Jack jumped up and down, pounding the planks with both heels. “Why . . . is it . . . always . . . something?”
On his fifth jump, the platform gave. The chains zipped through their pulleys, dropping him into the dark, and he stumbled off the elevator into Gwen’s arms. It whooshed back up into place. A gas light, warm and yellow, sputtered to life above him.
Jack didn’t move, arms still wrapped around Gwen. Even after all the adventures of the last two days—after dragon fire and borscht and the cold wind—her hair still smelled like strawberries.
“Um . . . Jack?”
“Shh. Someone’s coming.”
He listened for the inevitable sound of footsteps on the porch—the telltale creaking of wooden planks.
Nothing.
Maybe Ash had found the porch and garden empty and given up.
After a few more heartbeats, Jack backed away, and Gwen cleared her throat, giving him a nervous freckle bounce. “Not much of an improvement, is it?”
It wasn’t. They had fallen into a rectangular room no bigger than the porch, steeped in shadow. The gas lamp cast its yellow circle down over a pedestal at the center of one wall, but gave no other light to the place. Jack caught the silhouette of a clothes rack in the corner, complete with a pair of shoes and the brown, musty scent of mothballs.
Sadie stood beneath the outline of an inverted rocking chair, arms folded. “Took you long enough.”
Beneath the light, on the pedestal, stood a wooden dove with a field of stars painted on the wall behind it. Jack recognized the scene from the necklace Sadie always wore, the heirloom their mother had given her. “That’s the symbol of House Fowler,” he said, and then something strange happened. As if awoken by the sound of Jack’s voice, the dove opened its eyes, fluttered its wings, and cooed.
“Oh, lovely.” Sadie rushed up beside her brother and stroked its beak. The dove cooed again. “I think he likes me.”
“This isn’t right,” grumbled Gwen, pacing behind the other two. “This place should be much bigger, with more than a rack of clothes and a toy bird. Where are all the books and gadgets? Where is the—?” She stopped and let out a huff. “What kind of outpost is this?”
Jack was still inspecting the dove. The strange pattern of speckles on its chest stood out in his mind. He glanced down at his sister, who was still petting the bird. “Sadie.”
She pulled her hand back. “I wasn’t going to hurt him.”
“I know.” The four stars above the bird on his sister’s necklace looked a lot like the speckles on the chest of the wooden dove. “But I think I need to borrow that pendant.”
Sadie frowned.
“Just for a minute. Then I’ll give it back. I promise.”
After a moment’s consideration, she reached behind her neck, unhooked the clasp, and lowered the necklace into her brother’s waiting hand.
“Thank you.” He turned and held the pendent up beside the bird’s chest, while the wooden creature watched his every move. The stars and the speckles were indeed mirror images. Jack lined them up, pressed the pendant against the bird, and a chink sounded inside.
The beak snapped shut.
Jack stumbled back as the bird launched itself into the air. It flew around the room, picking up speed, and then tucked its wings and dove at the wall behind the pedestal, forcing the children to duck. Jack thought it would smash itself to bits, but it shot through a hole the size of a tennis ball instead, hidden by a wooden flap.
“Well, that was something,” said Gwen as all three straightened again.
“I think there’s more.” Jack handed the necklace back to Sadie, listening to sounds behind the walls. Huge, unseen gears clacked into motion. The wall split, right down the center of the night-sky painting, and the two halves slid apart.
Chapter Forty-Four
THE SLIDING PANELS disappeared into the walls on either side, and behind them was a staircase leading down into a long chamber filled with bookcases. Jack found a forked switch at the bottom. He threw it, and an electric sizzle ran away into the dark. Lanterns similar to those in the drago collection bubbled to life all about the room, the liquid inside them roiling as its yellow glow intensified.
“Books,” said Gwen, walking past Jack and placing a hand on the first of many freestanding shelves.
“And gadgets.” Sadie gently moved the arm of a wooden girl up and down. The life-size doll stood on an ornate box beside the stairs, half-bent at the waist, her arm outstretched as if she might straighten up to bid them welcome at any moment.
Jack was afraid she might. “Maybe you shouldn’t touch that.”
