by Will Taylor
“Yeah.” Uncle Joe’s face suddenly brightened. “So, hey, maybe everything worked out! Maybe Abby found the key and went straight back to the island with it! Maybe that’s why she’s not around!”
I shook my head. “Sorry, but Ben from NAFAFA has the Oak Key. He found it under the sofa yesterday, and he’s been wearing it around his neck ever since.”
Uncle Joe groaned. “Whale poop! Why couldn’t things just go the way we wanted for once?” I waved my hands overhead in enthusiastic agreement. “My guess is Abby’s still searching for it, then,” he said. “I think she really wanted to get that key back to make things up to Helene and Antonia. Any ideas where she would go from here . . . ?”
But any ideas I had were cut off by a fresh outburst of scuffling under the First Sofa. Samson looked up and sniffed again, but there was no purring this time as Ben himself crawled into the room, his silver sunglasses gleaming, the Oak Key swinging on its slightly sudsy shoelace, and a look of borderline panic in his eyes.
He did a perfect double take between us, then gave Uncle Joe’s outfit one openmouthed look from head to toe.
“You,” he yelled at him, “are a grown-up and not supposed to be here! And you”—he rounded on me—“are supposed to be back at camp! What do you possibly think you’re doing?” His voice was going all squeaky.
“Easy, easy,” I said. “Everything’s fine. Look, I found Samson.”
Ben looked and screamed. “Cat on the sofa! Cat! On the sofa!” He swooped down and frantically tried to pull Samson free, but he had even less success than I had. He tugged and tugged, but finally something seemed to collapse inside him, and he gave up, dropping onto the sofa and throwing an arm over his face.
An awkward silence filled le Petit Salon.
Uncle Joe and I exchanged a few thoughts through eyebrow wiggles.
“So, hey, did you get the foam party under control then, Ben?” I asked, after it became clear no one else was going to restart the conversation.
Ben lowered his arm, staring at the ceiling. He nodded. “Every one of my clipboards was ruined in the process, but yes, we did. I was coming here to reach out to the European Council—”
“To apologize, like Miesha ordered you to,” I interrupted with a smile.
“—like I was supposed to for the plan,” Ben finished heavily. He looked so overwhelmed and upset that I actually almost felt sorry for him. The loss of those clipboards must have been a real blow.
“Well, don’t let us being here get in the way of the plan,” I said. “Although I don’t think—”
But it was Uncle Joe’s turn to interrupt as he held up a hand and said, “Shh! I hear something!”
We stopped and listened. A gaggle of grown-up voices rose in the hall outside, headed our way. Uncle Joe’s eyes went wide. I flapped a hand at him.
“Oh! Oh!” I whispered. “This is awesome!”
Ben got to his feet, groaning dramatically. “I’ve heard this speech a hundred times.”
“Well shhh,” I hissed. “This is Uncle Joe’s first.” I put a finger to my lips, and Uncle Joe nodded.
The voices stopped outside the door, and one rose above the others—the tour guide, in her rapid-fire French. The murmuring died away as the unseen group listened. I grinned, knowing what was coming. Whatever Ben said, it was fun being here for this again.
“So,” the woman said, as she switched to English in her gorgeous accent. “As before, I will repeat for our guests who do not have the French. This room here is one of the favorite mysteries of the Palace of Versailles. It is called le Petit Salon, or the Little Room, and it was shut and locked during the reign of King Louis the Fifteenth, which is nearly three hundred years ago, and has never been opened since.”
The crowd murmured. Ben raised his hands in a neener-neener gesture and stuck his tongue out at the door.
I smiled even wider at the soft clunk as the tour guide grasped the handle, wiggling it to show her rapt audience that it was good and locked.
But the handle . . . moved.
The door creaked . . .
. . . open.
The lights of the hall flooded in, and the dust-filled sunlight streamed out.
There’s probably never been a silence like that in the entire history of the world.
Everyone stood, frozen as tree trunks, staring. Ben still had his tongue sticking out and his hands in waggling position beside his ears. Uncle Joe, in his ridiculous movie costume, gaped from the sofa. I was caught in a sort of horrified grimace, one hand stretched toward the door as though I could will it not to open.
