Maggie & Abby and the Shipwreck Treehouse

by Will Taylor

  Antonia agreed, and Helene headed for the exit. She turned back in the doorway. “Abigail, stay here and do what you can to hang up our wet things. We may have just wasted a whole day chasing phantom pillow forts and ruining our relationship with an important palace, but that’s no reason to take it out on the clothing archives.” And she pulled the door shut behind her with a thunk.

  Soon Joe and Antonia were dressed and dry, too, and following after Helene.

  And there I was. Left behind. Alone.

  I hated being alone almost as much as I hated being in trouble. I felt even worse now than I had last summer, when the NAFAFA Council attacked and my dad thought I’d trashed his entire kitchen as a joke.

  Maybe there was some way I could make it up to Helene. Maybe I could fix things while she and the others tackled the problem with Florence and the ship. There must be some way of proving I wasn’t a total goof.

  I changed back into my own clothes, hanging my wet princess dress up as neatly as I could, then did the same for Joe’s and Antonia’s outfits. But when I pulled back the curtain to Helene’s alcove, I got a surprise. There were her shoes and her housekeeper dress lying in a soggy heap. And there, sitting on a chair beside them, was the ring of keys.

  I picked it up. Okay, now here was an opportunity.

  Helene had said we’d wasted a whole day. She’d said the third palace would have to wait till tomorrow. So what if I went and checked another one by myself? Sure, it was a little risky, but I knew exactly where I’d gone wrong now. There was no way I would mess up again. And fine, it was kind of a long shot that I’d just happen to choose a palace that still had a functioning pillow fort link, but it was worth a try, right? For Antonia? And Helene?

  The keys were heavy in my hand. There was the Honeycomb Key I already knew, and the Rose Key leading to Buckingham Palace. The other carved symbols clinked together: a falcon, a deer, a lily, a ship. My stomach swooped as I examined the tiny sails. That ship headed our way right now sounded like a real problem, but if it was giving me a chance to find the Oak Key and redeem myself, I’d take it.

  Before I could change my mind, I threw the rest of Antonia’s things on hangers and headed into the hall. The long row of doors set my heart thumping like Samson that time he got trapped with a catnip toy in the linen closet. I had no clue which palace Helene and Antonia had planned to check next, so the question was: How to choose?

  I could always just pick a door at random, but that felt a little too reckless even for this plan.

  What would Maggie do? Hmm. Maggie would let the universe decide by flipping a coin or something. I patted my pockets. I didn’t have a coin, but I did have . . . the Iron Key.

  I pulled it out, set it on the floor of the hall, and gave it a spin, watching it blur into a circle while I silently begged the universe for a break. The key hissed softly to a stop, pointing directly at the last door on the left.

  I scooped up the key, darted down the hall, and headed through it.

  This room was just the same as the others: long wall of clothes, changing alcoves at the back, a door in its frame in the center. I walked over to see which lock the universe had paired me with. The Deer. Huh. I had no clue what that meant.

  The clothes in this room turned out to be different, and not in a fun way. They were less shiny and much more practical. I changed into a simple black dress with long sleeves, a lace-lined collar, a high waist, and thankfully, no weird hip extension dealies at all. Next came a boring but comfortable pair of flat slippers—because seriously, enough with the pinchy shoes—a brooch shaped liked a singing bird, and a shiny amethyst-and-silver bracelet.

  There were only a few wigs, all too big for me, so I settled on a pale lavender hat with swooping pointy sides that tied with a ribbon under my chin. I probably looked like I had a piece of modern art floating on my head, but it was surprisingly comfortable.

  Last but not least I tucked the Iron Key into a pouch in the waistband of my dress. Just in case.

  My stomach began swirling as I stepped toward the door, but it was too late to back out now. This was my one chance to save the day. I turned the Deer Key in the matching lock and pulled. The door opened onto darkness.

