by Brandon Mull
Trevor rattled the gate gently and whistled. No animal responded. “All clear,” Trevor said, opening the gate and wheeling his bike through. They left their bikes propped against the inside of the low fence and walked to the front door. Artificial turf blanketed the porch. A terra-cotta Buddha sat near the door, along with a painted statue of a cheetah. Nate pulled open the screen door and knocked. When the house remained quiet, Trevor pressed the lighted doorbell. They heard it chime a few notes from “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.”
Illumination brightened a new window, and a moment later they heard locks being unfastened. The door opened halfway. Mr. Stott was wearing flannel pajamas with fat maroon and cream stripes. He squinted at them. “Tracked me down at home, did you?” he said. “Little late for a fruit bar.”
“We aren’t here to buy treats,” Nate promised.
“I remember Trevor, and you’re Nate, correct?” Mr. Stott said.
“Right,” Nate said. “We’re here about Mrs. White. She has plans to harm you.”
Mr. Stott’s demeanor transformed instantly. His cranky half-smile drooped into a somber frown. His eyes flicked back and forth between them. “You mean by driving me out of business?”
“We mean by using magic against you,” Trevor clarified.
Mr. Stott nodded, stroking his beard. “Then you had better come inside,” he invited, stepping out of the way and pulling the door open wider.
“Trevor, Nate,” came an urgent whisper from behind them.
Nate turned and saw Pigeon and Summer pulling up at the gate on their bikes. “They’re with us,” Trevor explained as he stepped across the threshold.
Pigeon and Summer parked their bikes and hurried through the doorway. Mr. Stott closed the door.
Nate and Trevor went into the living room and plopped down on a black leather sofa. A fanned-out assortment of peacock feathers decorated one wall. A print showing Easter Island statues hung on another, stone heads staring mysteriously. Several issues of Log Home Living magazine rested on a glass and chrome coffee table. A tall, unlit lava lamp occupied one corner. A few pedestals stood around the room, each topped by one or two little telescopes locked into position by some kind of holder.
Summer and Pigeon sat on an elaborately carved loveseat. Mr. Stott claimed a large armchair upholstered in cowhide, adding to the ridiculousness of his striped pajamas. He leaned forward intently. “You say you are aware of a plot by Belinda White?”
“Is that her name?” Summer asked. “Belinda?”
“The name she is using here in Colson,” Mr. Stott said.
“She wanted Trevor and me to use something she called a Clean Slate to erase your memory,” Nate said. “She told us that you were an evil man.”
Mr. Stott nodded, pinching the whiskers immediately below his lips. “I’ve heard rumors that she could concoct a powerful amnesiac. How did she expect to administer it?”
“She wanted Nate and me to come into your house using mirrors and mix the Clean Slate into a drink in your fridge,” Trevor said.
“Using mirrors?” Mr. Stott asked dubiously.
“She said we would turn into reflections and be able to travel through walls,” Nate said.
“I had no idea that technique had survived,” Mr. Stott marveled. “How sloppy of me! Tell me, why are you sharing this information?”
“We didn’t want to do it,” Trevor said.
“We got involved with Mrs. White because she was giving us magic candy,” Nate explained. “She would have us do little tasks, and then reward us with more candy. We could jump around like we were in low gravity, we could shock people, we could control dolls with our minds—”
“But the stuff she was asking us to do seemed fishy,” Summer interjected. “We gave fudge to our parents that made them distracted and forgetful. We stole from the town museum. We dug up a grave.”
“We wanted to figure out what she was up to,” Nate said. “But we drew the line at erasing your memory.”
“For which I’m most grateful,” Mr. Stott said. “With that mirror technique you might have succeeded. What have you learned about her master plan?”
“We know she is here looking for a treasure,” Pigeon said. “We know she wants it because it will increase her powers. She says you are looking for it as well. She somehow knows a lot about what is going on in town. We’re not sure why she involves kids in her work, or whether she really is as dangerous as we worry she might be.”
Mr. Stott folded his hands. “I appreciate you laying your cards on the table,” he said. “I will try to be equally forthright. Mrs. White is more treacherous than you can guess. We are both magicians, but she has one of the most notorious and bloody histories of any member of our order. She craves power, and has never hesitated to lie, cheat, steal, or kill to get it.”
“Are you dangerous too?” Pigeon asked.
Mr. Stott shifted in his chair. “I can be, I suppose. No magician is really safe, to himself or to others. Many of us are hermits, who mostly want to be left alone as we pursue our studies. Some have altruistic intentions; others are entirely selfish. We all generally try to maintain a low profile. A few of us take on the responsibility of policing those who attempt to blatantly use magic for sinister ends, or who operate too openly and risk revealing the long-guarded secret of our existence.”
“Are you one of the policemen?” Nate asked.
“In a limited capacity, yes,” Mr. Stott said. “However, I am not one of those who dedicate all their time to such matters. Belinda concerns me. I am aware of the treasure she is seeking—it is part of the reason I took up residence in this town years ago.”
