The Metropolitans

by Carol Goodman

  “Yes,” Kiku admitted. “I-I don’t have a lot of friends.”

  “Ah, I thought I recognized a soulmate. I, too, have often been a solitary creature, but I have made a few friends over the years and so have you now. When you bring the third chapter back your friends will be pleased that you found it.”

  “They won’t be angry that I found it on my own? Or see it as a betrayal? The second chapter says that one of the knights will betray the others. Does that mean one of us will betray our friends? Is that how the Kelmsbury works? Are we becoming the characters in the book?”

  “Oh dear.” Sir Bricklebank ran his long fingers through his silver hair until it looked like he’d stuck his finger in an electric socket. “I don’t really know how it works. I know it’s not healthy to read the book alone—too many voices in your head! I thought it would be safe if you all read it together.” He sounded upset.

  Moth stood up and stroked his arm, making a soothing sound, and hissed at Kiku, “You’ve stayed long enough, girl. Take what you came for and go.”

  “And leave him here?” Kiku asked.

  “This is where he belongs,” Moth began, and then, holding up a hand to shield the next words from Sir Bricklebank, added, “It’s where he’s always belonged. He just forgot.”

  Sir Bricklebank, calmer now, was feeding a cookie to the parrot. He did look as if he belonged in the little studiolo, as if it had been made for him.

  “If you’re sure,” Kiku said.

  “It’s time to give her the chapter, Sir Peter,” Moth said, nudging Sir Bricklebank.

  “Oh yes, the chapter. Now, where did it get to?” He riffled through some loose papers on his desk, opened a cabinet and tossed out a lute, a number of quill pens, and what looked like an original Shakespeare folio.

  “Um,” Kiku said, “your clue said something about it being under where heroes die.”

  “Right! How clever of me! I meant Virgil’s Aeneid, of course. Now, where did it go?” He stared down at the book Moth was holding. “Oh dear, you’ve moved it, haven’t you, Moth? Now, where was it before? The lectern, I think . . .”

  On the side of the lectern there was a small triangular opening out of which a slender roll of papers protruded. Sir Bricklebank drew it out and smiled. “Here it is!” he proclaimed, handing the rolled-up pages to Kiku. She looked down at the pages to make sure he’d given her the right ones and read the title: In Which Morgaine Makes a Journey of Her Own in the Hewan Wood.

  “Oh, I suppose this must be the right one.”

  “You see,” Sir Bricklebank said. “You were meant to make this journey on your own, but you don’t have to read it alone. Take it back to read with your friends.”

  “I will, Sir Peter. Are you sure you don’t want to come back with me?”

  He shook his head sadly. “It is too late for me, dear. But do let me know how things turn out. You can leave a note for me right there.” He tapped the small triangular opening on the side of the lectern.

  “All right,” Kiku said, unsure how she would leave a note on what would be a flat surface back in her world. “I’ll try. I guess I’d better go . . .” She turned to face the open doorway, but all she saw there was forest. “But how will I get back?”

  “Just go the way you came,” she heard Sir Peter say. She looked back and saw that he was already bending over one of his books again. And then she noticed something strange. Where Sir Peter had raked his hair back, one pointed ear protruded, and when she looked down at his feet, she noticed they were cloven like a goat’s.

  “You see,” Moth said, “he does belong here.”

  “You mean he was always . . .”

  “One of us,” Moth explained, “from the very beginning, the last of the people of the hills and the oldest of the old things. How do you think he had the power to hide the chapters so only the true knights could find them?”

  “Oh, I see,” Kiku said, although she didn’t really.

  As she turned to leave, Moth pointed to the pages in her hand. “Are you sure you want to read that?”

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “We have to in order to stop Mr. January from attacking the city.”

  “Perhaps,” Moth said, “but if you and your friends read all the chapters the spell will be complete and you will suffer the same fates as the first knights.”

  “But then what can we . . .” she began, but before she could finish, Moth grinned and gave her a shove out the door.

