by Ryan Graudin
“Oh!” Jake’s eyes went bright—matching the sea around them. “You mean . . . that zombie walk you were doing? You were using your powers to find Christopher?”
“Sí.”
“That’s so cool!” Her cousin was so excited that bubbles popped out with his shout. His worries about Christopher seemed forgotten.
Oz jumped at the shimmery air pockets, giving a cheer of his own.
This hadn’t been the reaction Marisol was expecting. “You believe me?”
“Mari,” he said, waving both his arms around like windmills to gesture to their surroundings, leaving ripples in their wake. “Look where we are. I’d believe anything right now. But if you can do it back in our world, that’s amazing.”
“You think so?”
“Um, yeah? But why did you keep it a secret? I’d tell everyone if I had a superpower!” Jake said. “Can you do anything else?”
“I can breathe underwater!” Marisol grinned. “But seriously, Jake, you aren’t mad that I got us stuck here?”
“Oh. . . .” His face fell. “That’s not your fault. We’re lost because of me.”
She frowned too. This didn’t make sense. Jake didn’t find Nana’s map or dig up the -marked key, and without either of those items they would still be at the beach house.
“I lose things,” he went on. “Every time Mom and I move I have to let go of friends and homes and schools.” He got quieter and quieter as he spoke, bowing his head. “And it hurts, so I guess I try to forget them all. You say the lostness pulls you. I think it follows me, and this time it finally caught up. Like . . . like I belong here, or something.”
Was Jake crying too? If there were any tears, the ocean covered them.
“No, Jake! You belong with your family!” Marisol took hold of his hand. “And as long as I’m around, there will always be someone to find you. Lo prometo.”
He looked down at their entwined fingers. “I guess we do make a good team, huh? Can you show me your superpower again?”
Marisol took a deep breath and held her free hand toward the signpost. It was easier to concentrate with that confession off her chest, even though she knew she was still to blame for this entire adventure. The Unknown had reached out for her, because she’d been reaching out for it. Wasn’t that how all of the Curators had ended up in the World Between Blinks? Collecting and collecting, using their own magnet fingers one time too many?
We all had such good collections because we had a knack for finding things nobody else could, Min-jun had said. That’s why we belong here.
Marisol’s heart squeezed like a fist as the buzz beneath her fingernails grew and grew.
She didn’t belong here.
And neither did Jake.
Her primo watched with glittering eyes. Amazing. He’d described her power with so much feeling in his voice, like the word was all lit up with flashing marquee bulbs. Maybe he was right. Her magnet fingers had helped chase down Christopher once already, and even if they were to blame for drawing the cousins here, Marisol didn’t think there was any harm in using her powers to find their way home again.
Slowly but surely, her hand swung in the same direction as two of the arrows: Kitezh and Wanaku.
“Onward!” Marisol tugged Jake toward the proper archway.
Oz bounced after them—half jumping, half doggie-paddling, chasing every fish in sight.
The tunnel did not open straight into the city streets, but wound through a zigzag of lanyards that made Marisol think of an airport. A long line snaked between these ropes. People filed past countertops where their bags were picked apart by Curators. The giant sign above them read:
NO UNAUTHORIZED SPECIMENS/ARTIFACTS PAST THIS POINT
Marisol hoped Oz didn’t qualify. Or Amelia’s jacket, for that matter.
“Welcome-to-the-great-sunken-city-of-Wanaku-lost-beneath-Lake-Titicaca-do-you-have-anything-to-declare—” The Curator paused when he realized his new subjects were shorter than the countertop. He leaned forward and started again. “Welcome-to-the-great-sunken-city-of— Oh, hello, Oz!”
“Ah-ah-ah!” The Tasmanian tiger really did know everyone.
“Found some foundlings, did you?” The Curator eyed the children and their necklaces in turn. “Do you two have anything to declare?”
“I’m not sure,” Marisol admitted.
This was not a satisfactory answer. The Curator sniffed. “Well, we can’t risk things being put where they shouldn’t. If so, what would the World come to? Chaos! Clamor! Catastrophe! Pockets out, please!”