“What is the treasure?” Summer asked.
Mr. Stott stroked the furry length of his beard. “None know for certain. We have only rumors. Supposedly it is a talisman of significant magical power, worthy of remaining concealed these long centuries. I came here as a guardian rather than a treasure seeker. I did not want Belinda or others of her mind-set to lay hands on an item of such terrible power. But now I fear the only way to stop her and those like her may be to locate the treasure myself.”
“And what would stop you from using it for bad purposes?” Summer asked. “Mrs. White makes the same claims about you as you make about her.”
“No magician would trust another with a talisman such as this,” Mr. Stott acknowledged. “Least of all Belinda White. But I have lived quietly for hundreds of years. In bygone days, I have inhabited seats of power and prestige, and such honor long ago lost its savor. I have lived in Colson for years, not searching for the treasure, but delivering ice cream to schoolchildren in a rundown truck. I would gladly leave the treasure hidden away if Belinda were not hot on the trail. If I gained the treasure, I would store it and protect it from others who might abuse it.”
“I don’t get why Mrs. White involved us,” Pigeon said.
“That has as much to do with the nature of the magic we practice as it does with her greed,” Mr. Stott said. “You see, magic functions much more potently on the young. Part of the paradox of becoming a magician is that by the time you know enough to manipulate magic, you are too old to use it to your full advantage. Mrs. White can engineer sweets that grant great power to the young, but those same miraculous confections would have little effect were she to use them herself.”
“Why not use magic to make yourselves younger?” Pigeon asked.
Mr. Stott spread his hands. “We do what we can. Taking away years from a person is nearly impossible. Adding them is much easier. As magicians, about the best we can do is try to maintain our current age. We can’t quite stop the aging process, but we can slow it considerably. That is how magicians like Belinda and myself survive for so many years.”
“So Mrs. White just wanted us for our youth, because her candy would work well on us?” Nate restated.
“Basically, yes,” Mr. Stott said. “Undoubtedly she believed that you four were especially bright and capable. She must have been monitoring your achievements�
�she would not have entrusted you with an assignment like erasing my memory unless she truly believed in your abilities. But make no mistake about it, you were being used.”
“What should we do now?” Trevor asked.
Mr. Stott rose and began pacing. “That is the question of the hour. By coming to me and disclosing your assignment, you have placed yourselves in extreme jeopardy. If Belinda learns you have betrayed her, your very lives could be in peril. As I see it, you have three options. You could pretend that your attempt to erase my memory failed and continue working for her. You could resign from her service immediately, never speak of any of this to anyone, and hope for the best. Or you could try to beat her at her own game and get to the treasure ahead of her. Any of those choices is risky.”
“Pigeon and I resigned yesterday when she started explaining this assignment,” Summer said.
“We’re mainly here for moral support,” Pigeon added.
“Trevor and I were only staying with her in order to figure out what she was up to,” Nate said. “We don’t want to keep helping her.”
“I want to beat her to the treasure,” Trevor said.
“Is that realistic?” Summer asked.
“Depends,” Mr. Stott said, pacing with his hands behind his back. “How much do you know?”
“We helped her steal a pocket watch that belonged to her ancestor Hanaver Mills,” Nate said.
One side of Mr. Stott’s mouth curved up into half a smile. “She said Hanaver Mills was her ancestor? Belinda White was making magical candy when Hanaver Mills was in diapers.”
“Supposedly the watch contained a clue revealing that an important object was buried with Hanaver Mills,” Pigeon said. “The clue indicated that Hanaver Mills was actually buried under a grave marker for Margaret Spencer, who died the same year. We dug up the grave and found a teleidoscope.”
Mr. Stott stopped pacing and faced Pigeon. “A teleidoscope? Where is it now?”
“She has it,” Summer said.
Mr. Stott shook his head slowly, wearing his lopsided grin again. He fingered the telescope on top of one of the pedestals. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.
“A teleidoscope?” Nate ventured.
“I collect them,” Mr. Stott said. “Artisans create high-end teleidoscopes that sell for thousands of dollars. Those in this room function almost like kaleidoscopes, in that the teleidoscope is locked into a fixed position aimed at a certain target. This teleidoscope points at a stone ball with water trickling over it. The ball slowly turns, and the flowing water ensures that the pattern the teleidoscope observes is never quite the same twice. Feel free to look.”
As the kids took turns gazing into the eyepiece and turning the wheel to rearrange the pattern, Mr. Stott crossed to a different teleidoscope, switching on a light behind it. “For this teleidoscope, you dip this hoop into this soapy solution.” He pulled a lever that immersed a circle of wire into a shallow reservoir. When he raised it, the hoop had a glossy film stretched across it, as if for blowing a huge bubble. “Take a look,” he offered.
Nate peered into the teleidoscope and beheld a brightly animated pattern. Twisting the end of the teleidoscope, he made the pattern dance. “It looks like a cartoon,” he said.
