by Jenny Nimmo
"You brought that picture to school last semester, didn't you?" said Billy
"Yes. The man's a sorcerer called Skarpo. I stole the wand from him."
Billy's jaw dropped. He turned to Charlie and gave him one of his long dark-red stares. "You . . .?" he said huskily
"I went into the picture," said Charlie. "I'd never done that before, I'd only heard voices." He caught a sudden glint in the sorcerer's eye and quickly turned the painting over "I mustn't look at him too long or he'll drag me in again."
Billy shook his head in wonder. "How did you get out?"
"That was a bit tricky Lysander helped me." Charlie glanced at Billy wondering again if he could really trust him. He decided he would have to chance it. "The thing is, Billy I thought I might go in again. That sorcerer is very powerful. He had loads of stuff in his room, did you notice? Herbs and feathers and things."
"He had a dagger; I saw that."
Charlie held the painting up to Billy "What else do you see?"
"Bowls and books and jars of colored water, and big candles and signs on the wall, oh, and a mouse looking out of his pocket, and loads of junk on the table."
"He might have a cure for my uncle," said Charlie. "If I give him back the wand, maybe he'll give me something in return. And I could ask him about Ollie. He may know a cure for invisibility"
"Lysander's not here today" said Billy dubiously "Suppose you can't get out?"
"That's where you come in, Billy Just cling on to my arm, will you? And if I'm acting a bit funny give me a tug. I don't go right in, you see, it's just my mind. But he can see my face, and he'll probably see the wand. I won't go in as far as I did last time. I'll keep to the edge and just talk to him."
Charlie propped the painting against his bedside lamp, then he got up and held the wand in front of him. “Are you ready?"
Billy slid off the bed and clutched Charlie's arm. "Ready"
Charlie looked at the sorcerer. It didn't take long for Skarpo to see him. "You're back," said a husky singsong voice.
Charlie felt himself sliding forward, through a drifting white mist. All he could see was the sorcerer's bony face, and he quickly lowered his eyes to avoid Skarpo's magnetic yellow gaze. A rich smell of burning herbs filled his nostrils and he sneezed violently
"Stop that!" said the voice.
"S-s-achoo — sorry Couldn't help it," said Charlie. He looked past the dark robed figure and scanned the objects on the table.
"What do you want this time, you thief?" said Skarpo.
"I've brought back your wand," said Charlie. “And I was just wondering . . .”
"What?" Skarpo seemed to be looking at the wand. "Take it away" he said in a low voice.
"But I thought you wanted it," said Charlie. "You were so angry when I took it. I came back to exchange it for — well, just a bit of advice, really you being so experienced in magic and everything. I thought you might be able to help me."
"It's not mine, boy I see that now" The sorcerer seemed unable to drag his eyes away from the wand. "Well, I never. It was yours all along."
"I don't understand," said Charlie. "It's not mine. But anyway the thing is, my uncle's very ill, so ill he's lost the power he used to have. It was him who first told me about you, actually so have you got anything for endowed people that have sort of become unendowed?"
"I'd have to see your uncle." Skarpo took a step toward Charlie.
"You can't do that." Charlie took a step backward.
Skarpo moved closer. "I'll have to, my wee fellow How can I help a man I don't see? Besides, I've a mind to peek into your century"
"That's impossible," said Charlie firmly "You belong in your picture."
"I'll hitch a ride with you.” The sorcerer's pale hand stretched out toward Charlie, and Charlie felt something tug his sweater. He stepped backward very fast, saying, "No! No! No! I'm going now. Now! Now!" And again he stepped back. This time he tripped and found himself falling. It was like tumbling through air, down, down, and down.
Charlie had to close his eyes against the horrible pitching and tossing that was happening to his body And then the back of his head hit something hard, with a loud bang.
Charlie opened his eyes. He was lying on his bedroom floor, not quite on the floor but on something small and bumpy.
A muffled voice beneath him said, "Charlie, you're squashing me."
Charlie rolled over and found Billy stretched out beside him. His glasses had fallen off and his eyes were wide with fright.
"Sorry" said Charlie. "What happened?"