  Okay, what did Maggie always say? Deep, slow breath, Abby. All I had to do was track down a linked pillow fort, retrieve the Oak Key from le Petit Salon, loop back to the Island Stump, and get down here again before the Florence crisis was fixed. Once I found the pillow fort, the rest would be as easy as feeding the chickens. And when Helene got back from the control room, I could hand her the ring of keys and casually mention that she might find an extra one on there if she looked.

  Keeping that shining image of victory front and center in my mind, I stepped into the darkness.

  The air smelled musty as I emerged, blinking, under greenish fluorescent lights, from another wooden box. Though at least this time it was one I could stand up in.

  It looked like I was in a furniture storeroom. The place was crammed with bookcases, tables, dressers, chairs, and unidentifiable lumps under white sheets. I’d looped in through a heavily carved, bathtub-size wooden chest leaning on one end against the wall. A pink tag dangled from the lid, showing measurements and a few lines scribbled in what looked like German.

  Great. German. I didn’t speak a single word of German. Well, not that that mattered. I’d learned my lesson in Buckingham Palace: I was not about to talk to anyone.

  I adjusted my fancy hat, did a quick practice curtsy just to see how the new dress moved, and walked out of that room with my head held high.

  I made it three steps along the hallway outside before I realized I still had Helene’s ring of keys in my hand.

  Oh, problem. I looked back toward the storage room, then down at the keys, then back again. What should I do? I was racing against the Florence-situation clock as it was, and there just wasn’t time for me to loop through the chest back to the island, get down to the door room, drop off the keys, and loop back through the Deer Door to restart my search.

  There was only one good option under the circumstances: I’d have to bring them with me.

  The hall looked depressingly like some sort of business officey area, but a flight of stone stairs leading off it looked promising. I headed up, hooking the keys onto my belt and burning the route back to the chest into my brain.

  One flight up I found the touristy area of the palace. The architecture was dark and heavy, but the deep red carpeting, carved stone arches, and elaborate paintings were similar to the palaces I’d already seen that day. Oof, three palaces in one day. This was not what I’d been expecting from my first week back at summer camp.

  There was a visitors’ map on the wall. It was in German, but from what I could make out I was somewhere called Schloss Charlottenburg. There were five floors, and I was on the one with the great hall. Hmm. I needed the floor with the lounges and bedrooms. Anywhere with lots of pillows.

  I headed up one more flight. There was another map, but I couldn’t make out if the little rooms on it were bedrooms or not. As I squinted at the tiny lines, a group of grown-ups speaking loud, bouncy Italian appeared at the end of the corridor. One of them pointed at me and shouted a greeting, pulling out his phone. Oh, no thank you. The last thing I needed right now was to end up in a tourist selfie fest. I escaped back to the stairs.

  The next floor up was brighter and more delicate, and this time the visitors’ map showed the clear outline of beds in a line of rooms on the far end. Victory!

  I followed the arrows on the sign, passing from a gallery room to a music room, from the music room to a sitting room, and from the sitting room, at last, into a bedroom.

  I’d passed a few tour-guide types along the way, all wearing green sweaters and black pants, and they’d nodded hello just like the guides at the other palaces. But the first bedroom came with a surprise: a security guard in dark blue, complete with walkie-talkie and badge. She looked very serious.

  Keep your head up, Abby. Pillo
w fort search time. I could already see at least six spots that had pillows and blankets together. I gave the guard a deep curtsy, receiving the ghost of a smile in return, and stepped over the velvet rope. The guard shifted slightly.

  Carefully, methodically, I began lifting and adjusting every pillow around the room, starting with the bed, then moving on to the chaise and two sofas standing against the wall.

  The guard coughed. I ignored her, focusing on staying in character as I pretended to fluff pillows and smooth creases. She coughed again, very clearly, and I had to look up.

  She spoke in German, asking me something, nodding back toward the rooms I’d come through.

  I blinked at her. The guard frowned.

  She spoke again, definitely asking more questions, and stepped away from the wall.

  Oh, boy. This was bad. Why were there no tourists here to give me cover? But I was going to stick by what I’d learned at my last palace disaster; no talking unless I had absolutely, positively, utterly no choice. I smiled again, held up my hands in a sort of general “Oh, well” gesture, and headed for the next room over, all my fingers crossed.