“Just the soapy film with the light behind it,” Mr. Stott affirmed.
Nate stole one more peek before allowing the others a turn. They had to dip the wire hoop again each time the film broke.
“Come with me,” Mr. Stott said. He led them down a hall to a bedroom dominated by a big four-poster, complete with canopy and curtains. On a nightstand sat a small platform fashioned out of pink granite, with a single vacant mounting for a teleidoscope. Trevor, Summer, Pigeon, and Nate gathered around it.
“This base was designed and built by Hanaver Mills,” Mr. Stott said. “He left it to me in his will. He was not a relative, but we were friends. A teleidoscope is meant to point at this surface.” He indicated a smooth surface speckled with variegated flecks opposite the empty mounting. “Hanaver told me that the right teleidoscope would reveal a message hidden in the stone.”
“You think we found the teleidoscope?” Pigeon said.
“It was this base that instigated my teleidoscope collection,” Mr. Stott said. “After inheriting the platform, I tracked down several teleidoscopes attributed to Hanaver Mills. None revealed a message. I also experimented with teleidoscopes made by a variety of random craftsmen, hoping to get lucky. Again, success eluded me. I suspect Mrs. White now possesses the teleidoscope I have been seeking all these years, a vital clue to locating the treasure. I have kept this base a closely guarded secret, but perhaps she somehow learned of it. That might explain why she would want my mind erased.”
“She didn’t mention anything about the base to us,” Nate said. “But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong.”
“How does she know so much?” Trevor asked. “Does she sneak around at night?”
“I see that Belinda has not explained much about herself,” Mr. Stott chuckled. “A magician cannot leave his or her lair. The lair is empowered with magical defenses and spells that keep them safe and postpone their aging. If Belinda abandoned her lair to snoop around, she would become a pile of bones in no time.”
“But what about your ice cream truck?” Pigeon asked.
“Part of my lair,” Mr. Stott said. “Although making a vehicle part of my lair creates certain vulnerabilities, to me the added mobility justifies the risk. Magicians can journey from lair to lair, setting up new abodes as needed, traveling in temporary lairs, but a price of the lives we lead is that we surrender the ability to move about freely.”
“You’re saying Mrs. White lives at Sweet Tooth?” Pigeon asked.
“Most assuredly,” Mr. Stott said.
“Then how does she know so much?” Trevor asked again.
“Belinda has always employed henchmen,” Mr. Stott said. “Most of us also have a trick or two that allows us to personally spy on the outside world. Which is why I worry about you kids. There is no way to be sure where Belinda is looking, or when. You must be most cautious.”
“What are the chances of us stealing the teleidoscope from Mrs. White?” Nate asked.
Mr. Stott frowned. “It would be very difficult. Her lair will be well-guarded by spells.”
“What if we use her Mirror Mints against her?” Nate suggested.
Mr. Stott’s eyebrows knitted together. “I’m sure she keeps no mirrors in her lair large enough for anyone to gain access that way, since she is aware that the secret of mirror travel endures.”
“What if we planted a mirror inside the candy shop?” Nate proposed.
Mr. Stott scratched his hairy cheek. “Possible,” he said, eyes lost in thought. “If I could get my hands on that teleidoscope, we just might beat her to the treasure. Once we acquire the treasure, she’ll start preparing to leave town the next day. She’ll have no more interest in Colson, California. And if she tried anything foolish out of spite, I would have the means to protect you.”
“Maybe we should go for it,” Trevor said.
“Yeah,” Nate said. “I’d rather take action than wait around for her to punish us.”
“I can’t advise you to try this,” Mr. Stott said. “It is too bold. But . . . if you insisted on taking the risk, your advantage would come from the fact that Belinda probably thinks her candy shop is invulnerable. Our lairs are designed to keep intruders out. If you can discover a way in, you may not find many obstacles between you and your goal.”
“She probably just keeps it stashed under that table in her workshop,” Trevor said.
“On the outside chance you were daring enough to attempt such an inadvisable mission, you would probably need to do it before you were supposed to wipe my memory,” Mr. Stott said. “When you fail to complete that assignment, her guard will be up.”
“Good point,” Nate said.
Mr. Stott put his hands behind his back and stood up straight. “Of course, this could
all be an elaborate ruse by Belinda to ferret out what I know. If it is, well done, you utterly fooled me. I have laid my cards on the table. Please keep this information private. There are many others besides Belinda White who would try to destroy me simply to lay their hands on this teleidoscope base.” He rubbed the pink marble platform.
“We won’t blab,” Summer said.
“Having heard your news, I should eliminate all mirrors from my home,” Mr. Stott said. “Whether she has been peeking through windows, or having spies use mirror travel, Belinda will probably notice if I do that, so I will wait for a few days while you figure things out. Would you like my telephone number?”
“Yes,” Nate said.
Mr. Stott opened a drawer and withdrew four business cards, handing one to each of the kids. His address and telephone number were on one side. On the other, they read: