by Jenny Nimmo
“Better not tell him about Mr. B just yet,” warned Tancred.
“No. Not yet,” Charlie agreed. “Thing is, Emma won’t be able to get back through all those old attics. She’d get lost in the dark. So I’m trying to leave a window open.” He told the others about Belle.
“Hm.” Tancred looked at the windows. They were exactly the same as those in the art room. Only the small sections at the top could be opened, and at present these were securely fastened. “Mr. Mason sometimes opens them with a pole,” he said. “But it’s not here.”
The tall, blond boy began to stride around the room, and Charlie could feel a breeze sweeping around his feet. Bits of wood and paper, fragments of clay, and small chisels began to slither and shuffle across the floorboards.
“Watch it, Tane!” said Lysander.
“OK. OK. I’m focused,” said Tancred. “Here we go!”
Finding an empty space in the center of the room, he spun around, his cape flying out like a green wheel. Charlie watched, mesmerized by the swirling starlit dust motes until, all at once, Tancred’s spinning shape came to rest. He raised his arm, pointing to the top of the window, and a bolt of pure, icy wind left his fingers and soared upward. There was a sharp crack, and a pane of glass fell out. It dropped neatly into Tancred’s upheld cape.
“What about that?” he said proudly.
“Perfection,” said Lysander.
“Out of this world,” breathed Charlie.
Tancred hid the pane of glass among a stack of boards standing against the back wall. “Mr. Mason will never notice,” he said.
Charlie looked up at the empty window frame. “I wish we could watch her,” he murmured. “I’ve never seen Emma fly or even become a bird.”
“Some things are better done in secret,” Lysander said mysteriously. “I think we should pack up now and get back to bed, or we’ll never wake up in the morning.”
Tancred led the way with his flashlight, up the iron spiral and through the art room. Charlie’s dormitory was only halfway down the passage, but, with a whispered “good night,” the two older boys crept down to a dormitory at the far end.
At that moment Emma was opening a window in the corridor outside her dormitory. Before she flew she had moments of terrible anxiety. She was never sure if her arms would become wings or if the wings would lift her off the ground. She had to close her eyes tight and think of a bird and then believe in herself and in the ancestor who had passed on this strange gift.
Tonight Emma had chosen the form of a starling. Hidden by a tall cupboard, she began to shrivel and dwindle, becoming smaller and smaller, while shiny dappled feathers covered her body. She put the note she held into her mouth, and when the transformation was complete she lifted her wings. But as she flew out of the window, someone in a pale nightgown stepped toward her. Emma soared into the starlit sky and the window clanged shut behind her.
She tried not to think about how she would get back but concentrated on finding the attic room where Ollie Sparks was imprisoned. Twice she flew around the huge, gaunt building, perching every now and then on a window ledge, a pediment, or a gutter. But the black rooms behind the tiny attic windows gave nothing away. Not a light, or a shadow, no rumpled beds, jam jars, or pink toes could be seen.
So Emma flew down to the floor beneath the attics, and here she did see something: a candelit room where an old man, propped up by a mountain of cushions, sat in a four-poster bed. Emma had seen that dreadful, wizened face before, when she too had been imprisoned in the attics. Old Mr. Ezekiel now wore a red nightcap and a black velvet bed jacket covered in beads of shiny jet. He laughed to himself as his bony finger traveled over the page of a huge black book, and Emma quickly flew on.
On the floor below she saw Lucretia Yewbeam, in a purple nightgown, brushing out the long strands of her gray-white hair. And farther on, Emma found Manfred Bloor, in a black robe, his dark hair released from its ponytail and hanging in thin cords around his face. He had his back to the window, but Emma could see his reflection in the long mirror he was gazing into. And then he saw her.
Manfred only saw a starling, sitting on the ledge outside his window. But he stared at the bird’s reflection and then swung around. Emma flew off, her heart beating wildly. She opened her beak and gave a shrill cry of alarm. And her note floated away on the wind.
He knew it was me, thought Emma. He saw the note. What will he do now?
