Witch Hollow and the Fountain Riddle (Book 2)

by I.D. Blind

27. Travelers in Time

  Electra and Eric were getting dressed in the blue castle. Electra had left clothes for Eric on Jack’s bed, but he didn’t think he could wear them. The clothing consisted of an old-fashioned black tuxedo and pants with braces, a white shirt, turquoise vest and cravat, ivory gloves, and a black top hat. Eric was sure he would look ridiculous. He put on the clothing and looked into the mirror.

  “Absurd.”

  The medieval attire looked better than a black tuxedo and a top hat. Eric took off the tuxedo and the vest, unbuttoned the laced shirt, but didn’t take it off. He knew he was still going to wear it. He couldn’t go back to the 19th century in his regular clothes. He grabbed the vest and the tuxedo and went to Electra’s bedroom.

  “Who is it?” she asked when he knocked at her door.

  “The Bluebeard!”

  “Come in.”

  Eric entered the room and gaped at Electra. She was wearing a lush blue dress made of silk brocade, and the hoopskirt was so big that the wraps of the dress occupied half of the room. The décolleté was adorned with embroidery, and the neck and the shoulders were totally bare.

  “You’re so beautiful.”

  “Thank you.” She began buttoning up his shirt. “You’re not ready yet. We must hurry.”

  “You are so beautiful,” he repeated. “Like a princess.” While Electra was buttoning his shirt, Eric threw his arms around her and pulled her closer. “And you smell so tasty,” he said, leaning his head over her shoulder and taking a deep breath.

  “Oh, my dear, I am happy that my scent delights you, but we really have to hurry. We can’t look for a flea box for the whole day.”

  “One more second,” Eric said, resting his hands on her bare shoulders. He kissed her slender neck, then stepped back and looked over her again. “I don’t think I want you to go there looking so gorgeous.”

  Electra chuckled.

  “I mean it. You look so overwhelmingly beautiful. I’ll have to keep you close all the time, because everyone will stare at you, follow you, and all the men will flirt with you and will compliment you. I’m not sure I can tolerate that.”

  Electra smacked him on the lips and put his vest over his shirt. “I promise you I will not accept any compliment. And will only concentrate on finding the flea box. Here, put this on.” She handed him the black tuxedo.

  “I’ll look ridiculous in this.”

  “No! You’ll look fine.”

  “You can say that as many times as you wish, but I still won’t put on those silly gloves and that crazy hat.”

  “Of course you will. No one appears in high society without gloves or hats.” She took a pair of blue gloves and put them on. Eric had to do the same.

  “Last time we traveled back in time, I didn’t have to get dressed so precisely.”

  “Last time? Oh, you mean the night at the forest and the Bard? That’s not the same. The Bard is a timekeeper and can take you anywhere, and how inconvenient it would be if you had worn your casual clothing. I’m afraid the medieval folk would have executed you instantly. Now put on the hat.” Electra put on a straw bonnet and tied the band into a bow under her chin. “Let’s go.”

  They came out of the bedroom and went upstairs Eric recognized the door that Electra approached: it was the one with bright light and autumn trees behind.

  “Listen, the room we’re going to enter will take us to another time. While I don’t think that much danger hides behind this door if we don’t go too far, there is still someone whom you should be aware of.”

  Eric was guessing whom she meant.

  “There is a horseman; he is the Guardian of the portal. When we go inside he will rush at us, but you shouldn’t run. He does not exist.”

  Eric remembered well that horseman. He was as real as anything behind that door.

  “The horseman is there to protect the portal,” Electra said. “It’s dangerous to go back in time—dangerous for the history. If you don’t know where you’re going to, you might cause much harm. If you don’t know about the horseman, then you’re not supposed to enter that place, and his revenge will be fatal. But if you know about him, then you also know that he has to be ignored. Don’t pay attention to him, and he won’t hurt you, understood?”

  Eric nodded.

  “Then let’s go.”

  Electra pulled the handle and opened the door. Familiar bright light shone above the trees. They came out of an arbor door and stepped on the path flanked with a row of greening maples. Eric hadn’t managed to take a good look around when the horseman appeared at the end of the path, astride a black stallion.

  “Keep walking,” Electra said as the horseman darted towards them. “He does not exist.”

  But how could he not exist, dashing across the road, the blade of his sword bared in the air? Eric wasn’t looking at the horseman, but he could hear the sound of the horseshoes hitting against the cobbles. He was close already, and Eric couldn’t help looking up. He does not exist, he reminded himself, does not exist. The horseman swung his sword.

  Does not exist.

  The blade whistled in the air, but it wasn’t made of steel, but of black vapor that twirled before the eyes and began fading away. The rider turned into a black smoke and dissolved in the air along with the sword and the horse.

  “Well done,” Electra said. “You’re more talented than I thought.”

  “I almost… never mind.” Eric took a deep breath. “I’m glad he’s gone. Now tell me about this place. Where are we going?”

  “Frankly? I don’t know. This park will eventually take us somewhere.”

  “Somewhere?”

  “We’re back in time, and now we need to find a more or less crowded place and see if any of the women has a flea box in her hair.”

  “I can imagine the look on her husband’s face if I try to take something from his wife’s hair.”

  “Then look for a bachelorette.”

  At the end of the park, an immense mansion opened before them in all its splendor, with an emerald lawn and old cedar trees, horses and carriages. The people in front of the mansion—men wearing tuxedos and top hats, and women in long dresses—left no room for doubt regarding their whereabouts—it was the 19th century, and the élite were attending a ball.

  “Do we need tickets?” Eric asked when they reached the stone stairs and joined the crowd of gentlemen and their ladies.

  “I think we look good enough to pass for aristocracy.” Electra folded her arm around Eric’s. With her other hand she took up the hem of her long dress, and smiling at the doorkeeper, entered the mansion. Although the guests were still arriving, the ballroom was already full of dancing couples. The ladies and their cavaliers were floating across the spacious ballroom, and their jewelry shone under the lights of the chandeliers with hundreds of burning candles.

  “I am afraid, my dear Mrs. Potter, that their match was doomed from the very beginning,” Eric heard a stout old lady saying to her companion. “Annabelle’s father is a counselor, what were they thinking about?”

  The old lady’s companion, a woman with the biggest diamond necklace Eric had ever seen, was quietly nodding in agreement.

  “Eduard will take me on a ride tomorrow.”

  “How marvelous!”

  “I wonder if we could join you.”

  Eric turned to the voices and saw a group of young girls in muslin and silk dresses passing across the hall, discussing some Eduard and giggling behind their fans.

  “Any luck?” Electra asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “Concentrate! Look at the ladies’ hair,” Electra said, then returned a smile to a middle-aged man with a thin moustache.

  “Do you know him?”

  “Let’s pretend that we do. Oh, look! Can you see the girl in the pink dress?”

  “The one who’s talking to the man in the uniform?”

  “Yes, her. I think she has a flea box in her hair.” Electra sauntered towards the pair near the marble fireplace.<
br />
  “Are you sure you saw a flea box in her hair? She seems so… clean.”

  “She is clean.” Electra tittered.

  “But she has lice! Poor man, he probably has no idea.”

  “It’s not like his hair is deprived of lice. Maybe he’s lousy too. You better think of a way to get that box off her hair. I don’t think her cavalier will like it if we go too close.”

  Pretending to be absorbed in conversation, Eric and Electra approached the pair. They were close already when the host of the mansion announced that the musicians would now rejoice the guests with a quadrille. The lady in pink and her cavalier walked to the center of the dance room.

  “Ahh!” Electra took a step after the couple and stopped midway, thinking over a plan.

  “Good day, mademoiselle,” someone said with a French accent. Turning to the voice, Electra saw a young man with a pointy moustache. “Would you honor me with a dance?”

  “Merci.” She put her hand into his outstretched palm.

  Walking to the center of the ballroom, she searched for Eric with her eyes. He was standing against the wall, frowning at her French cavalier. Electra tried to explain him something with her glance, telling him to look around, but he didn’t understand what she meant. Then a stately man approached Eric, saying, “Young man, why won’t you invite the young lady for a dance? It’s not polite to let her stand there alone.”

  Eric thought about protesting, then became confused, looked around, and spotted a lonely girl standing by the wall. The man grabbed Eric’s arm and walked him to the girl. “Dear Miss Greta,” he said. “Will you honor my young shy friend with a quadrille?”

  Greta smiled. “Your friend, Mr. Osborne?”

  Mr. Osborne squinted at Eric, as if trying to remember his name.

  “Eric O’Brian, ma’am.”

  “I would be delighted.” Greta put her hand over Eric’s.

  Eric took her to the center of the ballroom. “One step right, two steps left,” he was mumbling under his breath, realizing that somehow he knew quadrille well enough to dance it with his companion. The music started and thirty pairs mingled in the dance.

  “Comment trouvez-vous cette maison?” Electra’s companion asked her when they circled in the center of the room.

  “Oh, elle est magnifique,” she said, and the next moment she was holding hands with Eric. “Get ready,” she told him. “She’s coming near.”

  The next lady to appear in front of Eric and take his hand was none other than the lady in pink, whose companion in uniform was now dancing with Electra. Eric held both of her hands and they floated between the other dancers. Electra threw a quick glimpse at Eric, pointing to the hair of his companion, then smiled to the man who traded places with the officer.

  Greta was back with Eric. With his hand around her waist, he passed behind the lady in pink, and at last saw the flea box in her hair. A moment later she was gone. He didn’t even get a chance to stretch his hand towards her hair, and he wasn’t even sure he could do that without being noticed. Eric made another attempt when the lady in pink and Greta exchanged places, but again with no results.

  “She’s moving too quickly,” Electra said when she and Eric rejoined and began waltzing. “I almost got it once, but failed at the last moment.”

  “I’m not sure we can get this thing off her hair while she’s dancing so enthusiastically.”

  “One more attempt! She’s coming!”

  The luxurious pink dress swayed nearby. Eric could make the attempt, but the officer, though spinning in the dance with Greta, wasn’t taking his eyes off the lady in pink. Eric groaned.

  “You seem concerned with something, Mr. O’Brian,” Greta said, replacing Electra. “Is my company so boring to you?”

  “Oh, not at all,” Eric hurried to say, gazing into her brown eyes. Greta was young, fair, and reminded a doe with big eyes and long neck. She was dancing elegantly, her moves were graceful, and her lips occasionally spread into a coquettish smile. She hardly took her eyes off Eric, even when they would trade their partners, and frequently complimented his dancing when they would find each other in the ballroom.

  When the music stopped, everyone was back with their original partners. Eric saw the lady in pink and the officer retreating to the refreshment room. Electra thanked the French gentleman and was waiting for Eric by the wall. Another gentleman came up to her, asking for a dance. Eric was about to approach Electra, but then an idea came to his mind, and he turned to Greta.

  “Miss Greta,” he said. “Can I ask you something?”

  Her lips curved into another smile. Being sure he was going to ask her for one more dance, Greta nodded eagerly. “Yes, please, Mr. O’Brian.”

  “I am sorry to ask this, but do you have a flea box in your hair?”

  Greta’s already big eyes widened, then a shade of anger clouded her face. She slapped Eric with her gloved hand and hurried away.

  “I guess you deserved it,” Eric said to himself, rubbing his cheek.

  Electra hurried to him. “What did you tell her?” she asked in bewilderment.

  “Make a guess.”

  She giggled behind her palms. “Then that slap was well deserved.”

  “Where’s our lady? Is she going to dance again?”

  “I don’t know about her, but I promised a dance to Mr. Ferguson, and another one to Sir Harry Goldsmith.”

  Eric took her by the elbow and led her to the corner of the room. “I thought we’d come here after an important thing, not to dance.”

  “I know, my dear, but it’s not polite to refuse.”

  “It’s not like you’re going to linger here for the rest of your life; no need to worry about politeness.”

  “Follow that advice and that won’t be the last slap you’ll receive this evening. These people are old-fashioned.”

  “She’s coming back,” Eric said, catching a glimpse of the lady in pink.

  “We need another plan.”

  Eric looked around the ballroom. The orchestra was in the corner, near an old piano. Middle-aged ladies were sitting by the fireplace and discussing anyone who would pass by. Young girls were standing in small groups, throwing glances around. A waiter was serving drinks to a group of old gentlemen. When his tray became empty, he returned to the table at the end of the room. Eric looked at the table with bottles and decanters, and turned to Electra. “What do you think about a short performance?”

  “A performance? Are you going to cite Hamlet’s monologue?”

  “I have a better idea. I will distract them, and you’ll get the flea box off her hair, alright?”

  Electra shrugged. “I’ll do my best.”

  A young man approached her and asked to honor him with the promised mazurka.

  While Electra was dancing, Eric crossed the ballroom and reached the table with the drinks. There were bottles of champagne, wine, brandy, and cognac, as well as sherbet punch in a glass bowl, with pieces of lemon and berries floating on the surface.

  One of the waiters approached Eric and asked if he could be of help.

  “Would you like to see a small show?” Eric asked him.

  “I don’t know, sir.” The waiter sounded puzzled.

  “What’s your name, buddy?”

  “Willie Stuart, sir.”

  “Alright, Willie, go to the kitchen and bring me a jar and a couple of lemons.”

  “A jar, sir?”

  “Yes, a jar. And lemons. Now hurry up.”

  Eric began organizing the bottles, decanters, and glasses in a convenient order so that he could easily grab them and put them back. When Willie came back with a jar and lemons and put them on the table, Eric told him to ask the musicians to play something fast. Willie once again looked at him with wonder, but Eric was insistent.

  When the mazurka ended, Electra tried to politely get rid of her companion and find Eric, but the gentleman kept following her, talking about the cold evening, the garden and the old cedar trees, and the wonderful musi
c, determined to cling to her for the rest of the evening. Deaf to his compliments and inquiries, Electra was staring around, looking for Eric. People had crowded the other end of the ballroom, watching something. Then the orchestra played the trumpets, and Rossini’s William Tell Overture filled the hall. More guests gathered on the other side of the ballroom, and Electra followed them, wondering what was happening. Then something darted into the air, and the audience gasped and began clapping.

  Was that a bottle?

  She squeezed through the crowd and gasped too. Eric was juggling bottles of wine and champagne, throwing them into the air and performing other barman tricks.

  “Oh!”

  “Splendid!”

  “My goodness!”

  The people of the 19th century had never seen anything like that before. With gaping mouths they stared at Eric while he juggled two, three, then four bottles simultaneously.

  “Incredible!”

  “Unbelievable!”

  “Who is that?”

  The bottles were flying up, landing on his elbows, trading places, hopping on his knees, and miraculously appearing back on the table, receiving a hail of applause. Using the jar as a cocktail shaker, Eric filled it with drinks and lemon juice, then spilled the cocktail into glasses, which his assistant Willie Stuart handed to the people from the audience, including the host Mr. Osborne, who tasted the cocktail with both suspicion and anticipation, then turned to his guests and, laughing loudly, told them to do the same.