  The guard followed, watching as I stepped over the velvet ropes into an even more elaborate bedchamber, with a humongous bed and mountains of sofas and squashy furniture. She let me begin my fluffing and smoothing and discreet searching uninterrupted, but as I poked behind a velvet-and-chintz sofa cushion, I heard her speaking in a low voice into her walkie-talkie, then the crackly buzz of someone responding. I sped up.

  There was more buzzing on the walkie-talkie as the guard asked a question and got a curt, one-word reply. I looked up just in time to see her hurrying back to the first room.

  Oh, doom. She was definitely suspicious of me. And all signs pointed to her going to get backup. Think, Abby, think. Deep, slow breath.

  Could I hide? Nope, hiding wouldn’t solve anything. Could I get out the way I’d come? No, that’s where the security guard was. My only option was to find some other way back downstairs to the chest or escape through a pillow fort link. And so far, the links were leaving me hanging.

  Why did I try to do this on my own, again? I’d barely gotten started and I was already trapped and cornered with the authorities on the way. And the authorities would make me talk, and find out I was American and not supposed to be here, and they’d get in touch with my dad and ruin his honeymoon and he’d have to pay to get me flown home and everything would be awful.

  And what about my new friends on the island? I had the ring of keys, and if I got caught and arrested I’d have no way of getting it back to them. And without it they had no way of getting off the island, bringing their kids home from school, getting food supplies, or anything else.

  I really was living one of Maggie’s worst-case scenarios this time. I’d just single-handedly ruined everything. For everyone. All at once.

  Only . . . hold on, wait. That line between those two paintings. Was that . . . was that a door?

  I darted over, kicked the wall, and nearly shouted with joy as a panel swung open, revealing a powder room featuring an old-timey sofa draped in pillows and blankets.

  The snap and hiss of the walkie-talkie sounded in the room behind me, then sharp, quick footsteps. A voice called out. Another answered. And another.

  I was completely trapped.

  Almost hyperventilating, the ring of keys jangling like an alarm at my side, I began pulling pillows off the sofa at random. Honestly, why did Maggie always include near-misses and narrow escapes in those games we used to play? It sounded fun in theory, but in real life this was terrifying.

  The footsteps were past the rope, speeding into a run . . . and . . . yes! Thank you, everything forever! A blue silk pillow came away in my hand to show a faded brown pillow beneath it, and when I shoved that one forward, there was darkness instead of more sofa.

  I jumped feet-first into the link, almost crying with relief, and caught a half-second glimpse of the security guard racing into the room as I pulled the blue silk pillow back into place and slammed the brown pillow shut as hard as I could behind it.

  Twenty-Nine

  Maggie

  Charlene and I were very late for volleyball after our adventure in the woods, but when I told the teacher the search and rescue officers had wanted to talk with me about Abby, and that Charlene had come with me because she’s my official buddy, he accepted the story and told us to just join a team and get spiking.

  The rest of the day dragged by even slower than the day before. Though there was some excitement after dinner when the search and rescue dogs arrived, and their poor handler had to make a run for the admin cabin to avoid being swamped by hundreds of kids wanting to say hello.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about what Charlene and I had heard from inside the cantaloupe cave. If our plan didn’t work, this might be the very last day of Camp Cantaloupe for everyone here. Forever. All these kids were walking around living their last day of summer camp. And none of them even knew it.

  Finally, finally it was lights-out, and Charlene and I started counting down the minutes until we could sneak out and head to the NAFAFA meeting. It was easier to stay awake this time, knowing she was staring up into the darkness too, waiting. I brought my flashlight under the covers and wrote Abby one last postcard before we set out.

