Maggie & Abby and the Shipwreck Treehouse

by Will Taylor

  Samson and his snagglepaw. It had to be! And that meant he was nearby!

  I might not be able to find Abby on my own, but if I could rescue Samson out of all this mess, that would be one step closer to fixing everything.

  Only I’d have to be quick to find Samson. And speedy. And I couldn’t be quick and speedy all weighed down with worst-case-scenario gear.

  In one deeply satisfying shrug I heaved my supply pack to the ground. I glared down at it. Three nights running I’d lugged that thing along with me, not to mention the months of careful planning that went into it, and all it had ever done was get me stuck in a window. I’d thought that pack would make everything better this summer, make me ready for anything, and so far it hadn’t helped once.

  “You go back to camp,” I said, shoving the pack through the open link. “I’ve got a job to do here.”

  I pushed the golden pillow back over the link and stood tall, staring defiantly into the Hub. So what if the Council had ordered me out of their networks? So what if I was breaking their rules? I was done letting other people make decisions for me. I knew what I was capable of, and that was enough, no matter if a single other person was impressed. I could do this mission with no gear, no backup, and no approval. I was a world-class secret agent. All on my own.

  I set off along the line of wall pillows toward the soapsuds fiasco, keeping my eyes peeled. More and more kids were arriving as the foam poured in, and some of the younger ones clearly thought this was the best thing that had ever happened in their entire lives. It was getting hard to tell if this was a disaster, a cleanup operation, or a party. I could still hear Ben and the others yelling, but it didn’t sound like they were making any progress.

  And then I saw it: a flash of movement, too close to the ground to be a kid, just down the next aisle. I raced after it.

  Left at the comic-book shelf, right at the fort shaped like a birthday cake, right again at the glow-in-the-dark bouncy castle, and—darn it!

  A large, round pillow lay alone at the next turn in the path, splattered with foam and ripped by a very familiar set of claw marks.

  So where was Samson? He must be close. I just needed to look for . . . bingo! A patch of foam gleamed on the edge of an inflatable rocking chair outside a fort. Samson had definitely been here.

  A girl carrying a badminton racket emerged from a nearby fort, whooped, and made a start for the foam. “Hey!” I yelled. She looked over. “Get this to Carolina or Murray if you can!” I said, lobbing the pillow at her.

  The girl caught the pillow, looked back at me, shrugged, and raced off with it under her arm. Whew, one problem down. Hopefully they could get the link closed before the whole Hub was buried.

  As for me, it was time to channel all my very best super-spy tracking skills into the chase of a lifetime. I had a cat to catch.

  Thirty-Four

  Abby

  There was no chance at all of escaping back through the window seat. There were already too many eyes on me and too many phones getting photos and videos.

  I couldn’t just stand there blinking forever, though.

  The crowd finished clapping, and I crossed the room as calmly as I could, stepped over the velvet rope, and looked back to see where exactly the link had brought me.

  I was in a museum. A banner arcing over the area I’d been standing in read:

  ★ SPECIAL EXHIBIT GRAND OPENING ★

  THE BEDROOM OF PRINCESS NATALIA IMBRUGLIANA, ON LOAN FROM CHRISTINEHOF CASTLE. THE HERITAGE MUSEUM OF MONTREAL WOULD LIKE TO THANK OUR SPECIAL UNDERWRITERS FOR SPONSORING THIS HISTORIC LOAN.

  Then what looked like the same again in French.

  Montreal. Montreal? How on earth was I in Montreal?

  “It’s where she wrote all her books,” a lady in a head scarf next to me was saying to her friend. “And her operas.”

  “And the brochure says it’s supposed to be haunted!” The friend spotted me and reached out, squeezing my arm. “You were wonderful, dear! So creepy. And that surprise entrance!”

  “Are there more ‘ghosts’ hiding in there?” asked the lady in the head scarf. “Oh, I hope so! Let’s camp out here for a bit and wait to see them!”

  I moved on.

  “‘The entire bedroom was carefully documented, packed up, and reassembled here in Montreal by trained historians,’” a bald man with a crinkly beard read from a brochure as I squeezed past him. “‘Every detail has been re-created exactly as it was in her palace on the Swedish border.’”