  “Oh!” Kiku cried, tripping over the doorstep. “But who—?” But when she looked back, she saw that the room was empty. All the objects that had been three-dimensional a moment ago were flat pictures on the wall. And when she turned around, she saw that she was standing in the Italian Renaissance gallery of the museum. The woods had disappeared.

  Had she imagined it all? But she held the third chapter in her hands. She tucked it into her skirt pocket, where she could feel it nestled against her hip like a bird safe in its nest. She turned to go back, but a figure stepped out of the shadows to block her way.

  18

  THE RAMBLE

  WHEN JOE CAME to, he was staring up into Madge’s sky-blue eyes. His head hurt—but when she put her cool hand on his brow, he felt better. He remembered his Tóta putting her hand on his brow and singing him a song when he was sick. . . . Sénta’wh Sóse Tehsakóhnhes, Konoronkhwa kwah tsi nén:we . . .

  “What happened?” Madge demanded.

  “Mr. January . . .” he began. His tongue felt swollen.

  “Mr. January did this to you?” Madge’s fists clenched like she wanted to go hit somebody.

  “No. Walt saw Mr. January and took off after him. I tried to stop him.”

  “And Freckles hit you?”

  “He didn’t mean to,” Joe said, struggling to his feet. “He just struck out when I tried to stop him and my face got in the way of his fist.”

  “Golly, who’d’ve thunk it—Walt the he-man! I’m sorry about your face, but you gotta admit—it’s pretty funny.”

  “It’s not going to be funny if Walt catches up to Mr. January and gets himself killed.”

  “No,” Madge agreed, her face sobered. “We’d better go find him.”

  Joe looked into the shadowy park. He’d spent the last few weeks living here and knew there were many dangers besides Mr. January. “Maybe you should go back inside and wait. Keep Kiku safe.”

  “Kiku’s fine,” Madge said, heading into the woods. “I left her lost in a book. What trouble could she get into?”

  * * *

  “Miss Fitzbane,” Kiku said, trying to keep her voice calm. “What are you doing here?”

  Miss Fitzbane grinned. In the month that Miss Fitzbane had worked in the museum, Kiku had never seen her smile, and now she saw why. She had terrible teeth—small, pointy, yellow, and so crowded together that it looked like she had three sets of teeth instead of the usual one.

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  “Oh!” Kiku said, wishing she could turn invisible now, but she couldn’t summon up that floating feeling with Miss Fitzbane’s glasses trained on her. “I’m looking for something I lost.”

  “Really?” Miss Fitzbane took a step closer, her skirt swishing. What does she wear under there? Kiku wondered. A slip sewn out of sandpaper?

  “Um . . . yes . . . a file card with a description of a vase. I was . . . er . . . helping Monsieur Dupin with an exhibit and I thought I dropped it here.”

  “Hmph.” Miss Fitzbane took another step closer and wrinkled her nose as if she could smell Kiku’s lie. Kiku could smell something herself, but it was Miss Fitzbane’s breath—a horrible combination of dead fish and bonemeal. Kiku understood now why Madge kept calling her Fishbone. “And did you find it?”

  “What? Oh, the card! Um, no . . . I didn’t. I must have left it downstairs.”

  “
I thought I saw you put something in your pocket just now.” She took another step closer, and Kiku stepped back into a display case. The paper in her pocket crinkled.

  “Oh, that! It was just a map of the galleries I was looking at.”

  “Are you sure?” Miss Fitzbane asked, craning her neck like an old turtle. “Do I need to call the police to search you? I’m sure they’d be interested in an enemy alien lurking around the museum at night.”

  “P-please don’t, Miss Fitzbane,” Kiku stammered, trying very hard not to cry. “My father’s already been taken, and this is the only place I have to stay. I promise I’m not hurting anything. C-could you please just look the other way?”

  “The other way?” Miss Fitzbane parted her thin lips and showed her awful teeth. “Well, I’m not entirely heartless. I suppose I could . . . only I’d want something from you in return.”

  “F-from me? What can I give you?”