Next morning, Charlie thought he was the last one down to breakfast, but just as he was hurrying past the portraits, he heard someone shuffling behind him. He looked around to see Emma, pale-faced and sleepy-eyed. While Charlie waited for her to catch up, another figure appeared. It was Olivia. Who else would wear bright yellow shoes with black socks? It was amazing the weird clothes that drama children managed to get away with.
Olivia was rolling along in a strange lopsided way. She held up a foot in a yellow shoe. “They’re Mom’s. Hope she won’t have a fit.”
Emma regarded the shoe and yawned.
“How did you get on last night?” Charlie asked her.
Emma frowned. “Couldn’t find Ollie’s window. They all look the same. And I dropped the note.”
“What note?” said Olivia. “You never said anything about a note.”
“I was carrying one. To leave for Ollie. But all the attic windows were shut.”
“Carrying it in your …?” Charlie was about to say “beak” but couldn’t quite manage it.
“Mouth,” said Emma, giving him a funny look.
Charlie said quietly, “Did you find the window in the sculpture room?”
Emma yawned again. “Eventually. Thanks.”
“It was Tancred.”
They had reached the dining hall, and here they had to part, each going to his or her own table. Charlie noticed that Emma had to sit beside Belle. He was worried for his friend. Suppose someone had found the note she’d written? If the Bloors knew she was trying to rescue Ollie, there was no knowing what they might do. I’m glad she can fly, he thought to himself.
Beside him, Fidelio polished off his last speck of oatmeal and said, “I’m sure there are things going on that I ought to know about, Charlie. Music’s taking over my life a bit, but I still want to know what’s happening to you all.”
“Come to the Pets’ Café on Sunday,” said Charlie. “We’ll all be there. Maybe even Lysander and Tancred.” He noticed Billy staring at him from the other side of the table. “And Billy,” he added.
“Billy?” Fidelio lowered his voice. “Is that wise?”
Charlie shrugged. “I think he’s changing his spots, if you know what I mean.”
“Hm,” said Fidelio.
During the first break, while the others were rehearsing for the play, Charlie helped Emma search for the note she’d dropped. He was just peering into the shrubbery beside the garden door when Belle and Dorcas walked up to him.
Belle said, “I didn’t know you were interested in horticulture, Charlie.”
“Haughty what?” said Charlie.
“Never mind. What are you looking for?”
“Nothing.” Charlie shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away from them. He looked for Tancred and Lysander, but they were nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Lysander was working on his carving. Billy was missing too, but he had a rat to feed and comfort.
A few minutes before the end of break, Charlie met Emma. She hadn’t found the note either.
“I think it must have blown into the courtyard,” she said.
This was bad news. It was impossible for any of the children to go in there once the main doors were shut on Monday morning.
“What did the note say?” asked Charlie.
Emma bit her lip. “‘Don’t give up hope, Ollie. We haven’t forgotten you. E.’”
“E? Just E?” said Charlie. “That’s not so bad.”
“E is for Emma,” Emma said gloomily. “They’ll know.”
“We’ll just have to hope they don’t find
it,” said Charlie.
His next lesson was history and, as usual, he found it very hard to concentrate. Luckily, Mr. Pope didn’t ask him any questions. He seemed to have given up on Charlie, which was just as well, because Charlie was wrestling with several other problems at once, and none of them had anything to do with Napoleon.
For one thing, who were they? The Bloors obviously, and Belle, of course. But Weedon, the gardener, was a nasty piece of work. And the matron, Charlie’s great-aunt Lucretia, was definitely an enemy. What about the rest of the staff? It was very difficult to guess. If only he had Uncle Paton to talk to, but there was still no sign of him.
Before Charlie knew it, the lesson was over and Mr. Pope was shouting, “Another lesson has passed you by, Charlie Bone. There’ll be a test on Napoleon’s campaigns first thing on Monday morning. If you don’t get more than seventy percent, you’ll have detention.”
Charlie’s jaw dropped. This meant a whole weekend wasted on learning dates. He gathered up his books and marched grimly out of the history room.