Even Samson stopped washing to look up, his back leg sticking straight up in the air.
It was Ben who broke the silence. With a sob that sounded pulled from the bottom of his soul, he turned his back on the open door of le Petit Salon and dove under the sofa. There was a moment of scuffling, and he was gone.
The tour guide, who was round and elegant and dressed all in black, from her shoes to the head scarf framing her face, took a hesitant step toward us. “I . . . I don’t—” she began, but the crowd behind her shifted as another woman stepped forward.
“Maggie . . . ?” The woman’s voice was faint. “Joe?”
I took a deep, slow breath. The marble floor felt like water beneath me.
“Hi, Mom,” I said.
Thirty-Six
Abby
Hot breath hit my face. Four paws pressed into my stomach and ribs.
“Gah!” I yelled, as the whatever it was began licking my ears. I pushed an arm up, holding it back enough to get a look at my attacker.
It was a dog. A sweet-faced, floppy-eared, honey-colored dog wearing a rainbow collar with a tag shaped like a dolphin. I squinted at the tag.
“Sprinkles?” I said. The dog’s tail waved frantically, smacking against the wall of the woolly mammoth fort. Ha! This was Miesha’s dog, the one Ben fell in love with last year when it was a puppy. “Sprinkles! Are they letting you wander around the forts on your own now? Or were you lost like me?” I scratched his ears, and he pushed happily into my fingers, his tongue lolling. “Let’s go find our friends, buddy.”
Sprinkles got in one more slurp on my face as I sat up, then bounded through the pillow link. I followed.
Bobby’s fort was exactly as Maggie had described it in her endless planning sessions, where we went over every detail from the summer before. It was neat and comfortable, with blue sheet walls and ceiling, rows of books, a corner stacked with lounging pillows, and twinkle lights strung overhead.
And, okay, I was in Bobby’s fort. Excellent. Beyond that entrance sheet was the Hub, and that meant pillow fort kids who could help me find a way home. Or, more important, a way back to camp. I was done chasing Ben and his key. There was too much at stake. I’d just gotten the luckiest break ever escaping from Montreal, and I wasn’t about to risk it all again. It was time for me to get back to camp, and Maggie, and the real world, before terrible things happened.
An image of Antonia and Helene’s disappointed faces swam across my brain, but I pushed them away. That would have to wait until I’d set things right. When I knew there was no danger of my dad’s honeymoon getting ruined, or Camp Cantaloupe getting in trouble because I was missing, then I could worry about my pirate friends on the island.
Until then, I’d just have to live with the fact that I’d let them down. Even if it hurt.
I opened the entrance sheet a crack, surveying the view as Sprinkles flopped happily over my feet, making himself comfortable.
Whoa! The Hub had really changed. It was dark, and empty, and a whole lot tidier than I remembered. What happened to this place? What happened to the chandelier? And where were all the kids?
The sounds of a commotion were coming from somewhere out of sight. I pushed my shoulders out and craned around to look.
Hmm. Okay, well, I’d found the kids. The entire far side of the Hub was covered in foam, like a massive washing machine had exploded, and an army of kids with
buckets, mops, and towels was attacking it. Foam was flying, kids were shouting, headlamps were flashing; basically, it looked like fun.
I was halfway out of the fort to join them when golden light suddenly poured into the Hub from along the wall. Someone was hurrying in through the nearest tapestry door. Someone short, and wearing overalls, and . . . crying.
I’d never actually met him in person, but thanks to the sunglasses and overalls, I knew exactly who this someone must be.
“Ben?” I yelled, as he ran down the aisle. My heart leaped. “Ben!” He didn’t look up.
Before I could think twice, I scrambled after him, barely aware that Sprinkles was joining me. He was right there! I could still pull this off! I had one last chance for victory!
Ben ran straight across the dark Hub, and I managed to keep up, weaving through the gloom after him toward another tapestry door. He yanked the fabric aside and disappeared.
Sprinkles and I followed.
The tapestry led into a long hallway made of bare concrete. Ben was already at the far end when we entered, tugging open a heavy metal door and squeezing into the darkness behind it.