"Wee-i-erd," said Billy sitting up. He found his spectacles and put them on. "I held on to you, like you said, but you kept moving backward and saying, 'Now! Now!' and then you tripped over my foot and we both fell down. I couldn't see anything because you were on top of me, but there was an almighty wind and someone stepped on my hand, and the door blew open."
At that moment the front door slammed. The boys were silent, waiting to hear footsteps in the hall. There were none. Charlie got up and looked out of the window There were several people in the street and a few passing cars. And then, in the distance, he saw a dark shadow traveling very fast against the evening light.
Charlie felt slightly queasy Whether it was from banging his head, or the feeling that somehow things had gone a little bit wrong, he wasn't sure.
"What happened in there?" asked Billy pointing at the picture.
Charlie noticed that the sorcerer was still in the painting. That was reassuring. He laid it facedown on the bedside table. "He wanted to come out," he said.
"Perhaps he did come out," said Billy
"No. Couldn't have. Let's get ready for bed. You can use the bathroom first."
The two boys changed into their pajamas, and Billy took his wash kit to the bathroom. In a few minutes he was back, with toothpaste around his mouth and a black rat in his hands. "Look what I've found!" he cried.
"Rembrandt! Where was he?"
"In the bathroom, under the bath." Billy put Rembrandt on Charlie's bed. "It's so good to see you, Rem!"
"I don't think I want Rem in my bed tonight," said Charlie, and he ran down to the kitchen to look for a box.
Unfortunately Grandma Bone was in the kitchen, slurping up another bowl of prunes. "What are you looking for?" she demanded as Charlie rummaged around in the pantry
“A box," he said.
"What for?” (Slurp.)
"To put something in." Charlie emerged with a box in his hands and six cookies in his bathrobe pocket.
"What sort of thing? Drat!" Grandma Bone missed her mouth and a prune fell on to the tablecloth.
"Whoops!" said Charlie.
"What are you putting in that box?"
"A monster with six eyes,, four tails, and bad breath," said Charlie, running out of the room.
"Don't be insolent," screeched Grandma Bone. She came into the hall and was about to shout something else when she suddenly changed her mind and said sweetly, "Say good night to that little boy for me."
Charlie was so unnerved by her tone he almost dropped the box. Did his grandmother think she could use Billy against him?
"Phew, Grandma certainly likes you," he said, handing Billy the box. "This is for Rembrandt. And I've got some cookies for his dinner. Billy? Billy!"
Billy's white eyebrows were drawn together in an odd frown.
"What's up?" said Charlie.
"I've been talking to Rembrandt," Billy said in a puzzled voice.
"He gave you some bad news by the look of it," Charlie remarked.
"He said there was a bad smell in the bathroom."
"There's always a bad smell," said Charlie. "It's Grandma."
"No, Charlie. This is different," Billy said gravely "Rembrandt says it smells of bad magic and things that should be dead."
Charlie resisted the temptation to say "Like I said," and marched along to the bathroom, followed by Billy who was still clutching Rembrandt.
"Can't smell a thing," said C
harlie, opening the door.
"Look!" Billy whispered. "Under the sink."
Charlie looked. Sitting under the sink was a brown mouse. It began to squeak, almost hysterically and while it squeaked, Rembrandt joined in, squealing even louder than the mouse.
Billy began to translate Rembrandt's shrill words, if they could be called words. "He says . . . the mouse is very scared . . . because it doesn't know . . . where it is . . . or how it got here. Rembrandt says its smell is from a long time ago, so long it's messing up his brain."
"A long time ago?" Charlie looked at Billy who returned his gaze with a mixture of disbelief and bewilderment.
"Skarpo had a mouse in his pocket," Charlie said slowly
"So, where's Skarpo?" Billy whispered.
CHAPTER 9
A VERY OLD MOUSE
When the squeaking had finally died down, Billy said, "Should we let it go or try and keep it?"
Charlie took a step toward the mouse and that decided the matter. The little creature darted under the bath, and when Charlie tried to crawl after it, the mouse leaped through a hole in the floor.
"That's it, then." Charlie stood up and dusted himself off.