  While the guests were busy with the performance, Electra began looking for the lady in pink. There she was, standing with a group of young ladies who gasped every time the bottles flew in the air and landed back into Eric's hands.

  “Find out his name,” one of the girls was telling the other.

  “Who is this fellow?”

  “How does he do that?”

  Electra smirked. They could talk about him as much as they wished, but once she got what she needed, she was taking her boyfriend back with her. She stretched her hand to the lady in the pink and swiftly pulled out the flea box from her hair, and had just taken a few steps back when the music ended. Eric put the decanter on the table and sighed with relief. No broken bottles. And suddenly he was surrounded by the guests eager to find out his name, position, and if he would be kind enough to attend the upcoming balls. Eric was stuck inside the growing crowd, receiving praises and congratulations, not managing to answer one question and being hailed by dozens of other queries.

  “Thank you. Thank you. Thanks a lot,” he was saying, making his way to the exit.

  “I’ve got it. Time to go.” Electra appeared beside him and grabbed his hand.

  “Will you honor us with your presence at the Memberly Hall?”

  “Can we hope to see you again in Davonshire?”

  “Are you the nephew of dear Mr. Rochester? Pass him my sincere greetings.”

  Eric and Electra squeezed into the hallway, chased by curious masses begging for a visit, an audience, sending their regards to Eric's possible relatives, and voicing their hope to see him at the next ball at Eagleshire or the Regent's Court.

  “Thank you. Yes, sure, I’ll be there. Nice to meet you, too. Thank you,” Eric was saying to the unfamiliar faces springing before him. They managed to get out of the mansion and ran down the garden, which was now enveloped in darkness, as the cold night had replaced the cool evening, and the glittering stars were their only guides on their way back.

  “I forgot the gloves and the tuxedo,” Eric said when they reached the path that would take them back to the blue castle. “And the hat.”

  “Never mind. What you did there was incredible!” Electra exclaimed. “Where did you learn it from?”

  “From my cousin. I have to admit this was the first time I didn’t break anything.”

  “That was spectacular! You have to do that again for our friends.”

  “Maybe I will.” Eric heard a thunderclap and looked up. Lightning struck in the night sky, and the clouds rumbled. “What about the horseman? Will he appear again?”

  “Not when we’re going back.”

  As they reached the arbor Eric dragged her back and took her in his arms.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “I thought I should kiss you in the 19th century.”

  Electra managed a chuckle.

  28. The Last Candle

  “And now what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Cassandra and Medea were staring at a painting in the museum. They could see the bricked walls, the helical stairs, the arched window with the half-moon outside, but they couldn’t see the boy. He was gone.

  “So where is he?” Medea asked.

  “I have no idea. I remember this painting. There has to be a boy inside it.”

  “Maybe there is another painting?”

  “Maybe,” Cassandra said dubiously.

  They passed by museum artefacts—jewelry items, clay jars, daggers in golden scabbards—looking around the dark hall. The opposite wall was hung with tribal masks and Gobelin tapestries, as well as oil paintings with maple frames. The boy was not there.

  “Which of these candles do we need?” Hector raised his lantern, looking at an iron candelabrum with guttered candles.

  “The one that belongs to the boy from the painting.” Cassandra was examining another candle when Medea called them.

  “Look over here,” she whispered. “There are dozens of candles here.”

  “Maybe we could take one of them?” Hector asked.

  “We need the boy’s candle, and we need to find either him or at least his candle,” Cassandra said.

  “Stupid boy,” Medea muttered, looking around. There were candles inside the cabinets, on the shelves, on the stands, and on the chandeliers. They were big and small, long and short, thin and thick; some of them were figures of lovers kissing, archers shooting, horses, birds, or just cylinders of wax.

  “So many candles.” Cassandra thought she heard someone titter behind her back and turned around.

  Nothing. Only an oil painting enshrouded in darkness. She peered at the castle ruins lying on the painted grass and gleaming under the moonlight. Was it a flight of fancy, or did she really see a flash of light behind the fallen arch?

  Medea came upon her, holding her lantern above her head. “I looked at the paintings. That silly boy is gone. How shall we find him?”

  “There might be other paintings.”

  “He’s in none of them,” Hector said. “I looked at all the paintings in the two neighboring rooms. He’s gone.”

  The laughter sounded again, this time from the corner of the hall.

  “Did you hear that?” Medea asked.

  “You heard it, too?” Cassandra said. “I thought it was my imagination playing tricks in the dark.”

  “Wait here.” Hector went to the corner of the hall.

  Something or someone scuttled behind the girls, touching the hem of Medea's dress. She gasped and turned to Cassandra. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Light the candles! I need more light,” Medea cried out.

  “Easy, girl.” Hector hurried to them. “The guard is sleeping in the room next door. Do you want to wake him up?”

  “I don’t care if it’s the guard or De Roy himself. Something is creeping in the dark.”

  Hector took her by the hand. “Don’t be scared. There’s nothing in the dark.”

  “Tee-hee,” they heard again, then a gleam shone on the wall. They all looked at the trail of light slithering farther into the wall, like a will-o'-the-wisp luring them into the dark.

  “What’s that?”

  “A painting,” Hector whispered. “He’s in the painting and moving farther inside.”

  “Well let’s go get him!”

  Hector held Medea’s hand when she was about to run after the light. “Wait. It could b
e dangerous.”

  “Oh, stop it, Hector. A small boy from a painting can’t scare me.”

  “But he’s been doing just that for the past fifteen minutes.” Hector raised his lantern and cast the light on her face. “I thought you were the one asking for light.”

  Medea chuckled. “So it’s just the antics of a silly little boy? I’ll get him in a moment.”

  Cassandra had made her way to the other side of the hall, and was now standing in front of a painting, watching it without blinking. Hector told Medea not to move and approached her.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “Hush.” She pointed to the tree in the painting. “He’s behind the tree.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes.”

  It was a dark painting; the black and blue colors prevailed, and the bark of the old oak was hidden in the obscurity of the night. A dim light gleamed behind the tree, like a fire of a candle flickering in the wind.

  “Shall we go after the candle?” Hector asked, but Cassandra shook her head.

  “We won’t succeed. He will escape into another painting. He knows these places better, as he goes from a painting to a painting every night—”

  Medea let out a low cry and hurried to her sister.

  “And sometimes comes out,” Cassandra finished.

  “I don’t know what that waggish boy wants from me, but if I catch him tonight, I will choke him with my bare hands!”

  A wisp of light passed under the wall and disappeared in the center of the hall. Cassandra and Hector looked back at the oak tree—the light was gone.

  “He’s moving too quickly, the little rascal!”

  “Calm down, Medea, he won’t harm you.”

  “I’m calm, Cass, it’s his manners that creep me out. He crawls so smoothly in the dark... And that squeaky voice is—”

  The tittering sounded again, this time coming from somewhere in the center, behind the stands with artefacts.

  “He’s taunting us!” Medea dashed to the center of the hall.

  “Medea, wait, don’t run.”

  “Girls, quiet!”

  But Medea couldn’t keep quiet. She was running between the glass stands, hitting them with her lantern and making so much noise that it was a matter of time until the museum guard woke up and discovered them.

  “He won’t get away from me!” Medea said when Cassandra caught up with her and made her stop.

  “We can’t catch him that way. He knows this hall and all the paintings inside out. We need a plan.”

