heard anything quite like it.
“What month is this?” Jack asked.
“February,” Mrs. Thorne answered. “Europe is at war.”
Ruthie had thought she couldn’t feel any more anxious than she already was, but the prime minister’s words sent chills up and down her spine: “We must all be prepared to meet gas attacks and parachute attacks with practiced skill. In order to win the war, Hitler must destroy Great Britain.”
“I can hardly bear to think how the British will survive.” Mrs. Thorne looked at Ruthie and Jack. “Of course, you know how it all turns out.…”
The prime minister then quoted from a poem:
“Humanity with all its fears
With all the hope of future years
Is hanging breathless on thy fate.”
Though Ruthie knew better, it seemed as if he were talking directly to the three of them. He finished in a deep growl, “Give us the tools and we will finish the job!” Then the radio went silent except for the crackly static of dead air before the announcer came back on.
Mrs. Thorne gazed out the window with sorrowful eyes. “There is so much about the future I want to know—about the war and the world, about my rooms … but I will have to wait and live it.”
Shortly they heard the chop-chop of the propeller slicing the air, and the plane came into view out the window. A single propeller spun on the front, and the wings extended from the top. Jack jumped up, eager for the ride, but Ruthie thought the airplane looked awfully tiny, like a toy come to life.
The plane came to a stop, although the motor and propeller were still running. They followed Mrs. Thorne out onto the tarmac and another airport employee jogged over to them to open the plane’s door and help them aboard.
“It won’t be quite so loud inside!” Mrs. Thorne shouted over the din of the propeller, gesturing for Ruthie and Jack to climb in first.
It was a tight squeeze; neither Ruthie nor Jack could stand up straight. There were two seats at the front, one for the pilot and another next to him. In the back, a downward-sloping center aisle separated four seats. The plane narrowed to a small windowless cargo area in the tail end.
The three took their places, and the pilot turned back to them. “Buckle up and we’ll be on our way.”
The motor roared and Ruthie felt all the bumps on the runway as they taxied to the end for takeoff. The pilot turned the aircraft, accelerating quickly, and in seconds the nose lifted and they were off the ground.
Ruthie looked out to her left and saw nothing but blue: the azure of the ocean growing deeper to the inky horizon, meeting the cloudless sky. Out the right-side windows she saw the mountains, which shrank as the plane climbed higher.
The flight took a little less than two hours; for the first thirty minutes, Ruthie was distracted by the novelty and the view. But once she got used to it, worries nudged back into her mind. Would this plan work? As far as Ruthie and Jack knew, no one had ever tried it before. And as for Mrs. Thorne, Ruthie sensed that the woman to whom they had come for answers didn’t know either.
Ruthie closed her eyes. In her mind appeared images of her home, her parents, Mrs. McVittie, Jack’s mom. Everyone and everything she loved were waiting for her seventy-five years in the future, perhaps lost forever in the messy maze of years that time travel created.
She opened her eyes. The plane continued along the California coast, the sunlight reflecting off the ocean like a mirror, which made her think about the beautiful yet strange box in Mrs. Thorne’s vault.
And the riddle-like spell etched into the glass—was it real magic at all? The key and the other magic items she and Jack had come across—talismans, the mystery man in Paris called them—needed no spells or incantations to work. The key only needed to be in Ruthie’s hands and near the rooms. Perhaps the old man was wrong and this mirrored box was nothing more than an antique red herring.
She opened her messenger bag and took out a pen and a small notebook she always carried. “Mrs. Thorne!” Ruthie shouted, and tapped her in the seat in front of her.
“Yes, dear?”
“Do you know the spell? Can you write it down for me?” Ruthie offered the notebook and pen.
“I know it by heart.” Mrs. Thorne jotted down the words and handed the notebook back.
Ruthie looked at Mrs. Thorne’s perfect penmanship. She read the words over and over, committing them to memory.
“I see San Francisco. We’re almost there,” Jack announced. He looked at his watch. “We’re doing okay.”
AFTER A HALF-HOUR DRIVE FROM the airport, a taxi dropped Ruthie, Jack, and Mrs. Thorne at the doorstep to a building that looked very new compared to the surrounding structures. The lines were simple and smooth, with tall narrow windows. Ruthie remembered the catalogue had said A37 was a penthouse. She looked up and counted about ten stories, where she saw the low wall of a balcony. The last orange and gold of sunset streaked the edge of the sky, while the deep sapphire of evening spread.
