He focused on an odd abstract sculpture at the end of the hall and forced himself to speak. “I came for the map,” he said. “You promised.” The campus map and bus schedule felt damp in his hands.
He couldn’t help but notice out of the corner of his eye that the woman seemed to be wearing a lot of black, save for a single crimson scarf tied around her neck. The men were dressed similarly, but sported long black trench coats in place of the red scarf.
He had the vague impression of Dr. Ford clenching his teeth in a smile. “Right. Of course. I didn’t promise you the map. I promised you that you could trace it, but I think it would be best to just make you a copy. I’m afraid I don’t have time to make you a copy right now though. I’m in the middle of a very important meeting. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“I rode the bus,” Mark said.
The fuzzy tips of Dr. Ford’s hair rose in tandem with his eyebrows.
“I rode the bus to get here,” Mark repeated. “I’m not allowed to take public transit. I need the map.”
“Right, yes of course. I understand, but you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
Dr. Ford went to push past Mark, but Mark extended his hand and grasped Dr. Ford by the shirt.
*****
“Mark isn’t here,” Abbey said. “Si, what if he got lost on the way to the college?”
It seemed strange to be talking like this to Simon while Mantis, “call me Sylvain,” occupied their living room couch, typing something on his phone, his long limbs folded at exaggerated angles and his fine-cut suit jacket draped over the back of the chair. He had chittered amiably about talking computers with Simon on the way home, but when they had arrived back at the house and discovered Mark missing, Mantis had become distracted by his email.
“Maybe he’ll be home soon,” Simon said, watching out the window down the road that led to the bus stop. Ocean and Farley nosed in and around all of them, mewling and wagging to emphasize their lengthy abandonment.
“Are you certain he went to the college?” Mantis asked, looking up from his phone, a pair of black reading glasses perched on his nose.
“Yes. Well, pretty sure. He said he wanted to talk to Dr. Ford about something...” Abbey trailed off. She didn’t think it was a good idea to mention the map, since Mantis also owned a copy of the same map.
“Are you sure he didn’t go to the stones?”
“I don’t know,” Abbey said. “But I don’t think he’d go alone.”
“Only one way to know for sure.”
“What’s that?”
“We go check the stones, of course,” Mantis said.
“We’re not allowed,” Abbey said. But somehow even the suggestion of a sanctioned trip to the stones, even if it was a non-trusted adult doing the sanctioning, made her heart perform a small leap. Maybe she was already addicted.
Mantis tucked his phone into the front pocket of his suit jacket, rose, and donned the jacket. “We need to know whether Mark is in the area. If he’s not, and he’s been gone for a while, the stones won’t work. We’ll know right away. Then we can go looking for him.”
Caleb had come to stand behind Abbey.
“We should call our parents,” Abbey said.
“I assure you, young lady, that isn’t necessary. I’m a responsible adult.” Sylvain’s face shone with sincerity, but Abbey experienced a deep squeeze of distrust. His eyes contained a gleam of excitement, as if the mere prospect of approaching the stones filled him with energy.
“We should go check,” Caleb said.
Abbey whirled. There was something about his tone—some strange new flatness—that suggested he, too, was feeling the pull of the stones and was trying to suppress it.
Perhaps they all were.
4. Finding the Center
The woman had disarmed and flattened Mark against the wall with ease, her breasts pressed perilously into his chest while she held his arm in a painful twist behind his back. Tears came to Mark’s eyes. Dr. Ford’s mouth had fallen open when Mark grabbed his shirt, and remained open now as the woman pulled Mark’s arm farther up his back.
Mark let out a moan and his face crumpled. All of this—the harrowing bus ride, the long wait in the brightly lit hall, the lack of food, and now being pinned by a woman half his size—was too much.
His tears seemed to snap Dr. Ford together.
“Into my office,” he said. “And let him go, Selena.”
The woman slitted her eyes at Dr. Ford, but nonetheless loosened her hold on Mark. His knees buckled under him, and he started to sink to the floor to form a ball, when the two men appeared on either side of him, hauled him to his feet, and dragged him into the office.
After Mark was settled in the chair in front of Dr. Ford’s desk with some arrowroot cookies and a glass of water, Dr. Ford perched on his desk with his hands pressed against his knees. (Being able to see the map again was what calmed Mark more than the cookies, but he was hungry, so he decided not to mention that). The woman and the two men huddled in a corner muttering to themselves in hushed voices. The woman had a star tattooed on the inside of her wrist.
“Now, Mark,” Dr. Ford said with exaggerated enunciation. “This is a place of important business. I appreciate that you were upset that I couldn’t help you with the map immediately, and that you have certain difficulties,” Dr. Ford said the last word delicately. “But that doesn’t mean it is appropriate to make a scene and physically attack someone. Do you understand?”