  A little girl tugged at his free hand. “Can we go in, Daddy?”

  “No, honey. But let’s stay here and watch for more people pretending to be ghosts.”

  Doom. If everyone was going to keep their eyes glued to the exhibit, there was zero chance of me getting back through the link. At least not until the museum closed. That meant I’d have to hang around for hours, then hide from the guards, maybe in the bathroom with my feet up on the toilet seat. And I didn’t have that kind of time.

  How long would it take Helene and Antonia to discover the ring of keys was missing, and me with it? They’d probably go through the unlocked Deer Door after me, and scare the security guards again, and be arrested on the spot and thrown in some German prison. And Joe would go looking for them and be arrested and thrown in prison, too. And even if I somehow got back to camp, how could I ever explain that to Maggie?

  I glowered at the exhibit. Honestly, whose bedroom has sky-blue walls, a golden chandelier, and marble columns? Overdoing it much? Way to be totally misleading.

  I turned my back on my latest disaster and set off into the museum.

  Of course this had happened. Of course I’d chosen one of King Louis’s old-timey palace links. And of course the bedroom it led to had just been moved and reassembled on the opposite side of the Atlantic. I mean, why should anything be easy? I was only trying to be adventurous and brave so I could make things up to my friends on the island. Why should that turn out well?

  The museum was crowded, and my outfit and I got lots of stares. I kept my head down and kept walking. So many strangers. Usually that didn’t bother me, but I could have used just one friendly face right then. My dad, or the twins, or Samson, or—

  Maggie?

  I thought . . . over in that picture gallery, I could have sworn—

  I pushed against the crowd, fighting my way into the next room, but a whole group of little school kids came roaring past, giggling at my hat, and by the time I made it to the picture gallery, there was no sign of her.

  I found a free bench and slumped onto it. It couldn’t have been Maggie, anyway. Maggie was at Camp Cantaloupe. Maggie was sleeping in our splintery cabin and eating terrible food in the mess hall and probably in some sort of feud with Charlene. I was the one trapped in this museum, tired, and all alone, and lost.

  I blinked. Lost?

  Hey, where was that darn moose, then? It was supposed to come rescue me, right? It rescued us last year up in Alaska. I pictured myself standing on the bench and doing the Camp Cantaloupe dance over and over, and almost smiled. That would really give people something to stare at.

  But, ugh, there was no avoiding it: nobody and nothing was coming to save me, and if anything was going to happen here, I’d be doing it completely on my own.

  I got to my feet, looked sadly over at the next room, and locked eyes with . . . no way.

  Was that actually . . . ?

  I was across the floor in five seconds flat, pushing through the crowds into a gallery full of skeletons and animal skulls and plaster casts of footprints. But I only had eyes for my new friend.

  It was stuffed, and it wasn’t nearly as big as the one that had rescued us before, but it was still standing there in front of me: a moose. An actual moose. Maggie would have called it a sign.

  I got right up close, staring into its glass eyes, hoping and wishing with every fiber of my being, my hands clenched in my dress. But nothing happened. No shiver of magic, no moosey snort, no rescue.


  “Wow!” shouted a little girl beside me. She was craning her neck back to take in the next model over, her eyes huge. I looked up too. It was a woolly mammoth.

  Wait.

  A memory started hammering on the walls of my brain. I took another look around the room. Taxidermied animals, big taxidermied animals. And skulls, big skulls. And fossils. And a banner: AGE OF THE MEGAFAUNA.

  The pieces clicked into place. Bobby! Montreal! Museum! That had to be the mammoth he’d brought Maggie to see last summer. The mammoth with the pillow fort inside it. A pillow fort that led back to the Hub.

  Hope burst throught the clouds like a chicken on a sunflower floaty. The moose had actually worked! I wasn’t lost anymore.

  Now I just had to get inside the mammoth without being seen. I needed a distraction. But what?

  “Mommy, why is that lady dressed like that?” I heard a little kid say nearby.