"What are we going to do about the sorcerer?" said Billy
"There's nothing we can do. We'll just have to wait."
Charlie was awake for most of that night. Billy grunted and chattered in his sleep while the rat made a peculiar twittering sound. Now and again Charlie would shout, "Shut up, both of you!" but his visitors slept on.
Very early next morning Charlie tiptoed downstairs for a bowl of cereal. The house and the street outside were eerily quiet. And Rembrandt was right, there was a very strange smell around the place. Was that how bad magic smelled? Charlie wondered if the mouse had brought bad luck as well as bad magic into the house.
When he'd finished his cereal, Charlie took a cup of tea and a cookie up to his uncle's room. Paton was sitting propped up against a mound of cushions and pillows. He still looked deathly white but a bit of life appeared to have seeped back into his gray hair.
"Morning, dear boy" Paton's voice was very faint.
"You're looking a bit better, Uncle," said Charlie. "Your hair — it was all gray yesterday"
“Ash," Paton said hoarsely He touched his throat. "Can't talk much."
Charlie noticed that the light was still on. It flickered now and again, but there were none of the bright explosions that Paton usually managed to generate.
"Maybe it's a good thing that you've lost your . . . " Charlie hesitated. "Well, I mean, now that lights don't explode all around you.".
"It crossed my mind," Paton whispered, "but only for a moment. I've realized that it's never a good thing to lose your talent; you lose a bit of yourself along with it."
"I suppose so," said Charlie solemnly "Uncle Paton, what happened to you?"
Paton closed his eyes. "Can't talk now, Charlie. If you see Miss Ingledew tell her . . . tell her . . .”
"Yes," said Charlie eagerly "Tell her what?"
"Tell her I wish —" Paton shook his head. "No, I'm afraid it's too late."
"Too late!" cried Charlie. His uncle's expression scared him. "What do you mean, too late?"
"Never mind. I'd like to be alone now Charlie."
Whatever it was that had happened to his uncle, Charlie was afraid that the effects might be permanent, or fatal. He quietly closed the door and went back to his room. Billy was sitting on the edge of Charlie's bed with Rembrandt on his knee. "I thought it was all a bad dream," he said, rubbing his eyes. "But it really happened, didn't it? The mouse and the sorcerer."
" 'Fraid so," said Charlie.
"What do you think Skarpo will do, if he's here — somewhere?"
"We'll just have to wait and see. Billy you won't tell anyone about this, will you?"
Billy shook his head. "I won't tell about Skarpo, but I think they already know about you going into pictures and that. I heard them talking once, about the painting, old Mr. Ezekiel and Matron. They said, 'Do you think Charlie will go in?' I didn't understand what they were talking about then."
Charlie perched beside the small albino. "I know you couldn't help being a spy" he said, "but it's time you chose sides, Billy I've got to know if I can trust you."
Billy hung his head. "Mr. Ezekiel said he'd found some really kind people who wanted to be my parents, but it was a lie. I'll never trust him again."
"The Bloors lie about everything," said Charlie. "But when this is all over, I'm sure someone will find some parents for you."
"Cook said she would, but when all what's over?"
Charlie wasn't sure, himself Perhaps he meant when Ollie Sparks had been rescued, and Belle, or Yolanda, had disappeared. When Uncle Paton was himself again, and Lyell, Charlie's father, had been found. Or perhaps he meant the struggle between those who ruined lives if they didn't get what they wanted and others who couldn't help trying to stop them. "The children of the Red King," Charlie murmured. "It's a battle between all of us. I meant when that was over."
Billy looked dubious. "Perhaps it will never be over. Or maybe it will be a long, long time. I think I could wait quite a long time. Maybe a year. But I don't want to be grown-up before I get parents. I wish I could remember my real parents. I wish I knew how they really died. No one would ever explain it to me."
Charlie thought of his own father. Everyone pretended that he was dead. But Charlie knew it was a lie. At least Billy had a photo. Charlie didn't even have that. "You showed me a photo of your parents once," he said. "They looked nice."
"Yes," said Billy sadly
"Come on, let's get dressed," said Charlie on a brighter note.