  “First of all, stop making so much noise,” Hector said. “Secondly, there are eleven paintings in this hall big enough to let him travel through them right under our noses. Even if each of us stands in a corner, the chances to miss him are high.”

  “I would say that maybe we need to come back tomorrow with Jack, Electra, and the rest, but I want to get that candle today, and choke that rascal while we’re at it,” Medea said.

  “We are here already, we shouldn’t wait for tomorrow.”

  “And you’re not going to choke anyone,” Cassandra said. “We need to make him stay in the painting long enough to take the candle.”

  “We need to catch him.” Medea looked around. “I’ll stand in that corner. If he comes through here, I’ll catch him.”

  “This won’t work,” Cassandra said as Medea moved quietly to the dark corner.

  “I know it won’t. We need to think of something,” Hector said.

  “There he is!” Medea dashed to the effigies, bent down and peeped under the dummies’ cloaks.

  “He was here a second ago,” she said when Hector and Cassandra approached her. “I saw the light.”

  Medea rose to her feet and let out a loud gasp when a dummy of a longhaired Viking stared into her face.

  “Will you please stop making so much noise?” Cassandra rebuked her. “The guard will wake up!”

  “But this Viking is the creepiest of all the Vikings I’ve ever seen.”

  “He won’t hurt you; he’s just a dummy.”

  “As if we have never made dummies come to life.” Medea snorted and paced farther into the hall. “Come out,” she was whispering. “Don’t be afraid. Just come out and give me that candle!”

  “This won’t work,” Cassandra muttered under her breath.

  For another hour they searched the hall, looked at every corner, under every stand, near the wooden globes, but the boy was too quick. They could hear his laughter, the sound of his footsteps, but that little museum dweller knew the place by heart and avoided every obstacle with no trouble.

  “This is silly,” Medea said. “We won’t catch him this way.”

  “She’s right,” Hector said. “We need to think over a plan to make him stay in the painting.”

  “How can we do that if that boy never stays in the same place for more than a second?”

  “Oh, but it’s obvious,” Cassandra said suddenly. “We’ve seen that painting many times before, and the boy was always there. Why? Just because he has to be there—it’s his right place. He can’t go for a walk while there are visitors.”

  “Oh, right!” Medea exclaimed, and was promptly reminded to keep quiet. “Right,” she whispered. “He’s just an exhibit. A museum piece. And he has to go back when the visitors come.”

  “And when do the visitors come?” Hector’s question was more rhetorical than inquiring.

  “Surely not at night,” Cassandra said.

  “Thus, we have to convince him that it’s morning already.”

  They became silent, looked around, and suddenly it dawned upon them.

  “Candles!” all three said.

  Cassandra snapped her fingers, and the closest candle, the red dwarf in a conical hat, lit up.

  “Hurry up, light up all of them,” Hector said.

  While Cassandra snapped her fingers at the candles, Hector and Medea were lighting the rest with a box of matches. One after another the candle figures lit up, filling the obscure hall with growing light. When Medea turned around, the painting wasn’t empty any longer.

  “We fooled him!” she exclaimed, then clapped her palms over her mouth.

  “Hurry up, get the candle,” Hector said. “We don’t have much time.”

  Medea threw herself at the painting and made another loud growl. “There’s a glass over the painting!”

  “A glass?” Cassandra ran to the painting and touched its surface.

  “Why is there a glass?”

  “I think it’s to prevent the boy from getting out. Only the one who put the glass over the painting didn’t consider that he’d find a way out through the other paintings.”

  “We have to break it,” Medea said in a hurry, looking for a suitable tool in the hall. “Here, take this, Hector. McMadicus’s Sledgehammer,” she read on the plate of the stand.

  “We can’t break it. Too much noise.”

  “It’s too late,” Cassandra said. “The guard is up.”

  She grabbed Hector’s arm and dragged him after her, telling Medea to hide. They had just turned off their lanterns and hid behind the stands when the half-asleep guard entered the hall.

  “What in thunder?” he murmured. “Who… how?” He darted out of the hall.

  “He went after a comrade in the library,” Hector said. “We have to get out of here.”

  “Not without the candle.” Medea ran to the glass and hit it with her fists. It didn’t break.

  “Stop it,” Cassandra said. “There is another way. It might work. We need to find a similar candle. If he comes out every night, it means his candle melts away, and he has to take a new one. Now find the one which looks exactly like the candle in his candlestick.”

  They squinted at the painting. The candle in the boy’s candlestick was white, thick, and with carved patterns. They ran to the stands and shelves, looking for a similar candle.

  “Not this one. Not this one. Not this one,” Medea was saying, passing by every burning candle.
r />   “Don’t forget to blow the candles out,” Hector said.

  As they began blowing out the candles, the hall gradually returned to darkness. In less than a minute only one candle was left burning on the top of a cabinet.

  “There it is, the last candle,” Hector said. The moment he reached the cabinet, they heard footsteps behind the door, then voices.

  “I swear all the candles were burning.”

  “Did you examine the hall?”

  “No. I hurried after you.”

  “You got scared, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did. This place is so chilling at night.”

  The intruders turned off their lanterns and hid. Hector reached out and took the last candle, blew it out, pressed it against his chest, and buttoned his vest upon it.

  The two guards barged into the dark hall and looked around.

  “And where is your light?”

  “I swear the candles were burning.”

  “How smart it was to not even take lanterns with us.”

  “Shall I get them now?”

  “No time. Better draw the curtains. If there is someone here, the moonlight will be enough for us to see them.”

  While the guards paced to the windows, the witches were crawling behind their backs. In the darkness, Cassandra had to rely on Medea’s eyesight, feeling like a blind mole trying to find her way out into the corridor. Medea dragged her sister to the wall, were Hector was waiting for them. They only had to make a few more steps, and their venture would have a successful ending.

  The guards drew the curtains aside, and the moonlight gushed into the hall. They searched the museum from a corner to a corner, but found no one. The intruders had sneaked out of the hall, and were now going back to the blue castle through the mirror in the library room.

  29. The Fountain Riddle

  At night, when the square was empty and silent, and a blue mist had fallen over the town, three girls and three fellows met at the bronze fountain. Enshrouded in the torpor of the fog, it stood abandoned and ignored, filled with dust and dried leaves. The town was asleep—thoroughfares were quiet, shops and stores were closed, no soul was in the streets, and no light was burning but the dim crescent in the sky. Everything was calm, as if foretelling an upcoming storm.

  “Let’s see them.” Jack put the flute on the pool of the fountain. The white candle and the flea box appeared near.

  “So here they are,” he said. “All three missing parts.”

  “I hope it will work,” Electra said.

  “We’ll see right now.” Jack placed the flute between the whistler's empty fingers.

  A click sounded.

  Jack looked at Eric, bidding him to put the flea box into its place. Eric went to the lady’s figure and placed the flea box inside the hollow in her hair.

  Another click sounded.

  Hector put the candle into the candlestick of the bronze figure in a nightgown and nightcap. They heard the third click.

  Nothing.

  All six stared at each other, then into the fountain’s pool. There was no key.

  “Not working,” Jack said dismally, coming down the fountain.

  “What shall we do now?” Electra asked.

  “No idea.” Eric shrugged, then came down the fountain and stood next to her.

  “This is ridiculous,” Hector said. “We undertook all those dangerous adventures for nothing! There’s no key. We must have missed something, some clue.” He got down the fountain and looked at his friends. “We need to conduct another search in the library.”