  “I don’t know, sweetie—maybe she’s part of a special exhibit. Come over here and look at the dire wolves. See how many teeth?”

  Yes! That was it! Thank you, little kid and cool mom. I was part of a special exhibit, if only by accident. Before I could think too hard about whether this was a good idea or not, I climbed up onto a display of plastic-molded footprints, clapped my hands, and shouted, “Attention, living visitors!”

  The chatter and activity in the room slowed and then stopped as people turned to look. Oh, man, this had better work, or I’d have to run like the wind to avoid a ton of awkward questions.

  “There are ghosts in the museum today!” I called, waving my arms, the wings on my hat waggling. “Woooo!” A little kid examining a display of fossilized mammoth poop began crying and clung to a teenage goth boy, who patted him on the head. “The exhibit of Princess Natalia’s haunted bedroom is now open three galleries over.” I gestured in a helpful but hopefully spooky way. “I was the first ghost to emerge, but there are others! Three more ghosts will be appearing in the next fifteen minutes. Don’t miss this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity! Oooo!”

  Man, I was overdoing this. Maggie would have done it better. I was getting all sorts of reactions from the crowd, from confused smiles to head shaking and open laughter, but none of them were moving. A bead of sweat trickled down the back of my neck.

  “But that’s . . . that’s not all!” I yelled. “Any visitors present at the haunted bedroom exhibit when the last ghost appears will win a one-year membership to the museum, absolutely free!” There were whoops, and a happy chattering filled the room. Yes! It was working! All the big groups and families left, but there were stragglers. Come on—I needed this place empty. “And one lucky visitor will receive . . .” Think, Abby, think! “An . . . um . . . a lifetime supply of candy from the gift shop! Woooo!”

  That did it. There were more cheers, and screams of joy from a few younger kids. The little boy who had cried laughed excitedly from the goth teenager’s shoulders as they hurried into the next room. Within half a minute I had the place to myself.

  I ran straight for the woolly mammoth. I felt a tiny bit sorry for all those people waiting around for ghosts that would never arrive, and for whoever at the museum would eventually have to deal with it, but I couldn’t worry about that now. I had to escape.

  The mammoth’s tusks were sturdy, but it was still a struggle to get enough of a foothold to reach the creature’s open mouth. Especially given my fancy outfit. After an embarrassing amount of flailing, I finally managed it, tumbling headfirst into the squashy pile of pillows inside the mammoth’s belly.

  I flopped back in the gloom, panting. Victory! I was through the worst part. I was back on track. I was safe.

  When I had my breath back, I pulled the single wall pillow free, and yes, thank the ghost moose forever, there was Bobby’s blue-star fort, just like Maggie had described it.

  I started forward, then scrambled back as something dark loomed into view on the other side of the link. Before I could raise my hands, before I could even blink, it leaped, a slinking shadow with glinting eyes, and landed, heavy as a dire wolf, right on top of me.

  Thirty-Five

  Maggie

  Cat tracking was tough work in the underwater mushroom colony gloom of the Hub, but I managed to piece together Samson’s sudsy trail.

  I ran from clue to clue with my head down, completely losing track of where I was until I pushed past a foam-flecked tapestry and found myself standing in the Hall of Records. The golden light from the long line of chandeliers smacked me hard in both eyes.

  “Saaamsonnn!” I called, squinting around my tears. Oh, great plan, Maggie. Like any cat in history ever came running when it was called.

  But there was something moving down at the end of the hall.

  I jogged after it, waving at the pillows of famous former NAFAFA members I recognized along the way: Aretha Franklin, Yo-Yo Ma, and my old buddy Alex Trebek.

  I reached the end and stopped, looking around. Where was Samson? He should have been right here, cornered. There was nowhere else for him to go, except . . .

  The pillow set into the wall at ground level was standing crooked. The extra-special velvet pillow that led to le Petit Salon.

  Oh. No.

  Imagine Samson in that room, his snagglepaw getting into those pillows. Forget foam fiascos—if Samson tugged enough pillows down, he could break the links connecting all the global networks. Plus he’d be trapped in that room forever.

  Praying I wasn’t too late, I crouched down and pushed through the link.

