“What about us?” said Rich.
“You’re not a Squint,” said Alex.
“Thanks. What about Darwen then?”
“Darwen Arkwright and the Insidious Bleck?” said Alex derisively. “That’s terrible. Darwen is a ridiculous name. Sorry, but it is. No one is called Darwen. You have to give the reading public something they can relate to.”
“I wonder why I can’t open the portals,” said Rich.
“Maybe it’s a race thing,” said Alex.
“What?”
“Hey, I’m just saying. I’m black. Darwen is half black.”
“Why would race have anything to do with it?” said Rich.
“Maybe because the white folks have enough already, so we get this,” said Alex.
“Right,” said Rich, rolling his eyes. “Because you and Chip Whittley are really living at the poverty line.”
They reached Hartsfield Jackson Airport in Atlanta in the late afternoon and were met not by Eileen, as Darwen had feared, but by Alex’s mom and her baby sister, Kaitlin. They had been delegated to pick up Darwen and Rich, whose father would be coming to collect him from Aunt Honoria’s place later. They were all going there.
They said their goodbyes to the other students, then found their way to Mrs. O’Connor’s car in the frigid parking deck, all the while telling her tales of what they had been doing in the jungle and all the things they had seen. Well, some of them. They left out anything to do with Silbrica, but that didn’t seem to make their adventures any less exciting. Mrs. O’Connor hugged Alex to her at each mention of snakes and spiders and poison-dart frogs, punctuating each new detail with a cry of “Oh, my lord!”
They drove through Atlanta’s traffic-jammed streets, and Darwen was surprised to find the massive city’s tower blocks and freeways familiar, even comforting, after his spell in the jungle.
At their apartment building, Darwen, Rich, and Alex lugged the bags into the elevator under the watchful eye of Mrs. O’Connor and Kaitlin, and they rode up to the seventeenth floor. As they got higher, Darwen felt an unease similar to embarrassment or anxiety swelling like the pressure in his ears. In many ways, his aunt was still a stranger to him. He didn’t want everyone watching his reunion with her. By the time he had dragged his bag out onto their floor, he was feeling distinctly uncomfortable and was beginning to wish Rich and Alex had gone straight home.
But as he reached their apartment door, something remarkable happened. Darwen was muttering vaguely that his aunt didn’t normally have company over, when he stopped short, sniffing the air.
It couldn’t be.
It was a warm, rich smell of potato and onion cooked slowly with stewing beef, a hearty smell that took him right back into his best, most cherished memories.
Lancashire hotpot.
The door opened before he could knock, and there was Aunt Honoria, smiling, a little teary, and wearing—for the first time that Darwen had ever seen—an apron that was dusted with flour. She folded him into her arms and, forgetting the others entirely, Darwen embraced her.
“Welcome home,” she said.
THE END
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Professor John Hoopes and Anne Egitto for fielding questions about the archaeology of Costa Rica and the stone spheres. Thanks to Raven Wei, to my agent, Stacey Glick, to my editor at Razorbill, Gillian Levinson, and to my illustrator, Emily Osborne. Finally, thanks to my family, who keep me grounded in this world while helping me to invent others.
Look for the third book in the
Darwen Arkwright series:
Darwen Arkwright
and the
School of Shadows
COMING SOON
Darwen Arkwright and the Insidious Bleck Page 31