  He had just made the proposal when something inside the fountain clicked again, then began buzzing, like some mechanism, or rather gears moving. The whistler stirred—slowly at first, but faster with every second. The lady's figure was the second to start moving, and a moment later the boy budged, too. All three statues grouped together, forming one big composition, with the whistler and the lady standing near each other, and the little boy at their feet. As the statues ended their route, a louder noise sounded inside the fountain. Water gushed from the holes around the pool, as well as the whistler's flute. Dirty and rust-colored, it soon became clean, even sparkling.

  “Unbelievable,” Ariadne whispered. “I have never seen this fountain working.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Cassandra.

  “Very beautiful,” Electra agreed.

  “And where is the key?” Eric shoved his hand inside the water. Electra wanted to protest, but seeing that nothing happened to him, kept silent.

  “Anything?” Ariadne asked when Jack and Hector thrust their hands into the water.

  Eric’s arm was now inside the water up to his shoulder, but he still couldn’t feel the bottom. He looked at Jack. “Can you feel anything?”

  He shook his head. Eric looked around, then began searching for something under the trees.

  “What is he doing?” Ariadne asked.

  “Looking for a stick,” Jack said, his hand inside the water.

  Eric came back to the fountain, carrying a long branch. He lowered it into the water to feel the bottom, but the branch went down all the way of its length and still didn’t hit anything hard.

  “How is this even possible?” Eric pulled the branch out. “There was a bottom when it was empty.”

  “Oh wait,” Electra said. “Could it be that this once was a Fountain of Desire?”

  “So what?”

  “There is a legend about the Fountains of Desire,” Cassandra answered instead of her sister. “People were throwing coins into them for years, decades, even centuries. The spirits to whom those gifts were meant for would sometimes open portals that led to their habitats and collect the coins there. That’s all I know about the Fountains of Desire.”

  “Why does it have to be so difficult?” Jack perched on the fountain pool and took off his shoes.

  “What are you doing?” his sisters asked him.

  “I’ll go down there.”

  “No!” Electra said. “It could be dangerous.”

  “As if the rest hasn’t been dangerous already. We can’t stop almost at the end.”

  “He’s right,” Hector said, and began taking off his shoes.

  “Wait, Hec. I don’t think it’s necessary for you to come.”

  “Jack, it’s dark down there. Maybe we need to wait till morning?” Eric asked.

  “In the morning, this square will be full of people. How shall I dive into the fountain in front of them?”

  Jack took off his watch and the chain he carried around his neck, and gave them to Ariadne. “I won’t be long,” he said, hanging his legs down. “Brrr, it’s cold,” he muttered, and dived into the water.

  “This is a bad idea,” Cassandra said. “We shouldn’t have let him do this.”

  “As if he ever listens,” Hector said.

  They stood around the fountain, now and then glancing at their watches. Jack had been gone for five minutes, but those five minutes seemed an eternity.

  “How can he be underwater for five minutes?” Ariadne asked. “That’s too long.”

  “He’s a good swimmer,” Hector said.

  “It doesn’t matter; he has been underwater for five minutes!”

  “She’s right,” Electra said. “He has been gone for too long.”

  “What if he drowned?” Cassandra said, her voice shaking.

  Hector took off his vest and sat down on the pool of the fountain. “I’ll go after him.”

  “If you don’t come back in two minutes, I’m coming after you,” Eric said.

  Hector nodded and dived after Jack.

  One minute passed. Then passed the second. Everyone was leaning on the pool of the fountain, checking their watches every other second, but neither Jack nor Hector returned. After the second minute Eric began taking off his sneakers.

  “It’s dangerous,” Electra said, sitting by his side.

  Eric took her by her trembling hand. “We’ll be back. All of us.”

 
“Be careful.”

  “I will,” he said, and splashed into the water. Jack was right—it was cold. And dark. The tunnel reminded him of the lake and the mermaid that had dragged him into the darkness, but there were no mermaids in the fountain, just endless water. Eric kept diving, hoping to reach the bottom, find his friends, and take them back with him, but the pool was a bottomless abyss. He knew he couldn’t hold his breath forever and had to plan the one hundred seconds he could stay underwater. He’d spend one-half going down, and the other half coming up to breathe some air and dive again, but when he had counted to fifty he spotted a glimmer in the darkness. The choice was either going back to take a breath or to keep diving. He chose the second. If Jack and Hector hadn’t come back, then they might have found something. He refused to believe they had drowned, and kept going down after the glimmer.

  Eric emerged into a bright room. The walls were white, the curtains over the windows transparent, and a chandelier hanging from the aquatic ceiling was burning with all twenty bulbs. The place, bleached in light, was astounding, but Eric had no time to look around the underwater room with wooden furniture, pier and mirror, and thousands of coins across the floor. He swam to an open door and found himself in another chamber with an open window, through which Hector was swimming back. He pointed to the exit, and hoping that Hector was sending him somewhere with air, Eric swam through the French window. There was an underwater garden, teemed with corals in every form and color. Eric passed above the pink branches and yellow sunflowers, green mushrooms and embroidered petals. Growing into each other, they had grouped into a colorful palace inhabited with dappled fish and sea stars. Eric could spend hours admiring the undersea magnificence if he hadn’t urgently needed air. He dashed up, as does anyone in need of air, and at last came up the surface.

  “Strange place, huh?” Eric heard from behind. Jack was in the water, looking up into the cloudless sky and the sun setting on the horizon.

  “Where are we?”

  “In the sea, I suppose.”

  “In the sea?”

  “Or maybe in the ocean. No idea.” Jack chuckled. “Unbelievable, right?”

  “A fountain that leads into the sea?” Eric looked around, and a rush of fear squeezed his heart. He was in the middle of a sea, so far from the solid ground. The fear increased when albatrosses soared in the distance. The water was endless. No land, not even mountains were in sight; only blue water sparkling under the vanishing sunlight.

  “Eric, look there!” Jack pointed into the distance, where a pod of dolphins was hopping among the waves.

  “Dolphins.” Eric sniggered. “Amazing.”

  Hector emerged from the water and took a sip of air. “Would you like me to bring you coffee? Or shall we try to find the key?”

  “Are you sure it’s here?” Eric asked.

  “No, but it might be in those rooms. Let’s bring the matter to an end. We can’t stay long in the open sea.” Jack dived back into the water.

  “Is that a ship?” Eric pointed to a black speck on the waves, gliding farther into the distance.

  “I guess so.”

  “It doesn’t look like a modern yacht.”

  “It doesn’t have to,” Hector said. “Don’t stay long here. You might become food for sharks.”

  Eric had heard too many stories about shark attacks in his homeland and had no wish to meet them in Hollow or wherever he was now. When Hector dived, Eric followed him. As he was passing through the coral garden, a shoal of Flame Angel fish whirled around him, leading him to the room with coins, where Hector and Jack were looking for the key while trying to avoid the sea urchins and jellyfish. They looked under the furniture, behind the curtains, and inside the drawers, then went back into the open sea after some air, and came back to the room, followed by another school of fish.

  While they were underwater, the girls were arguing over who had to dive next. Electra was saying that she had to do it, as she was the eldest, but Cassandra and Ariadne didn’t consider the age difference of just a few months a reason enough to be the next diver.

  “I’m a better swimmer,” she said.

  “I’ll go,” Cassandra said. “If there’s some animal down there, it won’t touch me.”

  “Why would there be an animal?” Ariadne asked.

  “Who knows what might be there.”

  “That’s why I will go. After meeting sheep-sized rats, I’m not afraid of any animal.”

