Charlie Bone and the Invisible Boy

by Jenny Nimmo

  Charlie caught sight of him turning into Greybank Crescent, but he was gone in a flash. Charlie didn’t see him again until he ran down Darkly Wynd, and there was his uncle outside the door of the third number thirteen. He didn’t knock or ring the bell. Instead he brought up his foot and kicked. The old wood splintered and cracked. Paton kicked again and the whole door fell in.

  Charlie tore up the steps and through the open doorway. His uncle was just descending the back stairs. Charlie followed, down the stairs, across a narrow passage, and into Aunt Venetia’s workroom.

  Yolanda was sitting behind a sewing machine on the other side of a large table strewn with colored clothes and material. There was a length of green cloth under the needle.

  “Paton, we meet again at last,” said the old woman. “I hoped you’d come a-calling.”

  Paton stared at her, almost in disbelief. “You hoped?” he said.

  “Of course. After your girlfriend’s sad demise. She is dead, I trust? You don’t have much luck with the ladies, do you, Paton? First your mommy and now your lady friend. You’d be much better off working with us, you know.”

  “WHAT?” thundered Paton.

  “You heard me, and so did that little wretch standing in your shadow.”

  Charlie clutched his wand tightly. He wondered when he’d have to use it, but there was no need after all. He saw where Paton’s furious gaze was directed and knew in a split second before Yolanda did what was going to happen.

  There was a look of horrified surprise on the ancient woman’s face as she lifted her hands from the machine — too late.

  The light on the sewing machine exploded and the whole thing glowed white hot. With a dreadful shriek, the electrified woman behind it shot into the air. She spun like a top and a stream of wraithlike creatures came spilling out of her. They floated across the ceiling — bats, birds, spiders, dogs, cats, fish, monsters — and there was pretty Belle, waving long, stringy arms — and disappearing.

  “What’s happening?” cried a voice, and Venetia tore into the room. She took in the burning machine, the singed cloth, the scorched table. “What have you done?” she screamed at Paton. “Where’s my auntie?”

  “Where do you think?” he replied.

  “How could you?” she cried, backing away from him. “How dare you? You fiend, you despicable tyrant. You … you stupid man!”

  “I should have done it a long time ago,” said Paton, wiping his hands clean of some imaginary dirt.

  By now an army of little flames was licking at the garments on the table. Sparks caught on the velvet curtains, and the room was filled with the dreadful acrid smell of burning.

  “Come on, Charlie. Let’s get out of here,” said Uncle Paton.

  They rushed up the stairs and out into the fresh air, coughing and choking on smoke. It wasn’t long before Venetia followed them.

  The fire engine had a hard time getting down narrow Darkly Wynd, but it managed eventually. By then number thirteen was blazing on two floors. A crowd had gathered to observe the gruesome spectacle. People muttered about faulty wiring and old wood. No one was very surprised to see the old house burning.

  The four sisters stood apart, watching in grim silence. They wouldn’t even look at their brother.

  The firemen had almost got the blaze under control when someone spotted a figure standing at a top floor window. A small platform was raised and, amid cheers of “Well done!” “He’s all right!” “He’s alive!” the window was broken and the survivor stepped out onto the platform. It was Mr. Boldova.

  The Yewbeam sisters said the young man had been giving them some advice on costume design. “He’s an artist, you know,” said Eustacia.

  Mr. Boldova was saved just in time. A few moments after his rescue, the roof of Venetia’s house went up in flames, and the walls of the top floor fell away. For a brief second, the gasping onlookers saw the dark outline of an upright piano, perched on the highest point of the burning building. And then the instrument came tumbling down, its scorched keys playing an eerie tune as it crashed onto the basement steps.

  “I remember now,” said Mr. Boldova. “Someone was playing a piano.”

  But there was no one left in the ruined building. The firemen made quite sure of that. So whoever had been playing the hidden piano had gotten out of the house before it was too late.

  “Strange,” said Mr. Boldova. “I never saw the pianist, I only heard the notes. That’s all. Just wonderful music.”

  Charlie thought of his father. Was it possible that he’d been kept up there, in Venetia’s loft, with only a piano for company? And if so, where was he now?

  Uncle Paton tapped Charlie on the shoulder. “You’ve got something to tell this gentleman, haven’t you, Charlie?”

  “Have I?” said Charlie dreamily. “Oh, yes. Of course.” And he told Mr. Boldova all about Ollie.

  “This is the best news I’ve ever had in my life!” said the art teacher. “Can you take me to him? Now? And please, do you think you could call me Samuel? I’d rather leave the Boldova part of my life behind.”

  “Of course, Mr. Sparks,” said Charlie. “Ollie’s not far away. And my uncle …” He looked around, but Paton had slipped away. Charlie guessed he’d gone back to Ingledew’s bookshop.

  On Sunday, seven friends with assorted pets met at the Pets’ Café. They all wanted to see the invisible boy. With new clothes, a bath, and a haircut, Ollie looked completely normal. It was quite disappointing. But the disappointment didn’t last long.

  “I want you all to come to Sparkling Castle,” said Ollie. “Samuel says it’s mid-semester soon, so you could come for a week. I haven’t had a friend there for ages, and if it wasn’t for you all, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Who cared about learning lines, practicing scales, or painting scenery, when a whole week could be spent in a castle?

  “It’s not a real castle,” said Ollie, “but there’s lots of room. And there are mountains and streams and forests and fields.”

  It sounded OK.