Marisol was beginning to get the impression that the Curators spent a lot of time trying to put things where they belonged, and that the residents of the World Between Blinks just filled out the paperwork and then moved things wherever they pleased. But both cousins started turning out their pockets as the Curator watched cautiously.
Items began piling on the table: a big chunk of lint, a Fini Gelatinas wrapper with gummies still stuck in the bottom, Jake’s leftover staters, all of the trinkets she’d rescued from Nana’s house, the walkie-talkie, a couple of dog-eared football cards, a tiny green bottle with a crown-shaped stopper from Marisol’s—or really Amelia’s—jacket, and two monocles from Jake’s pocket that Marisol definitely didn’t remember buying.
“These belong on your necklaces.” The Curator slid the last items back across the counter and proceeded to uncork the glass bottle. He gave its contents a sniff. “What’s inside—OOH!”
“Those are smelling salts. Amelia uses them to keep herself awake during long flights,” Marisol explained quickly.
Jake’s reply was low, so only Marisol could hear. “I hope she doesn’t need them anytime soon.”
“And then we have— Oh, hello there!” The Curator waggled his brows and picked up the football cards and turned them over. There was something reverent about the way he smoothed out one dog-eared corner. His eyes went hazy, and Marisol knew he wasn’t looking at these cards at all, but was seeing some old memory from long ago. “I used to collect these, once upon a time,” he murmured. “The thing about collector cards that you need to know is—”
“I’m so sorry,” said Jake, in his politest tone. “We’re in a really big hurry.”
“Oh yes!” The Curator shook himself like a dog coming out of water, and seemed to focus on them again. “Everything looks to be in order.” He shoved their possessions back to them—lint ball included. “Thank-you-for-interacting-today-with-members-of-our-Curator-staff. We-appreciate-your-time. Please-rate-your-customer-satisfaction-on-a-scale-of-one-to-ten.”
“Nine point nine!” Jake said.
The Curator waved them off, muttering. “You’re losing your edge, Horace. Next in line!”
“What I want to know is, how did Christopher get through that line with the ledger?” Jake restuffed his pockets as they walked past a sign that said:
EXPORTS ALLOWED BY LICENSE ONLY: SEA TREASURES BELONG IN THE SEA
“Maybe he posed as a Curator again.” Though—after having met several actual Curators—Marisol realized he wasn’t very good at it. Christopher was much too chaotic. He couldn’t fool a real official, even if he did find a monocle. Which reminded her! “Where did you get those vision charms?”
Jake handed one to her. “Min-jun slipped them to me—you know, that nice Curator who gave us the coins? I’d forgotten all about them until now.”
It took Marisol a few tries to string on her new charm, because there was so much else to see when the tunnel opened up to Wanaku. The Curator had said the city was lost beneath Lake Titicaca, but she might’ve guessed, even if he hadn’t. The colors felt like home. They splashed everywhere—blue, green, red, orange, yellow. Bright, bright walls lined the cobbled streets, setting off even brighter fabrics. Passersby wore wool tunics with flowers woven in slanted lines and tasseled hats sewn into a box shape.
There were llamas all over the city too: carved into walls and hammered into thin gold leaf. Living versions strolled past, a few
spitting at Oz. Or . . . it would’ve been spit on land. The action was less rude underwater.
Marisol felt a swell of pride, seeing her homeland’s history brought to life. Everything was so beautiful! So brilliant! She wished her dad—who loved visiting ancient ruins—could be here to enjoy it.
“I don’t see Christopher anywhere.” Jake paddled above the crowd for a few seconds before landing back on the ocean floor. “What do your magnet fingers say?”
“Um . . .” Marisol held out her hand. It sparkled—clear and true. “¡Por aquí!”
She pointed past the adobe buildings, where the seabed sloped into terraced crops. Christopher must’ve followed this path to Kitezh. The road kept going, and Marisol’s fingers kept pulling to where the next city’s silhouettes rose through the currents.
“Those buildings look like onions, don’t you think?”