  “Alright, girls, we can’t stand idle and keep arguing. I am diving.” Electra seated on the edge of the fountain and took off her shoes. Twenty minutes had passed since Eric had dived into the fountain. No one could stay underwater for so long. Something had happened to them, but she would find the boys and bring them back. Electra lowered her feet into the water and was about to dive into the fountain, when Eric sprang out and took a deep breath.

  “Eric!” Electra jumped into his arms. “You’re alive.”

  Hector emerged from the water, and Cassandra stretched her hand to him. He held onto her grip and pulled himself out of the pool.

  “We did it,” Hector said with relief. “Go, help him out,” he told Ariadne. She hurried to the pool and looked into it with expectation. Then a hand came out of the water, holding a silver key. Ariadne grabbed Jack’s arm and pulled him out.

  “Did anyone ask for a key delivery?” he said, raising up the heavy key.

  “You found it,” Electra said, holding onto Eric in the water.

  “We did, though it took a while. It was in the last drawer of the pier.” Eric gave her a golden coin. “I got a talisman for you.”

  “A drawer? What drawer?” she asked, taking the coin and examining it.

  “We’ll have time to talk about,” Jack said. “Now let’s go home and get dry before anyone sees us.”

  “But why don’t we go to the cave right now?” Electra asked. “And lock the door.”

  “Because the lamia is not there now,” Jack said. “She’s lurking around the town, and will be back in the cave before the first rays of the sun. We’ll go to the cave at the crack of dawn and will lock the door after she hides behind it.” He took his chain from Ariadne and hung it around his neck. “Oh, and by the way”—he looked at the girls—“You’re not coming.”

  “No!”

  “Of course we are!”

  “You can’t forbid us!”

  “Girls, please, for once in your lives do as I say and stay away from the cave tomorrow.”

  “He’s right. You don’t have to come to the cave, it could be dangerous,” Eric said.

  “So what?” Electra said. “We have been with you all this time. We won’t leave you at the end.”

  “Please, Elie—”

  “We’re coming with you!”

  “Alright,” Jack said. “We’ll meet at the cave at six in the morning.” He tried to pull the flute out of the whistler’s hands, but it was stuck.

  “The candle is stuck too,” Hector said.

  “And the flea box.”

  “We’ll have to leave them,” Jack said. “I wonder what the townsfolk will say in the morning.”

  “Let’s go away from here until someone has seen us,” Hector said, and putting his arms around Cassandra’s and Ariadne’s shoulders, walked away from the square.

  “See you in a few hours,” Electra told Eric.

  “Yes, sunshine, in a few hours,” he said. “Until then we’ll get dry.”

  Smiling, Electra cupped his wet face and gave him a kiss. As she followed Hector and the girls, Jack walked past Eric and whispered into his ear, “Be at the cave at five sharp.”

  Eric nodded.

  30. The Cave

  Eric was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. His mind was haunted with the recollections of the stories about the witch hunt. He had read more diaries, and those were worse than Amelia Wicker’s records. They contained so much cruelty and pain that he had a hard time believing it all could have been true. The malice, the human hatred and wi
ckedness seemed endless; the envy and abhorrence prevailed over the people whose evil was proportionate to their own fears. Eric knew that behind all that gore and cruelty was hiding nothing but fear and jealousy. The sheriff, the judge, and the members of those families were a group of cravens who submitted to the Hunters that promised them a town free of anything they feared. And they agreed to partake in a massacre that would destroy the innocent along with the guilty, for they feared the guilty and hated the innocent.

  Eric sauntered to the window. He couldn’t sleep, not even for a minute. He had a disturbing feeling that something bad was to happen. The room was hotter than ever. He wished to open the window and let some fresh air inside, but didn’t do that. The time hadn’t come yet.

  Another hour passed. Eric opened the casement and climbed out of his room. By the time he reached the cave, a drenching rain had begun. The lightning struck, then the thunder burst so loud that the earth shuddered. Light flickered in the distance and went off. A bit later Jack and Hector entered the cave.

  “I’m here,” Eric said.

  “Good.” Jack put his lantern on the ground. “It got drenched,” he said. “Hector, any luck?”

  “We’ll have to go in dark,” Hector said.

  “Let’s go then. It’ll be five soon. We’ll find the door and hide nearby until she comes. Here, hold this.”

  Eric felt a sheathed dirk in the darkness and took it by the hilt. “At least this time I’m armed.”

  The rain was pouring mercilessly, hitting on the walls of the cave that shuddered from the bursts of thunderbolts preceded by the flashes of lightning. After quarter of an hour, Hector tried to light up the lantern and succeeded this time, shedding hazy light over the slimy rocks. The door of the second cave was wide open, and the abyss was staring at the three uninvited guests.

  Jack put the key into the keyhole. It matched. As a precaution, he took the key out and squeezed it tightly in his hand.

  “We’ll hide nearby and wait for her.” He hung the lantern above the entrance to the second cave, below the ghastly sculpture.

  “But she will see the lantern,” Eric said.

  “No big deal. She won’t care for it. The lamia needs to go back into her den and stay there until the next night. When she gets into the cave, we shall lock the door. Now we only need to wait.”

  They hid behind the rocks covered with moss. Eric was squeezing the haft of the dirk, watching the path that led to Taidgroth. The cave was misty; the grey fog was crawling out of the door and curling above the damp ground.

  No sound was heard but the dripping of the water and the flapping of the wings beneath the ceiling where the bats were dwelling. Then a hiss drifted across the cave, and a silhouette crawled into the light. She had long hair, her neck was refined, hands and waist slender, but the fog hid the rest, and her gait was the only thing that gave away her true essence. The creature wasn’t walking; she was gliding across the cave. When the bats flapped above her head, the lamia stood erect and listened, and her body lengthened to twice its size, but her legs were never visible. Instead, there seemed to be an endless continuation of her waist—thick and long, dotted with scales.

  Hiding in the lee, Eric was watching the lamia slither to the door, feeling the hair on his neck bristle. She was ghastly, and bigger than he had expected. In the darkness he couldn’t spot the cave’s tiny dwellers, one of which had crept to his hand and was moving across his palm. The spider bit him the moment when the lamia was entering the second cave. The bite was sudden, and so painful that Eric couldn’t help wincing.

  The lamia hissed through the bloodstained teeth. Eric crouched behind the rock, but she had heard his voice, and hit her pointy tail against Eric’s hiding spot. The tail pierced the ground, an inch away from his leg. Eric bolted up and faced the lamia the moment when her spiky tail was getting ready for another hit. Shrieking, she wrapped her tail around Eric’s neck and pulled him to her green face.

  Eric clung to the tail, and it squeezed harder around his neck. Jack dashed at the lamia, plunging his dagger into her tail. She screeched and hurled Eric on the ground. Hector caught him in the air and they rolled to the mossy rocks. The lamia tossed her tail to the ceiling and clinging to the rocks above, pulled her body up and hid in the darkness.

  “Are you alright?” Jack stared at Hector and Eric. They nodded, rubbing their napes.

  “She’s strong,” Eric muttered, staring at the ceiling, his heart pounding against his ribs.

  “We have to leave the cave, or she won’t come—” The scaled tail wrapped around Jack’s throat and pulled him up into the darkness.

  “Jack!”

  Hector and Eric bounded to their feet.

  “Jack! Where did she take him?” Eric cried aghast. He dashed to the wall and began climbing up, the dirk squeezed between his teeth.

  A shriek of agony echoed in the cave. The brown-winged bats flapped above the ground, then scattered in panic when Jack’s body tumbled on the ground. Hector rushed to his friend.