Other children were faced with the same problem. News of tests abounded. The staff had apparently caught test fever. There were very few happy faces at dinner that night.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to the Pets’ Café this Sunday,” said Gabriel, staring glumly into his soup.
“Nor me,” said Charlie.
Billy leaned across the table. “I can still come home with you, can’t I?” he begged.
Charlie didn’t have the heart to say no. “Of course you can. You can test me on my dates.”
Billy beamed. “You’re on.”
On Friday, Charlie heard about Lysander’s progress on the carving. He and Emma were caught up in the usual rush to the dormitories to collect their bags. In spite of the looming tests, a babble of excitement had broken out. No one could remain despondent when there were two days and three nights of freedom to look forward to. Steps were climbed two at a time, and dark passages rang with hurrying footsteps and happy laughter.
“I saw the carving last night,” Emma whispered to Charlie. “It’s fantastic, like a real boy. Lysander’s just begun to paint it. A few more days and it’ll be ready.”
“How’s he kept it secret?” asked Charlie.
“He puts a sheet over it in the daytime. Mr. Mason never pays any attention to it. He’s too busy doing his own sculpting.”
“Belle’s in art,” said Charlie anxiously.
“I don’t need reminding. But, as far as I know, she hasn’t seen the carving.”
They parted at the bottom of another staircase and Charlie went to find Billy.
It was true that Belle hadn’t seen Lysander’s carving, but she’d been aware of it. She had merely been biding her time. As soon as all the other children had climbed aboard the school buses, Belle went into the sculpture room. Mr. Mason was tapping away at a chunk of stone by the window. He didn’t even see Belle. She walked over to a white sheet that covered something almost exactly her size. Belle pulled off the sheet. A boy stood before her. Not exactly a boy, but something so very like a boy it was hard to believe he wasn’t real.
The boy had brown hair and bright blue eyes. His mouth was quite small, and his nose was thin and poky: an inquisitive nose. He was wearing a blue cape but, as far as Belle could see, the clothes under the cape were, as yet, unpainted. The shoes and pants were the color of light wood.
“So,” murmured Belle. “That’s their game.”
Charlie and Billy got off the blue bus at the top of Filbert Street. Rembrandt had fallen asleep under Billy’s sweater but he was obviously having bad dreams. He kept twitching and squeaking in his sleep. Billy reckoned that the rat had been badly freaked by Mr. Boldova’s rejection.
“You’ll have to make up for it then,” said Charlie. “You’re his best friend now.”
Billy looked surprised and pleased. “I suppose I am.”
“I’m afraid Mom doesn’t know you’re coming,” Charlie warned him. “She’s out all day on Saturday, and she doesn’t get home till after four.”
“I don’t mind,” said Billy happily.
“She’ll leave us plenty of food.”
“Good. Can I give some to Rembrandt?”
“Of course. Don’t let my grandma see him. She can’t abide animals. She’d probably kill him.”
“Oh,” said Billy nervously.
About twenty paces from home Charlie became aware of a car parked in the road outside number nine. It’s color might have been described as black. But then again, it wasn’t quite black. It could have been midnight blue, but it was so streaked with mud and ash and — was it rust? Or had the vehicle been engulfed in flames? The bumper was bent and the windshield shattered.
“That looks like a car from hell,” said Billy.
“Or a car that’s been through hell,” said Charlie. “It belongs to my uncle Paton.”
The boys tore down Filbert Street. When they reached number nine, Charlie bounded up the steps and let himself in. Billy followed cautiously.
“There’s no one here,” Charlie shouted from the kitchen.
Billy watched Charlie cross the hall and begin to mount the stairs.
“Should I stay here?” he asked shyly.
“No. It’s OK. Come on up.” Charlie didn’t want to go into his uncle’s room alone. The DO NOT DISTURB sign lay on the floor, and the hook on the door was bent almost flat, as though someone had grasped it for support. The signs were so ominous that Charlie didn’t know what to do. Should he knock or walk in unannounced?
“I’d knock,” Billy advised.
Charlie knocked. Once. Twice. Three times.
No sound came from within the room.