I sped up, panting from running in my ridiculous outfit. Sprinkles was panting too as we pushed past the heavy door and looked around. Now we were at the bottom of a stairwell, with metal steps leading up and up and up. Cold white lights sputtered on the walls, one for each level. I could hear Ben’s clanging footsteps.
Stairs? Ugh. Thanks for nothing, Ben. Where on earth were we going? And who wants to run when they’re crying? I hitched up my dress and started up, Helene’s complete ring of keys dancing at my side.
I’d slowed to a walk, panting and clutching a stitch in my ribs, by the time the stairs finally stopped at a landing. There was another metal door. I pushed, and the door screeched open, revealing a dark doorway full of graffiti and cigarette butts and an oily, drying puddle.
The door slid shut behind us as Sprinkles and I stepped out of the doorway . . .
And into the heart of a city.
It looked like midafternoon here, with a high sun and thin clouds streaking the blue sky. I shook my head. I wasn’t even going to try to keep track of all these time zone jumps. That was more Maggie’s territory.
There were people all around me, singing, laughing, and talking. The air smelled like mouthwatering grilled food, and car exhaust, and perfume, and warm concrete. A billboard across the street was advertising dishwasher detergent. In Spanish. Huh.
I glanced behind me at the door, making sure it was still there, then craned my neck back, and back, and back, until I realized what I was looking at. Sprinkles and I were standing in the shadow of a massive stadium. The huge walls curving away to either side were hung with glossy banners of soccer players. A neon sign flashed ads for rallies and concerts and sports games. And from the look of the crowd pouring onto the street farther down the wall, one of those games had just ended.
Whoa. The whole tangled beehive of the Hub was down there, under this soccer stadium, under the city’s feet, and no one knew it.
I turned back to the street, my eyes traveling over the crowds of people obliviously walking over the heart of the North American pillow fort kingdom. The sports fans, the food trucks, the bikes and the cars and lights . . . and Ben, sitting alone on a lumpy modern art sculpture, his arms wrapped around his knees, still crying.
I wove through the crowd and sat down on a sculptural swoop of stone beside him.
“Ben?”
He looked up. He’d taken off his silver sunglasses, and his pale face was all blotchy. He sniffed.
“Who are you?” he said. “How do you know my name?”
Oh, right. We’d never met. Plus I was wearing a pretty unusual outfit. “It’s me, Abby,” I said. “Abby Hernandez. I followed you up here from the Hub.”
Ben’s blotchy pink face went through a hilarious parade of emotions. “Of course you are!” he said when he was able to speak again. He barked out a shaky laugh. “Of course. Why wouldn’t you be here, after everything else? Why would any of the rules and regulations apply anymore? It’s a free-for-all! Every pillow fort for themselves!”
People passing by were looking over as Ben had his little meltdown. He seemed about ready to run away again when Sprinkles, who’d been carefully peeing on every piece of modern art, barked happily and jumped into his lap.
Ben screamed—hey, like a peacock, just like Europe Girl said—but then Sprinkles was licking his ears, and Ben was burying his face in the dog’s fur and, from the sound of things, crying again. I watched the crowd, waiting politely for him to finish. Finally, he resurfaced.
“You really shouldn’t be here,” he said, sniffing.
A knot of people in soccer jerseys passed by, their arms linked, all singing at the top of their lungs. “Really?” I said. “Why? Where are we?”
“Mexico City,” said Ben. “And you really, really shouldn’t know that, since you’re not in NAFAFA, but obviously it’s too late now.”
Whoa. Mexico City! I looked around again, paying more attention to the beautiful people and voices and smells, and smiled.
“Why did you follow me?” Ben asked. Sprinkles was biting at the shoelace dangling around his neck. Something flashed at the end. The Oak Key.
“Because of that,” I said, pointing. “I need it.”
“The key?” Ben looked down. “What? Why? You already had it, didn’t you? And then you lost it again. We had a whole meeting about it. Anyway, it’s—it’s worthless now. You used it in that treehouse, and someone else unlocked the door of le Petit Salon, and there’s nothing left.” His face crumpled, tears running down his cheeks.
Whoa. Was that why he was so upset? Because someone beat him to his dream?
But . . . wait.
“How, um, how do you know someone unlocked that door?” I asked.