  “Jack, are you alive?” He tried to feel Jack’s pulse. “Come on, say something!”

  “The key,” Jack murmured.

  “What?”

  “She’s got the key.”

  Something dropped on Hector’s head. He glanced up, and another drop landed on his face. He touched his forehead and glanced at his palm stained in blood. The trail of drops moved to the wall where Eric was standing.

  “Get away from that wall,” Hector told him, pulling Jack away from the path. Eric stepped back and looked up. The blood was dripping above the door of the second cave. The lamia was waiting for the proper time to attack.

  Eric squatted and squinted at the sculpture above the door. Like a giant scorpion the lamia crept down, digging her jagged nails into the stone. She shielded the door with her green body, holding onto the sculpture with her tail. Eric saw Jack’s dagger and the silver key, one thrust into her side, the other plunged into her belly. He stood up, hid his dirk behind his back, and took a step forward. The lamia hissed and bared her fangs. Eric’s heart was pounding, but he forced himself to take another step. The lamia thrust out her purple tongue and licked her lips. Eric took a third step, staring into the crimson eyes—blank and soulless. There was nothing human in that creature; it was a creation of the dark—lethal, fatal, abhorring. So many nights she had fooled him into believing that her presence was nothing but a dream, that her touch was a sweet reminder of the one he was dreaming about, and that she was but a vague impression of his beloved girl, while the lamia had been real, and had been sucking his blood.

  “Come now,” Eric said. “We’re no strangers, are we? We have spent so many nights in each other’s company, so why are you so shy?”

  The lamia leered and pounced on him, throwing him on the ground. Her fangs were aimed at the artery on his neck, but met with the dirk and bit into the blade. Eric tried to push her back as she began chewing the steel in front of his terrified eyes.

  Hector snatched the bowie knife from his boot and stabbed the lamia's tail, nailing it to the ground. Her shriek was so loud that the walls of the cave trembled. Eric had to let go of his hands and cover his ears, so painful was her scream. She wriggled her tail and tried to free it, but the knife was embedded too deep into the ground. The lamia squirmed her tail until it tore off the knife, making her let out another wail. She tried to stand erect, but the wounded tail had lost its strength, and she lost her balance, collapsing down. Hector caught her from behind and turned her over. “Get the key!”

  Eric snatched the sticking key and pulled it out, tearing her green flesh. The tail was twisting into knots and curves while the lamia was screeching and wailing, awakening anything that could be inhabiting the darkness of the second cave.

  She wriggled out of Hector’s grip and twined her arms around his throat, her nails raking his neck. Eric pulled the bowie knife from the ground and got ready to stab the lamia, but his hand froze in the air. She was alive, she was real, and he
had never stabbed any living creature in his life. He had never killed anyone. He knew he had to help Hector, but couldn’t move.

  Jack threw himself at Hector and together they shoved the lamia back at Eric. The blade pierced her body, and she let out a prolonged moan. Stunned, Eric let go of the knife, and the lamia sank to the ground. She wasn’t hissing or screeching anymore; a purr was coming out of her mouth as she crawled to the door, leaving a trail of blood across the path. As she lay by the door of the second cave and ceased making a sound, Eric dared approach her and squatted by her green body.

  “Is she dead?”

  “I think so,” Jack said. “She’s a monster. It was either her or us.”

  “I know. I only wish she’d never come out of this door. Shall we lock it at last?”

  “Yes.”

  They looked into the nothingness behind the door. The darkness had never been so void and lifeless, and the howls that came from the depths of Taidgroth made the blood in their veins freeze.

  “Would you dare step inside?” Hector asked.

  “No way,” Jack said.

  “Is that another portal?” Eric asked.

  “Whatever it is, I’m not going to be the one who finds that out.” Jack gripped the haft of the knife and pulled it out of the lamia’s back. “Hold the tail,” he told Eric and Hector while he grabbed the lamia by her shoulders. Eric clutched the creature by the waist, and Hector wrapped his arms around her tail. They scooped the lifeless body and threw it into the abyss. Jack shut the door, and Eric locked it.

  “What shall we do with this?” Eric held up the key.

  “My idea is that it needs to be destroyed, but someone else has the other key, so we better keep it for now,” Jack said. He took the key from Eric’s hand, grabbed the lantern from the sculpture, and all three strode to the exit. They were near the entrance when a female voice called Jack’s name. He raised the lantern and hurried to Ariadne. She looked pale and scared.

  “No need to worry,” he told her. “We killed the lamia and locked the door.”

  “Jack, you have to hurry!”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Hollow!” Ariadne exclaimed. “Hollow is burning!”

  31. Silhouettes in Fire

  “Burning? How? What happened?” Jack shook Ariadne by her shoulders. “Speak! What happened?”

  “I don’t know, Jack,” she cried through tears. “It must have been the lightning.”

  The fellows looked at the town, where the bundles of white smoke were eddying into the red sky.

  “One of the wooden bridges is burning,” Ariadne sobbed. “And so are the gardens, haylofts, the toy store, the wood turner's workplace, the lumber mill, the Candy Shop—”

  “Candy shop?” Eric stared at the smoke. His little cousin was supposed to spend the night at his grandmother’s place, two stories above the Candy Shop.

  When they reached the blazing town, Jack and Hector ran to their houses, and Ariadne left with them. And Eric rushed to the Candy shop. The town was filled with people carrying buckets of water and trying to extinguish the flames that had caught the thoroughfares and were devouring the wooden houses. The dwellers were dashing out of the houses, holding children and animals in their arms, sometimes carrying valuables. The merciless flames seemed to mock all the attempts of being extinguished, and blazed with more fury and strength. Familiar faces had gathered in front of the Candy shop, staring at the building and crying.

  “Where is Henry?” Eric asked Eleanora.

  “In the house,” she said through sobs. “Dad has gone after him. Uncle Neil is there, too. They have been there too long already…”

  Riona was down on her knees in the middle of the alley, calling her son’s name. Her mother and sister were with her, while their husbands were in the burning house.

  The flames were creeping up. The second floor was engulfed in fire; the third floor was burning already. Eric looked around for someone with water, but the alley was smoking, and everyone was either running away or fighting with the flames to save their own dwellings. The McKennits were not around; they lived on the West Bank and probably didn’t know that their shop was burning.

  “More water!” someone yelled.

  “Help!”

  “Water!”

  Water—the only thing that everyone kept asking for. More water. It wasn’t enough—the fire was growing; the smoke was spreading over the square, hurting the eyes and choking the lungs. Panic had overtaken the people. If officers appeared, they were surrounded by the townsfolk telling about the relatives they couldn’t find and asking for water.

  Where is the rain when we need it so much? Eric thought, staring into the sky filled with red smoke. It was still dark, darker than it should be at the crack of dawn. Eric squinted into the blazing flames. He saw people running away, rushing for water and helping each other, but there was something else in the fire: silhouettes were coming out of flames. They were not hurrying, not running away, not offering help to the townsfolk. Five silhouettes in long cloaks, wearing hoods over their heads. And although they were walking through the flames, none of them was caught on fire. Eric lost the sight of them when people passed before him, dragging their animals and carriages down the road, but then the silhouettes reappeared. Far away, enshrouded in fire and smoke, it seemed that they were coming out of the inferno itself, uncaring about anything happening around.

  Riona’s sobs pulled Eric out of his stupor. He saw someone coming out of the house. All three women bounded to their feet and ran to Mr. Wilson, Riona’s father.