Books and gadgets, life-size dolls, and disturbing creatures bottled up in jars, not to mention a wooden dove fluttering around the room. Jack guessed the successive owners had been a mix of librarians, tinkers, and mad scientists—exactly as Gwen had described the generations of Count Bruces. And one of those strange men had been a good friend of his great-great-grandmother.
“This is her, I think.” Gwen stood on tiptoes next to Sadie and the wooden girl, admiring a black-and-white photo on the wall. A short man with cheekbones nearly identical to Jack’s had his arm wrapped around an Asian woman, whose black hair was tied back in a ponytail. The couple was standing in front of a white circular tent, with barren mountains far in the distance. They looked so happy.
Jack cocked his head. “So Saraa Fowler was—”
“Mongolian,” said Gwen, lowering her heels to the ground. “I told you Joe Fowler the Ninth met her in the field. Did you think I meant a corn field?”
“But that would make me—”
“A little bit Mongolian too?” Gwen poked him in the chest. “You catch on quick. Perhaps that’s where you got those eyes of yours.”
He furrowed his brow. “What about my eyes?”
Suddenly, Gwen looked uncomfortable. “Nothing. I mean . . . they’re . . . dark.” She walked off, lowering her voice to a mumble. “And nice. Oo! Look here, Jack. Another picture.”
Gwen’s new find hung on the wall not far away, above a cluttered credenza. The painting showed a fierce mounted warrior surrounded by a small menagerie—a monkey, a tiger, and several other beasts. On the warrior’s golden breastplate were four rubies, joined into the familiar triangle symbol by silver bars. The small one at the center radiated with power.
Gwen read the plaque at the base of the frame. “ ‘Legend has it that in the travels of his youth, Temujin discovered a deep red stone at the heart of a great ruby, so dark it was almost black, like a clot of blood. It is said that this Heart of the Ruby was the source of his power. He wore it into every battle, encompassed by the shards of the jewel it came from.’ ”
“ ‘The shards of the jewel it came from,’ ” said Jack, reading the plaque for himself. “Tanner’s three rubies didn’t just come from the same mine, they’re all pieces of the same rock.”
“And the Heart is the pulsing center that fuses their powers.” Gwen sifted through the papers on the credenza. “It makes sense. The core of a giant balas ruby would be darker and denser than the rest. It would look like a blood clot.”
“But the Russian jewel is a faceted egg,” said Jack, setting the jewel case on the carpet beside the credenza. “And the Black Prince’s Ruby is smooth. They don’t look like puzzle pieces at all.”
Gwen lifted a notebook, flipped through the first few pages, and set it down again. “Those shards took separate paths through eight hundred years of history, Jack. They were cut and polished multiple times. Of course they don’t fit together anymore . . . although”—she picked up a jade turtle from the little shelf that ran along the back of the credenza—“three-dimensional puzzles are a Mongolian tradition as old as the empire itself.”
She handed Jack the turtle, and he saw that it was indeed a 3-D puzzle carved from a single stone. While Gwen dug through the papers, Jack took the pieces apart. They separated easily. But when he tried putting them back together, he couldn’t.
The dove alighted on the credenza shelf and cocked its head, watching him struggle.
He gave the bird a frown. “It’s harder than it looks, okay?” Then he glanced over at Gwen. “If the rubies don’t fit anymore, how does Tanner plan to link them?”
“Haven’t the foggiest.” She gave up on the papers and set off into the library. “What’s more important is figuring out what Temujin did with the Heart.”
Jack set his sad Humpty Dumpty turtle down on the desk and followed.
There were rows and rows of bookshelves decorated with Asian artwork—hangings showing Temujin and his menagerie, blue-and-white vases, jade bowls and statues. Jack eyed a pair of dragon bookends. Each jade beast held a swirl of silver flame in its talons. He remembered what had happened in the Moscow safe house. Raven’s comment, whether real or dreamt had stayed with him. He cleared his throat. “Um . . . what do you know about the dragos?”
Gwen stopped and turned to face him, narrowing her eyes as if she had been waiting for the question for a good long while. “Why do you ask?”
“Just . . . curious, I guess.”