In the lobby Mrs. Thorne gave a uniformed desk attendant the name of her friend. He announced them by phone and then directed them to the elevator.
“What time is it, Jack?” Ruthie asked.
“Five forty-five.”
“No, six forty-five,” the attendant interjected.
“Thanks.” Jack waved his hand.
The ding of the floors rang out ten times as they rode the elevator. The door slid open and a butler greeted them. He welcomed Mrs. Thorne and told them that the owner—her friend—would be home shortly. He ushered them into the living room, leaving them to wait.
“Good. It will be easier to get you back without having to make up an explanation,” Mrs. Thorne said, exhaling.
“So how do we find the portal?” Jack asked, turning 360 degrees. He looked behind a curtain and checked the walls for hidden doorways.
“It should be out there,” Mrs. Thorne said, pointing to the balcony.
Ruthie headed to the tall glass door and walked outside. The deepening twilight reminded her that they were running out of time to get home before the Art Institute closed. In the distance the two towers of the Golden Gate Bridge caught the last rays from the sun and looked as though they were on fire. Wait a minute—what did the catalogue say about the bridge? You could see it from the balcony. We must be on the right track, Ruthie told herself.
Jack and Mrs. Thorne appeared on the balcony.
“It has to be out here,” Ruthie said, looking out over the city as lights began to twinkle from buildings. “See? This is nearly the same view.”
“And the view from A37 is nighttime, right?” Jack reminded them. “It’s almost dark.”
“Right!”
“How far does the balcony go?”
“If we can find the exact view …” Ruthie headed to the left, where the balcony wrapped around the penthouse like an up-in-the-air backyard. “There it is!” she shrieked as Jack and Mrs. Thorne came around the corner.
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Thorne asked. “I only see the stone of the building.”
“That proves it’s the portal,” Ruthie said. “You can’t see it!”
Ruthie and Jack saw an arrangement of patio furniture that was identical to the miniature furniture. The low wall of the balcony enclosed a small area around a glass door—most certainly leading to A37. Home was just through that door!
Ruthie held out her hand for Mrs. Thorne to clasp so she could see the portal. “Can you see it now?”
“Yes!”
Jack, already at the threshold looking in, announced, “It’s A37, all right!”
Ruthie turned to Mrs. Thorne and saw a glittery sheen of tears forming in her eyes. She blinked them away.
“You two are very brave. Tha
nk you for trying to return the key to me.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Thorne,” Ruthie said. “For helping us … and for making the rooms!”
“I had an idea on the plane ride. I’m not sure it will work,” Mrs. Thorne began. “Can you give me an address where I can send something to you?”
“Sure. But how?” Jack replied.
“Leave that to me.”
Ruthie took a page from her notebook and wrote down Mrs. McVittie’s shop address.
Jack looked at his watch again. “We should go. Well, I guess this is goodbye.” He put his hand out to shake Mrs. Thorne’s. She pulled him into a hug instead, and then Ruthie. They walked her out to the low wall that defined the edge of the portal and watched as she returned to 1941.
Ruthie felt a bittersweet twinge run through her as they made their way across the room, back to the corridor and twenty-first-century Chicago. This was likely the last time she and Jack would use the key. Ruthie felt both relief and sadness.
She stopped and took Jack’s arm. “Look, just look,” she said, their backs to the giant door to Gallery 11. They lingered a moment, remembering all the adventures that the dark passage had led them to.
In the gallery, after they’d grown big again, they looked around the corner at the wall that held A35. Just as Mrs. Thorne had guessed, a black curtain was draped in front of its spot, and a sign stated “Temporarily Removed for Maintenance.”
Ruthie didn’t say a word as they raced through the museum, now full size, on their way to the exit, but one horrible thought popped into her head: Is there any chance at all that we came back to the wrong time? Everything looks the same. But what if it’s a different day? Or month?
Jack obviously had no such fears. Instead he was already checking his phone, texting Mrs. McVittie, who had sent multiple messages.
Ah, of course! She too checked her phone, which showed the date. The messages from Mrs. McVittie were all from today. The real today. The one Ruthie expected. And boy, was Mrs. McVittie worried and angry. But that was just fine!
The Secret of the Key Page 15