  “I couldn’t find Henry, but I’ll go back,” he said, holding to his wife.

  “No, Father,” Riona cried out. “Albert will find him. You’re too tired, your hands are burnt.”

  “I will go.” Mr. Wilson tuned to the burning house, and all three women clung to his arms, crying bitterly.

  “Stay here. I’ll find them,” Eric told him, and ran to the burning house, almost getting under the hoofs of a horse running past him. He reached the burning doors, and bracing himself, jumped inside. He had been there before and remembered that the stairs on the left led to the Wilsons’ apartment on the third floor. Eric emerged in the corridor with four doors. Henry was behind one of them. The walls were burning; the corridor was shrouded in thick smoke. He heard Uncle Albert's voice drifting from the first apartment, and barged into the second one, looking around. The walls and windows were burning, the furniture was caught in fire. Eric pressed his sleeve over his nose and mouth and stepped into the next room, looking around, searching under the bed and in the corners. The fire was growing in a fierce haste; it had already devoured all the furniture under the walls and was now spreading through the ceiling and to the door. Eric was beginning to doubt that he’d get out of the house alive. He ran to the exit and stepped over the burning threshold.

  “Henry! Uncle Albert!”

  He entered the anteroom of the third apartment, searching for Henry. He knew he didn’t have much time. All three floors were on fire, and he had no idea how he was supposed to go downstairs. The dense smoke had filled the place, hurting his eyes and making breathing painful. The fire had spared the last room of the apartment, but the flames were already creeping in through the shattered windows, and the smoke was curling in the center of the room.

  “Henry!” Eric ran to the corner and lifted up the boy. Henry wrapped his arms around his cousin’s neck. When they had reached the threshold, the boy whispered into Eric’s ear, “Emily is there, too.”

  “Who?”

  “Emily. Under the piano.”

  Eric looked around the room, searching for the piano. The boy was right—there was someone under it. It was Emily, the neighbors’ five-year-old girl. Eric had no time to think about how she had gotten there and where her family was. Holding Henry in his arms, he peered down the piano. Emily was plastered to the floor, her eyes closed, and her head covered with her little hands.

  “Emily,” Eric said. “Come her
e.”

  She didn’t move, and Eric pulled the hem of her dress. “Come here, girl. Come here.”

  She still wouldn’t move. Eric grabbed her by her hand and pulled her sharply from under the piano. Emily shrieked.

  “Come here. I’ll take you to your mommy. Please, come here.” He forced her out and lifted both the children. They were heavy, but Eric couldn’t leave any of them in the burning room to be picked up later. He wasn’t planning to return there.

  “Close your eyes and try to hold your breaths,” he commanded. He didn’t know whether the children obeyed him, or whether they had even heard him. The flames were crackling, swallowing the room and the house. The roof of the building was made of wood, and it was a matter of time until the burnt logs would fall. Eric got into the hallway, but the way back was blocked by a wall of flame. There was no way out.

  He went farther into the corridor, holding the children in his arms. Through the crackling he could hear Emily’s sobbing and feel Henry shaking in his arms.

  “Uncle Albert!” Eric yelled, and the acrid smoke filled his throat. He had lost concentration; almost blinded, he didn’t know where he was going, but he was stepping deeper into the corridor, looking for a way out.

  “Uncle Albert!” he called again. He had to tell him that Henry was with him, but couldn’t go back. The corridor was aflame, as well as the whole house.

  Eric heard voices outside and followed them through the smoke. There were two windows at the end of the corridor, one shrouded by fire, but the other still intact. He hurried to the window and looked out. They were on the third floor and he could climb down. If he had some time, he could take one of the children down, then climb up and get the other.

  Eric turned around. There was no time. The flames were coming closer, and the window was the only way out of the burning house.

  “Help!” he shouted. “Somebody!”

  No one heard him. The Wilsons and Riona were in the alley, and he was on the backside of the building.

  “Help!” he shouted again, holding the children tighter, feeling his back aching and breaking in two. “Somebody help!”

  It was useless. Eric leaned over the windowsill and looked down. There were projections along the wall; he could climb down if he tried hard enough. But could he do that with two children? When a burning log collapsed behind them, and the children shrieked, he knew he had no time to think. Eric squatted before the window and put Henry down.

  “Henry, listen to me. Hang onto my back. There you go, good boy. Now hold tight, both of you.” He rose up, holding Emily in his hands and having Henry hanging on his back. “We can do this,” Eric told himself, and breathed out. He climbed onto the hot sill. His jeans were thick enough to protect him from the heat, but his bare hands were getting burnt. He didn’t care about the hands. He would’ve readily cut his hand off if it had helped him to get out of the flames.

  Eric climbed out of the window and searched for support with his foot. The ledge was there. He let out a deep sigh, wishing that Henry wouldn’t squeeze his neck like that, and hoping that the boy wouldn’t loosen his hands and fall down from the third floor. Emily was before him, pressed to his chest by his left hand. He told her to hold tight and hung from the sill by both of his hands.

  Eric searched for the closest jut that could afford a stiff hold for his foot, leaned against it, and climbed down another step. The stone wall was hot; he tried to press the girl closer to his chest so that her back wouldn’t touch the hot wall and get burnt. His arms and palms were aching, but he told himself that the ground was getting closer. Soon the pain became unbearable, and he couldn’t help moaning.

  “Just get the children down,” he was saying to himself. They were the only thing that mattered, the only reason he was still bearing that pain and wasn’t letting go. He’d rather fall down from the third floor than feel that agony anymore, but two innocent lives depended on him. He had to get them down.

  The sky growled, warning of the torrent.

  At last. Never in his life had he been so happy for the rain. It would kill the fire. It was only a matter of time. But the walls were so hot that the rain couldn’t yet soothe the flames and cool the stone. Instead, it made the ledges slippery and turned Eric’s venture into a more arduous task.

  “On the wall!” he heard below.

  “Get a ladder!” someone yelled.

  Had they been noticed? Eric tried to look down. They were on the second floor now. He could jump if necessary, but it was too high for the children.

  “Henry!” Riona shrieked. Yes, they had been noticed, but would any of them get a ladder? More houses were on fire, but the gushing torrent was successfully fighting the flames. Eric managed another step down.

  “Henry, jump,” he heard a male voice cry out. Was it Uncle Albert? Eric couldn’t tell, but the owner of the voice was ready to catch the boy.

  “Don’t be afraid, Henry. Let go,” Eric said, but the boy wasn’t in a rush to jump from the second floor. “Trust me, they will catch you,” Eric said. “Just let your hands go. They will catch you, I promise.”

  He couldn’t hold onto the wall anymore. It was slippery; the rain was gushing down on him, and Henry, hanging from his back, seemed to weight a ton. Either Henry jumped, or they would all fall down.

  “Do it, Henry. Just do it.”

  Henry loosened his grip, plunged down like a rock, and was caught by the people under the wall. Eric felt as if his back was released of the heaviest burden. The wall had cooled down, and the stone wasn’t burning his palms anymore. He hadn’t reached the ground yet when the hands below reached out to him, then took the girl off his grip. Eric jumped to the ground and leaned his back against the wall. Riona’s sister knelt before him and checked his heartbeat.

  “Calm down,” she said softly. “And breathe deeper.”

  Eric looked around. The people who had caught Henry were Riona’s father and her brother-in-law. Some steps away from the house, Riona was hugging Henry and crying. And Eleanora was sobbing in her grandmother’s arms. Eric returned his eyes to the men before him.

  “Where is Uncle Albert?”

  No one responded.