Mark nodded, straining his eyes to see the map on the wall behind Dr. Ford’s desk. He needed to make out whether the faint five-meter contour line was on Dr. Ford’s map too, or just on the one that belonged to Mantis. Dr. Ford had moved on to talking about consequences and adult behavior. Mark leaned to the right in his chair to try to see the portion of the map being blocked by Dr. Ford’s body.
*****
Abbey had to admit that despite his age, Mantis—or Sylvain, as she was now trying to call him, in keeping with his apparent new status as someone who was permitted to look after them, unless of course he had murdered their parents, stashed their bodies in his trunk, and sent the text himself from her dad’s phone—could move pretty fast. Thinking of him as Sylvain was far less creepy than thinking of him as Mantis. But she supposed that was how many predators captured their prey, by styling themselves as someone to be trusted, someone upon whom one’s parents depended, someone who was not extremely dangerous. And yet somehow it was working, for here they were, traipsing up to the forbidden stones with a man who could intend them a world of harm, and she found herself almost inexplicably sort of liking him. What was this? Some sort of warped Stockholm Syndrome?
Farley, who had been cooped up in the house all day, lunged on the leash from one side of her to the other at birds, squirrels, and anything that had a vaguely interesting scent, which was pretty much everything as far as Farley was concerned. She chastised him and dragged him along as best she could. They couldn’t afford a repeat of the last time Farley had crossed the stones first.
Caleb arrived at the rosebush before anyone else, and Abbey saw him stop abruptly and stiffen. One by one they reached Caleb, each of them halting as well as they saw what he was staring at. The giant rosebush that covered the stones almost entirely, and surrounded the Madrona tree, had been cut away; a path had been formed through the briar leading to the center of the rosebush, exposing the papery red bark of the tree. The path stones still jutted out from underneath the rosebush, mostly hidden. Whoever had done it didn’t seem to have been after the stones.
“Why?” Abbey murmured. “Why would someone do that? They didn’t even expose the stones.”
“Very good question, young lady,” said Sylvain, walking the circumference of the tree. “Very good question.”
Caleb tentatively placed a single foot on the dirt path lined with twining rose branches.
“Cale, don’t,” Abbey said. “The stones.”
Caleb looked back at her. “They aren’t activated. Can’t you tell? Mark must be at the college.”
Or in the trunk of the Jag with Mom and Dad, Abbey thought, her temper flaring. Was she the only one who hadn’t known that the stones weren’t working? But then she realized that she did know. The weird energy that she usually felt near the stones—the energy that made her feel jittery, and yet unusually alive—was absent.
Caleb made his way the rest of the way down the path and placed his hand on the soft trunk of the Madrona.
Sylvain arrived back at his original spot. His lips had been taut when he’d rounded the corner of the bush, but now he donned a bright smile. “Well, nothing more to see here. We had best take a drive down to the college and see if we can find Mark.”
To Abbey’s surprise, Caleb and Simon started making their way back down the hill, but Abbey paused for a second and gave Sylvain a good long stare. He met her eyes, and for a second, a bleak look crossed his face; but then he replaced it with his usual chipper expression.
She caught up with him as he descended the hill.
“You know what they were looking for.”
“Not in the slightest.”
“You’re lying.”
Sylvain’s sharp cheekbones looked shadowed in the deepening dusk of the forest canopy. “Maybe. But there are some things you don’t need to be involved in.”
Farley lunged at a squirrel that skittered across the path and up a tree, and Abbey’s body lurched in the same direction, pulling her away from Sylvain. She yanked Farley’s leash back and glanced over her shoulder. Sylvain’s face was impassive, and the gleam of superiority and amusement that usually marked his eyes had vanished, replaced by a faraway look of grim worry.
She could have sworn that he had said yet under his breath.
*****
The women and the two men had now moved in front of the map and were pointing at the area on Coventry Hill where the stones were. They were speaking in low voices among themselves while Dr. Ford continued to talk to Mark in pacifying tones. Mark was quite certain he heard the woman say the words “wormhole” and “Quentin,” and then he realized that Dr. Ford was no longer speaking and was staring at him with scrunched-up eyebrows.
“Do you think that is an appropriate plan, Mark?” The inflection in Dr. Ford’s tone had slipped from placating to impatient.
Mark started to nod, but realized he had no idea what Dr. Ford was talking about. He searched for some acceptable reply.
Dr. Ford leaned closer until his face was only about a foot from Mark’s—which very nearly caused Mark to throw his hands over his face and duck—and said with extreme exaggeration, as if Mark were deaf, “I said, do you think that is an appropriate plan to call Marian, Ms. Beckham, to come and pick you up?”
Relief at the prospect of not having to take the bus again flooded through Mark, even though Dr. Ford’s face remained far too close to his. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that he could call someone for help.
Mark nodded carefully. He wanted Dr. Ford to call Ms. Beckham (it was helpful when other people called her Ms. Beckham, as it helped him to remember). “I need the map,” he repeated.