  It was as cramped as ever under the sofa, especially since I was one year bigger. I reached around carefully, feeling for a purring ball of fur, but Samson wasn’t there.

  I crawled out into the room. The curtains were partly open, filling the room with dusty sunlight. And there, stretched out like a prince on the First Sofa’s patched and faded seat, was Samson.

  “Buddy!” I said, rushing over and burying my face in his still kinda sudsy fur. Samson bumped his forehead against mine, purring. “You,” I said, sitting up and wagging a finger at him, “have really done it this time. But I’m just glad you’re safe.”

  He looked so regal it was a shame to shift him, but I had to get him away from the First Sofa and all its easily snagged pillow links. I slid a hand under him and pulled. Samson gave me a disappointed look and stretched out even more, closing his eyes. “Oh, come on, don’t be like that,” I said. “I promise you’ll be happier back at Kelly’s.”

  A short struggle followed, which mostly involved Samson staying fixed to the sofa by his snagglepaw and me trying everything I could to coax him up.

  “Seriously, buddy,” I said as I finally got the snagglepaw free and he casually relatched himself onto the sofa with the others. “I’m done playing games. We have to get back to—”

  “Ouch!”

  I released Samson and scrambled to my feet. The cry of pain had come from directly under the First Sofa. And it was not a kid’s voice.

  A grown-up was crawling into le Petit Salon.

  Oh, cantaloupes. There was nowhere to run! There wasn’t even time to hide behind the curtains.

  “What the—ow!” the grown-up cried, and the sofa gave a jerk. Samson, who had begun washing his ears, raised his head, sniffed, and started purring again. Huh.

  A foot appeared from under the sofa. Then a leg, another leg, a torso, and finally the rest of the someone. He climbed to his feet and spotted me. We shared one second of absolute shock, then . . .

  “MAGGIE!”

  “UNCLE JOE!”

  I threw my arms around him, and we hug-danced in a circle. “How . . . where are . . . what . . . ?” he said, half laughing.

  We broke apart. He was wearing the most ridiculous outfit I had ever seen: a pink-and-black-striped smock decorated wih silver moons, a poofy sort of jacket with lace at the cuffs and collar, dark blue tights leading to a pair of extra-poofy shorts, floppy black boots, and a pirate-style hat with a giant feather in it. He looked like an extra from a Three M
usketeers movie.

  “How did you get here?” I asked, whapping him on the shoulder. “And why are you all dressed up?”

  Uncle Joe looked completely overwhelmed, like he might put his fingers in his ears and start la-la-ing again.

  “Where . . . you . . . Where’s Abby?” he said, scanning the room like he expected her to be there.

  “That’s what everybody’s trying to find out. Wait a minute, why? Have you seen her?”

  Uncle Joe nodded.

  “When? Where?!”

  “Oh, wow,” said Uncle Joe. He sat down on the First Sofa and ran a hand along Samson’s shoulders. Samson went back to cleaning his ears. “I feel like someone put everything on shuffle. I don’t know if this will make any sense, Maggie, but here goes . . .”

  And he launched into what I can honestly say was the most ridiculous story I’d ever heard in my entire life. He talked for ten whole minutes, and in the end I felt about as tangled and disoriented as one of Ms. Sabine’s splatter-dance paintings.

  “So Abby was with you this whole time?” I said, trying to sort out the pieces. “On this island place?”

  Uncle Joe nodded. “She got there a little after I did.”

  “And then she went through one of these Palace Doors all on her own, and you found out and followed?”

  He nodded again. “That’s why I’m dressed like this. I’m supposed to be an Italian ambassador, or something. Helene and Antonia came through the Deer Door too, but they stayed behind to distract the security guards while I took the link after Abby.”

  “But how can you be sure she even found the link?”

  “She must have. The guards said Abby had been right next to that little room one minute, and then she was gone. They had all the exits covered by that point. The only way out was through the pillow fort. She was incredibly lucky she found it.”

  “So if she got here,” I said, trying to get everything to settle into place in my brain, “what happened next? She’s gone now, obviously. It was just Samson when I came in.”