With a whole lot of sniffling, Ben told me about meeting Maggie in le Petit Salon—Mags was running around the networks looking for me!—along with Samson—My baby!—and Joe—How the heck had he gotten there?—and being interrupted by the tour guide when the door just . . . swung open.
And oh, my head. I did that. I unlocked the door to look outside, but then Europe Girl turned up and I got all distracted. And totally forgot to relock it. And now, because of me, Maggie and Samson and Joe were all cornered in le Petit Salon by an army of grown-ups. Man, that was really gonna make Europe Girl mad when she found out.
I shivered as the seriousness of the situation hit me: le Petit Salon, the Little Room, home of the First Sofa and center of the Pillow Fort universe, was open to the public after three hundred years.
Seriously, when it came to wrecking things this summer, I was on a roll. I fell through the trapdoor of the Shipwreck Treehouse, messed things up in Buckingham Palace, stole Captain Emily’s ring of keys, really messed things up in that German place, got stuck in a museum and sent all the visitors there scrambling after freebies, and now this.
“So everything’s ruined forever,” Ben concluded, rubbing Sprinkles behind the ears. “And the worst part is I’ll never even find out who actually unlocked that door. With all these people running around, there’s no way to tell!”
I coughed. “Um, actually, it was me.”
Ben’s face went through its parade of emotions again as I told him about the Iron Key and my long, winding journey through trapdoors and island palaces and various pieces of furniture, all to end up here, trying to get back the same key I’d lost in the first place.
“So there’s a key that truly goes to the le Petit Salon door?” said Ben. “And you’ve got it? You’ve got it here?”
I pulled the Iron Key from the pocket of my dress and held it up. Ben’s eyes locked on it, shining with the same worshipful glow Samson got whenever I offered him a piece of salmon.
“Hey, you know what,” I said, struck with a sudden idea. Why on earth didn’t I think of this before? “I’ll trade you.”
Ben looked at me, his ex
pression going from Samson-in-love to Samson-being-offered-spinach. He looked wary. I couldn’t blame him. He’d only just gotten his beloved Oak Key back. It must have been hard to try and transfer that love to a new one.
“Come on,” I said. “You said yourself the Oak Key is useless now. And with this one, no matter what happens with those grown-ups getting into le Petit Salon, you’ll know that you, Ben, are the only person in the entire world who’s got a key to that door.”
That did it. Ben’s eyes lost their uncertainty, and the corners of his mouth perked up. He pulled the shoelace over his head, whispered something to the Oak Key, and held it out.
We made the trade.
I could have run around screaming like a peacock, right there in Mexico City in my old-timey dress and swoopy-winged hat. I had the Oak Key! My mission was achieved! Well, once I got the key ring back to Helene, that is. Which would be next to impossible, now, since le Petit Salon was crawling with grown-ups.
Ugh, it was always something.
“Hey, so we should probably go on a rescue mission to le Petit Salon, now, huh?” I said. “Since Maggie and Joe are trapped and cornered?”
Ben was examining every millimeter of his new key, Sprinkles panting in his face. “No point,” he said without looking up. “I told you, Abby Hernandez. Everything is ruined. Mainly because of you.”
I glared at him. “Fine, but I’ve still got work to do. I need to return these keys to the island, and get Joe and Samson home safe, and get Maggie and me back to camp before everything goes wrong there too. And that means getting into that little room. This mission isn’t over yet.”
“So what’s your plan?” Ben asked, finally looking around. “Do you have some wild, Hetzger-Hernandez scheme ready? Some complicated way to get all those grown-ups to just leave, and close the door, and forget everything?” He shoved the Iron Key into the pocket of his overalls. “Trust me, it’s over. That is never going to happen.”
I hopped up and stretched. Modern art was super uncomfortable. “You can believe whatever you want, Ben,” I said. “But I’ve got friends who need me, and I’m going to go try and save them. Besides”—I looked out at the people and families and crowds around us, all living their tangled, complicated lives one on top of the other, with a secret pillow fort kingdom under their feet—“I think when it comes down to it, we can only control a tiny bit of what happens anyway, and the universe or life or whatever will always find a way to—” I stopped dead, staring with my mouth hanging open.