  Dear Abs,

  The search for you is getting serious. Today the officers went through your stuff, which made me mad (don’t worry, I put it all back), and they gave me the letter you wrote me. The one in case the key didn’t work. And Abs, thank you. So much. And for the necklace, too. You’re my best friend in the world, and I miss you, and I promise to be a better friend when you get back. Which will hopefully be tonight, since Charlene and I are heading out in a minute here for a meeting with NAFAFA so we can join forces and rescue you.

  Updates from today: Charlene and I had to hide in her moose trap in the woods when the search and rescue officers came by. We finally got served cucumber casserole for lunch, and most of mine ended up on my shoes. Your squirrel enemy didn’t steal the necklace you made me (obviously, since I’m wearing it). And Ms. Sabine wants me and Charlene to do this big art project with the first-year kids next week to help cure them of homesickness.

  This time I’m gonna make it out of this camp, Abs. You’ll see. I won’t be stopped again.

  See you soon,

  Mags

  It was another perfect night of blazing stars, whispering trees, and bright moonlight. I followed Charlene—in her Safety Monitor sash this time, in case we ran into any authorities—out of the cabin and along the edge of the field, keeping a careful eye out for the search dogs, my faithful supply pack tugging at my shoulders.

  Summer camp sure was turning out to involve a lot more covert operations than Abby had let on in her postcards last year.

  “Hey, whoa, stop!” Charlene hissed, holding me back as we rounded the corner of the mess hall. I peered around her head. There was still a light on in the admin building. And worse, the windows of the arts and crafts cabin were blazing.

  “Seriously?” I groaned. I should have known it wouldn’t be easy. The stakes were too high.

  “Maybe Ms. Sabine just forgot to turn the lights off,” whispered Charlene. “Let’s go see.”

  We snuck up to the side of the cabin. One of the windows was open a crack, and I could hear music. Ballroom dancing music. We peered in.

  It looked like the scene of some massive art explosion. Ms. Sabine, wearing a collage crown, a paper-chain necklace, and a rapturous smile, was spinning around the room with a brush in one hand and a bucket of paint in the other. There were canvases on easels and pieces of cardboard set up everywhere, and whenever she passed one she’d attack it furiously, splashes of paint flying, then dance away.

  Charlene looked at me, and we both choked down laughter.

  “Well, that’s going on, I guess,” I said. “But it’s almost time for the meeting. How are we going to get past her?” I watched Ms. Sabi
ne do a pirouette, knocking over one of the easels. She laughed, drizzling paint on it from overhead, and kept on dancing.

  “We need a good distraction,” said Charlene. “Any ideas?”

  Both of us jumped as there was a knock at the cabin door, just around the corner of the building. Ms. Sabine didn’t hear it. The knocking came again, and we ducked as she stopped dance painting and looked up. The music clicked off, and a moment later we heard the door squeak.

  We peered back over the windowsill. Director Haggis was standing in the doorway, his mouth hanging open.

  “Is . . . is everything okay, Eleanor?” he asked.

  “Everything is wonderful, Hector,” Ms. Sabine said, waving her paintbrush like a magic wand. “I was so inspired by the extraordinary artistic creativity shown by some of my students today, I simply had to dig in deep and see what I could create. I have to say so far I am thrilled with the results!”

  Director Haggis eyed the paint-splattered easels, the upended tables and chairs, and Ms. Sabine’s paper-chain necklace.

  “Well,” he said. “I’m glad everything is . . . all right.” He ruffled his mustache. “I wish I could say the same for this camp. I just got off the phone with the sheriff. That woman asks some tough questions, and she’s made it clear she’s going to shut us down by tomorrow afternoon if that missing girl hasn’t shown up. Anyway, when I saw your lights on, I thought I should stop by to make sure there wasn’t some new disaster happening here.”

  Ms. Sabine, who had been peeling paint off her forearms, looked up, beaming. “And I’m so pleased you did!” she said. Clearly she hadn’t been listening to a word he’d said. “Because I’ve got a curriculum proposal I desperately want to share with you!” And she launched into an enthusiastic description of the project she’d condemned Charlene and me to. I was fighting back a giggle at the bewildered look on Director Haggis’s face when Charlene elbowed me hard in the ribs.