When Jake didn’t answer, Marisol turned to find her cousin standing at the edge of a field. His hair floated alongside the crops, the same flaxen color. He was staring out at nothing with a worried expression. Oz sat next to him, whimpering.
“Jake?”
“Look, Mari!” He pointed across the terrace at a sign:
END OF RESIDENTIAL ZONE, SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK
Shadows shaped like beasts drifted in the water beyond, dragging long, long tentacles over a wild tangle of coral.
Marisol shivered. She was glad she couldn’t see them too clearly. “Good thing the Curators don’t let any monsters near here.”
“What? No! Don’t you see that crack? I think Christopher sent something else back. . . .” Jake frowned, blinking so many times she thought his eyelashes might fall off. “But I can’t get a good view!”
“Why don’t you just use your monocle? Isn’t that how the Curators spotted that the Loch Ness Monster was missing?” she reasoned.
“That would make sense.” Jake held the vision charm over his right eye.
Marisol did the same. There was a lot to see through the glass. Sections of the Great Barrier Reef circa 2016 colored the seabed past the residential border, and there were far more statistics about the Kronosaurus and the Tusoteuthis squid than she cared to read. Largest of the pliosaurs with three-inch-long teeth? Eleven-meter-long tentacles? No gracias.
Thankfully, these entries were interrupted by the tear.
Marisol hadn’t noticed this split between blinks—ocean overlapped ocean, endlessly blue—but now it looked like a crack in her lens. A lightning strike underwater. Inside of that?
“Is that another submarine?” She squinted as the vessel pulled away, farther into their world. . . .
“The USS Seawolf.” Jake was reading the same text as she was. “October 4th, 1944. It must have been lost during World War II.”
“But why would Christopher send back a submarine? Or a house? Or Nessie?”
Her cousin shrugged. “Why do evil villains do anything?”
“He has to have a reason. . . .”
The USS Seawolf faded, but the crack didn’t, even when Marisol put down her monocle and picked it up again. She blinked through the glass. Her stomach fluttered. What else would Christopher try to displace? How many rips could the Unknown handle before it unraveled?
“Then we should go to Kitezh and ask him,” Jake said, determined. “If he’s still there, of course.”
Marisol turned toward the city. Kitezh, Russian city lost beneath Lake Svetloyar in the thirteenth century. Quasi-mythical. The monocle entry went on, in dictionary-esque detail, but she dropped it to concentrate on her magnet fingers instead.
They glowed, pointing toward equally bright rooftops. “He’s there,” she confirmed.
The closer the cousins and Oz drew to the city, the more solid it became, but Marisol couldn’t help but think that Kitezh felt . . . ghostly. Maybe it was the church bells chiming with the currents, or the candlelit processions of women wearing nun habits. Fabric buoyed around their shoulders, and a few of the faithful were floating altogether, rising up past white walls and golden roofs that now looked less like onions and more like Christmas ornaments.
Jake pointed to the nearest building. “That reminds me of Saint Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow!”
“It’s so shiiiiny.” Marisol took in the sight with gleaming eyes. There was enough treasure here to buy all of Folly Beach. Heck, the Berunas could even use gold on the beach house’s new roof if they wanted!
Too bad she didn’t have bigger pockets. Or an export license. The Curators would probably catch her even if she tried to take something small, and she didn’t want to give them yet another reason to be upset.
“Christopher probably came here because it’s the perfect camouflage,” Jake said. “White suit, gold hair! He’ll blend right in with these churches!”
Her cousin wasn’t wrong—white churches washed together with white sailors’ uniforms and white tunics. It was kind of like playing a game of Where’s Waldo? Of course, Marisol always won those. She couldn’t help frowning, though, when she glanced back at the gilded domes.
She wanted treasure to fix Nana’s house so badly. Too badly. Was it possible her magnet fingers sensed that?
Had Marisol been searching for the wrong thing?
A frown started creeping onto Jake’s face too. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Nada.” Her fingers felt as fiery as the passing candles, blazing a trail down the street. The only way to know whether or not they led to Christopher was to keep going. “This way!”