Gwen chuckled. “Right.” She started walking again, letting her fingers drift along the books. “Rumors, Jack. Myths. The dragos keep their secrets well. Some say they can breathe fire, and that’s where their scars come from.” She glanced at Jack sidelong. “Others say they can speak the dragon language.”
“There’s a dragon language?”
Gwen shrugged. “Like I said. Rumors. Myths. My favorite theory is that the few dragos with abilities are the descendants of Arthur and Merlin—bloodlines that have become thin and convoluted over the centuries. Arthurians can manipulate fire with a sort of telekinesis. Merlinians can read minds and perhaps predict the future. Some say most of those split off to become the Ministry of Secrets.”
“Arthurians,” said Jack, trying to get the feel of the word. He tried the other one. “Merlinians. Have you ever . . . seen any of these people?”
She raised an eyebrow. “We both have. Ignatius Gall is one. Arthurian, Merlinian—I’ve heard it both ways.”
“But Gall is a spook. That would make him a Merlinian.”
“He is now.” They came to a collection of silver busts all labeled Jacob Bruce, and Gwen paused to examine their wild hairdos and impish expressions. “Gall switched his allegiance to the Ministry of Secrets years ago. I’m betting he was a spy for them long before that. I told you he was connected, Jack.”
A glint of brass flashed in Jack’s peripheral vision. He looked back toward the stairs and saw his sister climbing up behind the big wooden doll. Sadie teetered on the edge of the doll’s base, holding a giant winding key over her head. Jack broke into a run to try to catch her. “Sadie, get down. You’re going to fall.”
She didn’t. Sadie managed to keep her balance and to slide the key into a slot in the doll’s back. She wound it several times before Jack could rush over and stop her. After a final ratcheting click, she hopped down.
“Sadie,” said Jack, jogging up to his sister, “you have to stop playing with—”
The doll turned to face them. Paper-thin eyelids shot open, revealing black, glassy eyes.
“Oh. Not good,” said Jack, pulling his sister away.
Gwen skidded to a stop beside him. “Wooden girls in the garden,” she said with excitement. “The stories were true.”
The doll jumped down, landed in a half squat, and then slowly straightened, joints squeaking from a century of no use. She regarded Gwen with her empty gaze. “Good evening, Dr. Fowler. How may I assist you?”
Chapter Forty-Five
“AAANND IT SPEAKS.” Jack inched his sister back a little more. “Doctor Fowler? Joe Fowler Nine was a doctor?”
Gwen slapped his arm. “Not him, you chauvinistic wally. Her. Saraa Fowler was the doctor—the professor kind.” She glanced at the waiting automaton. “And it seems she thinks I’m her.” Gwen thought for a moment and then addressed the wooden girl. “Ah . . . forgive me, but I’m afraid I’ve forgotten your name.”
Something clacked inside the girl’s chest, like a Rolodex flipping through wooden cards. She blinked. “I am Marta, the first of two humaniform creations made by the second Count Bruce. My sister Margery manages the garden, while I assist in the library. As a secondary function, we are both designed for security.”
Her mouth snapped shut. That seemed to be all Marta had to say on the subject.
“She’s like C-3PO,” said Sadie, clapping her hands.
“Yeah.” Jack leaned forward, squinting at the lifelike face. “A creepy wooden C-3PO.”
Gwen slapped his arm again.
“What? Tell me this isn’t weird.”
“Marta,” said Gwen, taking Jack by the shoulders and moving him aside. “Can you direct me to my research on Temujin’s blood clot? It may also be filed under the Heart of the Ruby.”
The doll’s internal Rolodex flipped through its cards. She blinked. “The Heart of the Ruby, a possible heirloom of Genghis Khan.” Without warning, she set off, marching toward the bookshelves. “You will want the Tomb Room.”
“The Tomb Room. Sweet.” Sadie raced after her, catching the doll’s hand and mimicking the stiffness of her march. “This I have to see.”
The Tomb Room? Jack mouthed the question to Gwen as he retrieved the jewel case.
Gwen slapped her forehead. “Temujin’s tomb. It was never found, Jack. Any Genghis Khan researcher worth her salt would have a tomb file.” She hurried off after the other two. “Come on.”