  This time when Miss Fitzbane smiled, Kiku was quite sure there were more teeth in her mouth than there should have been. “Just a little information. Nothing that you’ll miss.”

  * * *

  They were able to follow Walt because his footprints were the only ones made by Chuck Taylor All-Stars with Walt’s initials carved into the soles and there were broken branches all over the place.

  “It looks like a tornado went through here,” Madge remarked, staring at the dark woods warily. The Ramble was where the tramps lived. She could hear sounds in the underbrush, dry leaves shifting underfoot, and branches creaking overhead. Patches of moonlight and shadow skittered along the ground like mice. With all that she had learned about the world in the last twenty-four hours, she suspected that the Ramble was home to creatures more dangerous than tramps.

  The trail led them in circles and wobbly loops that doubled back on themselves like a ball of tangled yarn until Madge had lost all sense of direction. She didn’t even feel like she was in the city anymore.

  “It’s like Mr. January was trying to confuse Walt,” Joe said, “by doubling back on his path.”

  “I haven’t been so dizzy since I rode the Cyclone at Coney Island. Look—what’s this?” She was pointing at a sign carved on a tree—a wavy squiggle between two parallel lines. “What does this mean?”

  “It’s hobo language,” Joe said. “Tramps leave each other signs to tell each other where to find food, which places are safe, which aren’t . . .”

  “Huh,” Madge said, “and you can read it because of your power?”

  “No,” Joe said. “I can read it because I’m a tramp. Hey, is that Walt’s beret?”

  “It is!” Madge said, glad Joe had changed the subject. You made him feel bad by reminding him he doesn’t have a home, the voice admonished her as she stepped off the path into a clump of prickly bushes to grab the hat from an overhanging branch. “It’s got something sticky on it—Jeepers! I think it’s blood!”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s Walt’s blood,” Joe said, examining the beret. “Remember, Walt’s got superstrength.”

  “Yeah, but I think Mr. January’s got his own powers. Here—it looks like they went through here next . . .”

  They stuck to the trail of broken branches, came out of the Ramble, and followed Walt’s muddy footprints across a road and up another path until they emerged at the foot of a castle beside a lake. Fog lay over the water and around the base of the castle. That sense of having left the city far behind had never been stronger.

  “I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Madge joked, trying to make herself less afraid.

  “It’s okay,” Joe said, “I know this place. It’s called Belvedere Castle. I come here sometimes because there are always school groups visiting.” He pointed to a sign drawn on a tree—a circle with an X in the middle. “That means ‘good chance to find food.’ Kids throw out their half-finished lunches.”

  He needs to know he’ll have someplace to go after all this is over, the voice inside Madge’s head said.

  But how can I offer him that? Madge said back to the voice, adding to herself: Sheesh! Now I’m talking to myself!

  Just do it! the voice replied.

  “Hey, Joe,” Madge said, laying her hand on Joe’s shoulder. “When this is all over, we’ll figure out someplace for you to stay.”

  “Sure,” Joe said, shrugging her hand away. “Look, I think I see Walt!”

  Well, that didn’t go so well, she told the voice as she followed Joe to a bench at the edge of the lake. So unless you have more helpful suggestions—

  Look, the voice replied, at what’s in front of you.

  There was Walt, sitting on the bench beside a man who was unshaven and dressed in rags. A tramp who was dabbing at Walt’s hand with a very dirty rag.

  “There you are,” she said to Walt. “You gave Joe quite a scare, hitting him like that.” She looked down at Walt’s right hand. Even though the tramp had cleaned away the blood, she could see that the knuckles were swollen and bruised. “Did that happen when you hit Joe—or Mr. January?”

  “Mr. January,” Walt said, turning his gaze from Madge to Joe. “I’m sorry I hit you, Joe.”

  “I know, sport, no hard feelings.”

  Walt nodded. Boys! Madge thought. It was always easy for them. They didn’t hold grudges like girls did. “Here, let me take a look at that.” She reached out for Walt’s hand, but then the tramp looked up.

  “Meg, is that you?”