The road ended in a square, where vendors hawked their wares—Socks for sale! Never together!—beneath the city’s biggest towers. Dozens upon dozens of people gathered to listen to the music of bells and women, as their melodies twined together. Some in the audience were even dancing.
Glistening trails of bubbles occasionally drifted up toward the surface like rows of pearls, and there was a special grace to the dancers’ movements, a swish and a flow that reminded Marisol they were underwater, their bubbler charms allowing them to walk and talk and breathe and dance. She’d grown used to the magic so quickly!
She let her gaze drift over the dancers, floating from one pair to the next.
Then she saw Christopher Creaturo.
Marisol’s breath caught between her teeth. Surprise. Then relief. Christopher’s eyes were closed, and he had his arms around a woman in a smart khaki skirt. There was a smile on her poppy-painted lips as they swayed.
“Jake!”
Her primo’s gaze swung around to follow hers, and he grinned, his voice soft but excited. “Your superpowers worked! You found him!”
Marisol smiled back, wondering why she’d ever doubted herself.
“Who is he dancing with?” Even though the bells clanged loudly, she whispered. It felt like a quiet moment.
“No clue,” Jake answered. “Where’s the ledger?”
A quick scan found the book sitting on a nearby bench, set aside where anyone could grab it. Including them. As long as Christopher wasn’t looking, he wouldn’t notice they were stealing the ledger back!
Marisol held a finger to her mouth and motioned at the bench.
Jake’s eyebrows shot up. He nodded.
Oz’s tail quivered.
They tiptoed along the edge of the square, pausing every time the dancing couple twirled. Christopher kept his eyes shut. He was almost smiling too, Marisol realized, except his face seemed sadder than the woman’s.
Her face, though . . .
It tickled the back of Marisol’s brain. The closer she crept to the lady, the more familiar she seemed. Was she someone they’d learned about in history class maybe?
“Hello!” The dancing woman paused and waved.
Directly at Marisol.
Uh-oh. She’d stared too long, and now Christopher Creaturo was turning his head to see who his dancing partner was talking to.
“Jake! Get the ledger!” she screamed, because her primo was closer.
Jake broke into a run, but it didn’t
matter. Christopher’s legs were longer. He lunged for the bench, snatching up the ledger just before Oz’s teeth reached it. The fake Curator clutched the book to his chest. For a moment, it looked as if he wanted to say something.
Instead, he turned on his heels and disappeared into the crowd.
10
Jake
THE CHASE WAS ON!
“After him!” Marisol shouted, and Jake didn’t need telling twice.
The two of them plunged through the many dancers, Jake’s “excuse me’s” mixing with Marisol’s “perdóns” as they ducked and dodged and doggie-paddled their way after Christopher’s disappearing form.
But the crowd was unpredictable, swirling like the eddies and currents of the water itself, tugging the children in every direction. Including up. Jake tried taking long, loping steps, pushing off the ground and letting the water buoy him along as Christopher vanished through an archway of mixed-up stones.
A sign hung over the structure, its letters burned into wood by an uneven hand. Port Royal, it said. A crudely drawn skull and crossbones leered beside the script. Jake was pretty sure this was a bad sign—no pun intended—but losing the ledger would be even worse, so the cousins plunged through. Into a new, murky city.
Cobblestone streets clattered past white-plastered houses with terra-cotta roofs. The crowd here was just as thick as it had been in Kitezh, but it couldn’t have been more different. Flowing white robes were replaced with tattered shirts and tilted hats. Jake dashed past eye patches, peg legs, knotted hair, and rough faces.
The skeleton on Port Royal’s sign was starting to make sense.
They’d run into a town full of pirates!
Jake might have been excited, if the crowd wasn’t so smelly and loud. Every third or fourth doorway seemed to be a tavern, raucous music spilling out, shouts and screams issuing from the windows. Amelia’s warning echoed through his head as he listened: Not everyone in the World is trustworthy. . . . You need to take more care around its people than its dinosaurs.