They found Mrs. Bone in the kitchen, cooking two large breakfasts. "I'm sorry I've got to leave you on your own," she said, "but there's plenty of food in the fridge and I'll be back before lunch. Thank goodness Paton is better." Charlie wasn't so sure about Paton.
"We're not exactly on our own," said Charlie as a door slammed upstairs. Grandma Bone was on the move.
Amy glanced up at the ceiling and said, "You know what I mean. Enjoy your breakfasts. 'Bye now." And she was off.
By the time Grandma Bone came marching into the kitchen, Charlie and Billy had eaten their breakfast, and Billy had managed to slip some toast and bacon into his pocket.
“A bit of starving wouldn't hurt you," she said, glaring at Charlie, "after eating everything in sight."
Charlie almost told her that Runner Bean had eaten the pâté, but he thought better of it. He wanted a peaceful weekend.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "I made a mistake. We're going to the park now, Grandma." He took his plate to the sink, but when he turned around his grandmother gave him one of her mean smiles.
"No, you're not," she said. "Someone very important is coming to visit us."
"Who?" asked Charlie.
"That's for me to know" she retorted. "Clean yourselves up and look nice, they'll be here in half an hour."
Billy scuttled nervously to the sink with his plate.
"Wash it up, dear," said Grandma Bone.
Charlie waited while Billy dutifully cleaned his plate and put it in the rack.
Back in the bedroom, Billy fed the hungry rat and then began to grunt to it. Rembrandt squeaked back.
"He says the mouse ought to go home," Billy told Charlie. "It's not good for him here."
"It's not good for us either," said Charlie. "But even if we found the mouse, I wouldn't know how to get it back into the painting. Unless I took it myself, and I don't want to go in again. I don't trust Skarpo. He might make it impossible for me to get out."
"If he's still in there," said Billy
"He must be," said Charlie desperately. "I mean if he was out, we'd know by now He's dangerous. He only deals in destruction. He told me once that he liked to maim, poison, burn, shrink, and drive people mad."
Billy's mouth had fallen open. He uttered a soft "Oooo" of horror.
The two boys waited anxio
usly for their important visitor to arrive. Occasionally they looked down into the street, but no one grand or imposing walked up to the door. No flashy or expensive car stopped close by
And then Billy suddenly shivered and said, "There it is. It's him."
Charlie saw a black car with smoked-glass windows gliding to a halt in front of the house. He recognized the car immediately It had come once before, when Billy had stayed with him. Charlie had never seen the passenger. When he had gone to look in the car, a long cane had whipped through the open door and whacked him on the knees — something he wasn't likely to forget.
A powerful-looking man in a black suit got out of the driver's seat and walked around to the passenger door. A black chauffeur's hat hid the cropped head, but Charlie knew the broad nose, red face, and small slanting eyes. It was Weedon, the gardener and handyman.
Weedon opened the passenger door very wide and then leaned into the car. After a moment of maneuvering, he stood up with a weird bundle in his arms. Most of it was covered by a woolen blanket, but Charlie could see a hideously wizened face under a black skullcap and two scrawny legs in white socks with red velvet slippers on the feet.
"Is that who I think it is?" said Charlie
Billy nodded miserably "Mr. Ezekiel. He's come for me."
"Maybe not. Let's wait and see." As Charlie said this a third person got out of the car, slammed all the open doors, and followed Weedon and his bundle.
"I should have known she'd come, too," said Charlie as he watched his great-aunt Lucretia mount the steps.
"Charlie! Billy! You're wanted," shouted Grandma Bone.
Billy put Rembrandt in his box and followed Charlie downstairs. Grandma Bone was waiting for them outside the living room door. "Come in, boys. Come in," she said, smiling as though they'd won tickets to a soccer match.
Charlie went in first and found himself facing the oldest-looking man he'd ever seen. He was sitting in the biggest armchair, still wrapped in his woolen blanket. His face was so withered it looked like a skull, and his thin white hair hung to his shoulders in waxy strands. His mouth had all but disappeared beneath a long, knobbly nose, but his black eyes glittered with a frightening intensity