By the time Jack and Gwen caught up, Marta and Sadie were waiting for them on a circular platform beneath a giant glasswork dome. The odd pair—expressionless wooden automaton and bright-eyed little girl—stood behind a semicircular control panel that wrapped around a huge column, framed in brass and filled with water. An empty ironwood moat surrounded the whole thing, passing beneath a bridge at the entrance. “The Tomb Room,” said Marta with a sweep of her hand.
Jack stopped Gwen halfway across the bridge. “Why should we look for the khan’s tomb? I thought we needed to find his fourth heir—the one who would have inherited the fourth ruby.”
“That’s what I thought too,” said Gwen. “But Temujin was an animist. Spirits of the earth, circle of life, and all that. If the Heart was the source of his power, he might have thought it was part of his spirit.”
“Sooo, that means the Heart had to be buried with him to complete the circle of life?”
Gwen gave him an I’m-just-that-good smirk. “Exactly.” Then she turned and continued across the bridge. “Marta, how does the Tomb Room work?”
Marta made a stiff gesture at the moat. “Just add water.”
Sadie was already on it. She cranked a big brass wheel, and a short wall of water rushed around the moat, sloshing over the bridge right where Jack stood.
His toes squished in his sneakers as he crossed the rest of the way to the control platform. “Thanks.”
Sadie shrugged. “You’re welcome.”
No sooner had the water settled than the moat began to hum. Ultrafine mist rose beneath the dome. Jack heard the distinctive whir of several reel-to-reel cameras, and projections shot out from lenses all around the moat, catching in the mist. Mountainous terrain materialized in three dimensions of black and white.
“It’s a holographic projector,” said Gwen, turning in a slow circle.
“From the turn of the twentieth century,” said Jack.
“Sweet,” said Sadie.
Chapter Forty-Six
THE ROLODEX inside Marta flipped through its cards. “The Photo-nebulizer Projection Room was created by the third Count Bruce in 1913,” she said, “to aid Dr. Fowler’s research. She renamed it the Tomb Room because, as she put it, the phrase ‘Photo-nebulizer Projection Room’ gave her a pounding headache.”
“Marta.” Gwen circled her finger around a series of small red blotches that had formed in the mist. “What are these red markings?”
“
Those are your potential tomb sites, Dr. Fowler, in Mongolia’s forbidden zone—thought to be the birthplace of Temujin. You and your husband took great pains to mark these sites on aerial photos before feeding them into the projectors.”
Jack took a closer look at the nearest dots, immediately noticing a common thread. “And why are all the tomb sites near streams and brooks?”
The Rolodex clacked again. The doll turned to regard him with her black eyes. “There are four features found in multiple legends about Temujin’s tomb. One: he wanted to be buried at his birthplace—although the Mongolian term used in most cases is better translated as origin. Two: his personal guard diverted a river to conceal the entrance. Three: his three greatest subjects bow before him for all eternity. And four: his favorite hawk keeps watch for tomb raiders. All of Dr. Fowler’s sites meet criteria one and two. The other features are more difficult to match.”
“There are so many,” said Gwen, walking from dot to dot. “Saraa spent her whole life looking, and she never found the right one. How are we supposed to do it?”
As she spoke, the wooden dove flew into the mist beneath the dome, interrupting the conversation. Marta swatted at him. “Silly bird. Shoo. Shoo, I say.”
The dove dodged her and sailed around the center column, and something about the circular trail it left in the mist stuck in Jack’s brain—a phrase Gwen had spoken earlier. He glanced over at her, raising an eyebrow. “Genghis Khan was obsessed with the circle of life, right?”
“Your wife has already mentioned that, Mr. Fowler,” said Marta, taking another swing at the bird.
Sadie poked him in the arm, snickering. “Your wife.”
The dove flew out the way it had come in and Marta stood at the edge of the bridge, watching it go, hands on her wooden hips.
Gwen touched Jack’s elbow. “What’ve you got?”
“You said Temujin considered his spirit and the spirit of the Heart to be as one. And Marta said he wanted to be buried at his origin—not his birthplace, his origin.”
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