Charlie held his breath, opened the door, and walked in. Billy took just one step inside and then waited, his hand over the rat.
The first thing Charlie saw was the wand, lying on his uncle’s desk. The once slim white cane was almost unrecognizable, but Charlie knew it from its size and the dented silver tip. The rest was a charred and blackened stick.
“What happened?” he murmured. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward the bed, and there was his uncle, a figure all in black, lying stretched out on top of the covers, so tall that his feet in ash-covered shoes hung over the end.
Paton’s face beneath streaks of soot was deathly white. But worst of all, to Charlie, was his uncle’s hair. Once a luxurious black, it had turned ash gray.
“Is he dead?” Billy whispered.
“No,” said Charlie fiercely, but to tell the truth he wasn’t sure. He touched his uncle’s shoulder. There was no response. “Uncle Paton,” he said softly, and then more urgently, “Please, Uncle Paton, wake up. If you can.”
Paton’s eyes remained closed. His face looked like carved ice. Not a muscle twitched. Charlie put his ear to his uncle’s chest and caught the faint sound of a heartbeat.
“He’s alive. But in a very deep sleep,” said Charlie. “We’ll just have to wait until he wakes up.”
It was no ordinary sleep, and yet it didn’t seem like hypnotism. Paton must have been to Yewbeam Castle. But what terrible thing had happened to him there? Uncle Paton was the only person in the house who could stand up to Grandma Bone, and Charlie shuddered to think what life would be like if his uncle never woke up.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said.
Billy was standing very still beside the door and Charlie noticed that Rembrandt’s head was poking out of the bottom of Billy’s sweater. The rat’s nose was twitching violently. Suddenly, he gave a loud squeak and leaped to the floor.
“Get him!” Charlie cried.
Billy ran out and Charlie followed, closing Paton’s door behind him. He could see Rembrandt hurrying along, close to the wall. Billy had almost reached him when a door opened between him and the rat.
Grandma Bone came out of her room and stood facing Billy. “Oh?” She raised a long black eyebrow. “Has Charlie brought home a little friend?”
Billy blinked up at her.
Charlie said, “It’s Billy Raven, Grandma. He’s staying the weekend.”
“I’m not blind. I can see it’s Billy Raven,” said his grandmother. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses, Charlie. Billy’s a nice boy. A great improvement on that smelly Benjamin, not to mention fiddling Fidelio and that drip Gabriel.”
Charlie hated her talking about his friends like that, but he was too worried about the rat to argue. For some reason Rembrandt had stopped right behind his grandmother and was now sitting up and watching them.
Billy didn’t know what to do. He stared at Rembrandt with his mouth hanging open.
“Why are you looking at my shoes, little boy?” said Grandma Bone. “Look me in the eye. I don’t bite.”
Not yet, thought Charlie.
As Billy tore his gaze away from the rat, Charlie was relieved to see it scamper downstairs.
“Grandma …” Charlie began.
“What was that?” Grandma Bone leaned over the banisters, but the rat had disappeared.
“Well now, Billy,” she said. “The person who usually does the cooking in the house has gone on vacation.”
“Hardly,” said Charlie. “Grandma, do you …”
“Be quiet,” she snapped. “As I said, we haven’t got a cook, but I’ll do my best to find some nice tidbits for you. Charlie should be on bread and water, since he stole my goose liver pâté!”
Charlie pointed to his uncle’s door and shouted, “Grandma, do you realize Uncle Paton’s lying in there half-dead?”
“I’m perfectly well aware of my brother’s state,” she said coldly. “He deserved everything he got. Meddling, that’s what he was doing. Well, he bit off more than he could chew this time, didn’t he? Met his match. Ha! Ha!” She gave a nasty snicker and swept downstairs. “I’m going to get some prunes,” she called, and putting on her hat and coat, she left the house.
“I don’t like prunes,” said Billy with a nervous frown.
“You won’t have to eat them,” said Charlie. “Come on, let’s find something better.”
Billy thought they should look for Rembrandt first, but although they searched every room on the ground floor, the black rat couldn’t be found.