  Charlie got his wish. Uncle Paton rented a van. He wasn’t going to buy one, he said, because they weren’t exactly his style. But for carrying eight children, an art teacher, a lady bookseller, and a dog — it was obviously necessary.

  They all met outside the bookshop on the following Saturday. Just after dark, Uncle Paton rolled up in a long silver van. Backpacks and sleeping bags were stowed in the back, sandwiches and drinks pushed under the seats, and everybody piled in.

  Miss Ingledew sat beside Uncle Paton in the front. Charlie and Fidelio sat with the Sparks brothers in the next row, with Runner Bean spread across their knees. And the other five squeezed themselves into the back.

  As they left the city lights behind them and plunged into the dark lanes, Ollie said, “Where’s that other boy? The one who made the boa change?”

  Charlie felt bad about Billy. “They won’t let him leave the academy,” he said. “But one day, we’ll get him out. You know, Billy’s probably braver than any of us.”

  There was a murmur of agreement from the others, but before their mood became too somber, Gabriel said, “Right now, Billy’s OK, actually. I managed to get Rembrandt into the kitchens. I bet they’re having a great time together. Oh, and by the way, Blessed’s got his tail back. Cook took him to see the boa!”

  Samuel Sparks said he was glad to know that Rembrandt had someone to talk to. He had never been sure if the rat was happy. “I don’t think he liked these,” said Samuel, and he took two stones out of his pocket and let them sparkle across his palm.

  “Animals don’t like magic,” said Gabriel, whereupon Runner Bean stood up on Charlie’s knees and gave a long howl. “You see?” said Gabriel, and everyone laughed.

  It was a long journey, and several times Charlie fell asleep. He would wake briefly when Runner Bean licked his face or changed position. But the last time Charlie woke up, the car had jerked violently to a halt. They had reached a fork in the road and, looking through the
window, Charlie saw a signpost. There were two names at the top. The left sign read SPARKLESTONES and the right read YORWYNDE.

  “Yorwynde?” said Charlie sleepily. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that the road leads to Yewbeam Castle,” said Uncle Paton solemnly.

  Charlie felt a cold tingle of fear run down his spine. What had Yorath said to his uncle? “If you harm my dear one, you’ll pay for it with your life.” And Paton had harmed Yolanda. So what would Yorath do? Better not think about it yet, Charlie decided.

  Miss Ingledew put a hand on Paton’s rigid fingers, and he turned to her with a smile. “That’s one road we won’t be taking,” he said.

  The car lurched forward and followed the sign to Sparklestones. The road became steep and twisting, but they hadn’t gone far when Ollie cried, “Look! We’re home!”

  And there it was, standing on a sharp rise just ahead of them: Sparkling Castle. And it was sparkling. In every window of the strange, rambling, turreted house, there was a row of flashing, sparkling lights.

  A lost boy was coming home and a father had recovered his sparkle.

  I was born in Windsor, Berkshire, England, and educated at boarding schools in Kent and Surrey from the age of six until I was sixteen, when I ran away from school to become a drama student/assistant stage manager with Theater South East. I graduated and acted in repertory theater in various towns and cities: Eastbounre, Tunbridge Wells, Brighton, Hastings, and Bexhill.

  I left Britain to teach English to three Italian boys in Amalfi, Italy. On my return, I joined the BBC, first as a picture researcher, then assistant floor manager, studio manager (news), and finally director/adaptor with Jackanory (a BBC storytelling program for children). I left the BBC to marry Welsh artist David Wynn Millward and went to live in Wales in my husband’s family home. We live in a very old converted watermill, and the river is constantly threatening to break in, which it has done several times in the past, most dramatically on my youngest child’s first birthday. During the summer, we run a residential school of art, and I have to move my office, put down tools (typewriter and pencils), and don an apron and cook! We have three grown-up children, Myfanwy, Ianto, and Gwenhwyfar.

  Praise for Midnight for Charlie Bone

  “This fantasy has its own charms, chief among them being the endoweds’ often odd magical abilities.”

  —School Library Journal

  “A mysterious box, a missing girl, a strange man who flits in and out in the company of three brightly colored cats, and various villains all figure into Charlie’s exciting, fast-paced adventure tale, which happily is the first book in a planned quintet called Children of the Red King.”

  —Booklist

  Praise for Charlie Bone and the Time Twister

  “Nimmo has a light hand with traditional fantasy elements, and her fresh approach juxtaposes humor and mystery with well-rounded characters with whom readers can empathize. Characterizations are lively and memorable, with a tidy balance among ages and genders. The suspense is compelling, moving readers easily from scene to scene….”

  —Bulletin of the Center for Children’s Books

  ALSO BY JENNY NIMMO

  BOOKS IN

  THE CHILDREN OF THE RED KING SERIES

  Midnight for Charlie Bone

  Charlie Bone and the Time Twister

  Charlie Bone and the Invisible Boy

  Charlie Bone and the Castle of Mirrors

  Charlie Bone and the Hidden King

  Charlie Bone and the Beast

  Charlie Bone and the Shadow

  Charlie Bone and the Red Knight

  THE MAGICIAN TRILOGY

  The Snow Spider

  Emlyn’s Moon

  The Chestnut Soldier

  Griffin’s Castle

  Text copyright © 2004 by Jenny Nimmo

  First published in 2004 in Great Britain by Egmont Books Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published by Orchard Books, an imprint of Scholastic Inc. ORCHARD BOOKS and design are registered trademarks of Watts Publishing Group, Ltd., used under license. SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  First Scholastic edition, July 2004

  Cover illustration © 2004 by Chris Sheeban

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-52092-8

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.