  Madge froze and looked at the tramp. “Da?”

  “Da?” Joe repeated.

  The tramp dropped his head. “I’m sorry you have to see me this way.”

  Walt moved over so Madge could sit down next to him. For a moment she felt too stunned to move. She’d thought for months what she would do and say if she saw her father, but now that he was in front of her she wasn’t sure what to say, which wasn’t like her at all. Finally she sat down and said the only things she could think of. “I’m glad to see you, Da. I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “You shouldn’t worry over me, Meg. You should go on and live your life. Is Aunt Jean treating you all right?”

  “Sure, Da, only I wish you’d come home.”

  He shook his head. Then he looked at Joe and Walt. “Are these your friends?”

  “Yes, this is Walt—and Joe.”

  Joe stepped forward and held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. McGrory.” Her father took Joe’s hand warily.

  “I’ve made other friends, too, Da. They could help you—”

  “We don’t need no one’s charity, Meg.” He got to his feet shakily, his legs unsteady. Walt got to his feet at the same time and steadied her father with his arm around his shoulder.

  “There’s no weakness in accepting help from someone,” Joe said in a surprisingly deep voice.

  Madge smiled at him and then looked back at her father, who had completely changed in the two seconds she had looked away. He had straightened his back and pulled back his shoulders. His eyes had sharpened and cleared. He looked at Joe and Walt as if he had just awoken from a dream. Then he looked back at Madge.

  “You’re right about that, son,” he told Joe. And then to him and Walt, “You two keep an eye on my Meggie. And take care of yourselves, too.” He started walking away, but then he turned back and looked at Walt. “And stay away from that man, son. He’s no good.”

  “Da!” Madge cried, getting to her feet. But her father broke into a trot that she wouldn’t have thought him capable of a moment ago and vanished into the fog. Madge started to go after him, but Joe stopped her.

  “He’s not ready,” he said, leading Madge back to the bench. “But it made him better to see you.”

  “You two made him better,” Madge said. “You said just the right thing to him, Joe, and you gave him your strength, Walt . . . but what did he mean about staying away from that ma
n? Did he mean Mr. January? What happened, Walt?”

  “Nothing,” Walt said in an oddly flat voice. “I caught up to him . . . and I hit him but it didn’t matter to him. He just laughed.”

  “Still,” Joe said, “you showed him we mean business.”

  “Yeah, and not all this blood is yours, so now we know he’s just a normal guy like the rest—”

  “He’s not!” Walt cried, suddenly alert. “He’s not normal and he’s nothing like the rest of us. When I hit him, his face felt spongy and he didn’t even flinch. I coulda beat his face to a pulp and it wouldn’t have mattered . . . because it’s not his face. He wears someone else’s because he doesn’t have one of his own.”

  “What do you mean, he doesn’t have a face?” Madge asked uneasily. “Everyone’s got a face.”

  “Not him. Don’t you see—he’s the two-faced knight from the story. We should have realized it right away from the name January; it comes from the Roman god with two faces.”

  Walt got up and started walking back toward the museum.

  “But that would make him hundreds of years old,” Madge said, catching up to him. Joe jogged up on the other side of Walt, but he had to duck to keep away from Walt’s flailing hands.

  “He is old,” Walt said. “He’s somehow kept himself alive. It’s like he feeds on evil. . . .” Walt shuddered, and Madge tried to reach out to touch his shoulder, but he threw out his arms again, nearly striking her in the face. Was he afraid of her touching him?

  He’s frightened, the pesky voice inside her head said. You have to reassure him—

  “Put a sock in it!” Madge shouted out loud.

  Joe stopped and stared at her, but Walt just shook his head and kept walking, muttering, “Okay, I will, that’s exactly what I’ll do. I’ll put a sock in it.”

  “Good going,” Joe said to Madge as he followed Walt.

  “I didn’t mean . . .” Madge began, but realized that telling the boys she’d been talking to a voice inside her head wasn’t going to inspire confidence in her judgment. So she took her own advice and followed the boys into the museum without another word.