Dr. Ford smiled again and glanced over his shoulder at his visitors. “I understand that. But I’m in the midst of a very important meeting, and I don’t have time to go and photocopy the map section by section. Come back tomorrow, and I’m sure we can work something out.”
The prospect of riding the bus, of waiting in the hall, of dealing with this intolerably uncomfortable situation again, was too much, and Mark started shaking his head, first fractionally and then in an agitated manner. He needed the map now.
Dr. Ford’s eyeballs went all bulgy and a deep crease formed between his eyes. “I’m just going to call Ms. Beckham now,” he said loudly, rising from the edge of his desk.
Mark continued to shake his head.
The woman detached herself from the group and approached Dr. Ford. She scrunched her eyebrows and lips all together when she looked at Mark. “What’s wrong with him? Is he slow?” she said in a low voice.
“No, it’s fine. He’s fine,” Dr. Ford said. “I’m handling it. Mark is going to go home.”
“Well, handle it, or we will,” she said. The harshness in her voice almost made Mark pause, but he couldn’t stop shaking his head.
Dr. Ford glanced back at Mark, then at the map, and then he strode over to one of his filing cabinets. He unlocked it with a key from around his neck, withdrew a green file folder, closed the drawer, and returned to Mark.
“Why don’t you take this for now? These are copies of older maps of Coventry Hill. They’re all I have right now. Take them and go home. I need to get to my guests.” Dr. Ford gave Mark a weird look and jutted his head in the direction of the woman and two men, as if Mark should understand what he was saying.
The solidity of the file in Mark’s hands jolted him out of his spiral. He opened the folder. It contained three old maps of the Coventry Hill area. Maps that reflected pre-modern cartography techniques. Maps like none he had ever possessed before. He drew the folder closed and looked around the room to where everyone watched him with various degrees of what he assumed was repulsion and impatience. He rose from his seat carefully, collected his satchel, and then tried not to run for the door.
Out in the hall, Mark turned down the corridor and bolted as fast as he could go.
*****
Ian stood by the curb at Mrs. Forrester’s, cradling a cigarette, smoke rising in a twist around his head. He had changed out of the shiny paisley shirt he had worn the previous night in favor of a fitted red button-up shirt with small flowers. He glanced their way when they emerged from the Coventry hill path, dropped the cigarette, and crushed it under his foot, and met them at the edge of the Sinclair driveway.
“Ian,” said Sylvain with a tight smile.
Ian lifted a single eyebrow. “Sylvain. Interesting to see you here. Influencing young minds?” Abbey couldn’t be sure, but she thought Ian put a strange inflection on the word young.
“Not particularly. Are you responsible for the pruning job that we just discovered?”
“Not us. Have you changed your mind?”
“’Fraid not.”
“Francis still thinks it’s possible, with your help,” Ian said. Abbey looked at Ian. Was he talking about Mrs. Forrester, or one of the two tattooed guys?
“I’ve been around a lot longer than you.”
“Only in a manner of speaking.”
“In all the important manners of speaking. I’m afraid we can’t chat. We’re off someplace important.”
They found Mark huddled alone in the campus bus shelter, his head bowed. Nothing Simon or Caleb could say would convince him to get in the car with “the bad man,” and in the end Sylvain agreed, somewhat huffily, to follow Simon and Mark on the bus.
Caleb hopped in the front of the car, and Sylvain accelerated the vehicle away from the curb with rather more power than was necessary, considering that he was following a bus.
“Are any of you adults ever going to tell us what’s going on?” Caleb said as the Jag idled behind the large square rear of the bus at its first stop.
“Let’s just say that the release of the witches from Nowhere has resulted in some rather unanticipated complications.”
“I guess you should have thought of that before you went and meddled in everything,” Abbey said, somewhat more tartly then she intended.
But Sylvain seemed lost in thought and it took him several minutes to answer. “Yes, pulling one string often results in the unraveling of rather more strings than one would hope.”
Abbey, Caleb, and Simon gathered in Simon’s room after escorting a very relieved Mark to his own bedroom with a pastrami sandwich. Sylvain had returned to his post on the couch with his phone and laptop. Their parents would be home within the hour.
“Can you do this?” Abbey thrust
the card at Simon.
Simon recoiled slightly but took the card. He read the text and then cocked his head at it.
“Caleb can read the hidden words,” Abbey said with a tinge of impatience. “I can’t.”
Simon flipped and rotated the card much in the same way Abbey had, trying to figure out where the words were.
“Just concentrate,” Caleb said. “Close your eyes and make your mind go blank. Find your center like the card says, and then just open your eyes.”
Simon squinted his eyes at Caleb and then turned his back on them, still holding the card.
“We also need to talk about the rosebush,” Abbey said.
She heard Simon blow air out of his nose in a puff. “Shush, Ab. I’m trying to focus.”
Abbey drew her lips into a pout, but she nonetheless retreated into silence. Simon seemed to take a long time, and she couldn’t see whether he had his eyes open or closed. Suddenly he lifted the card closer to his face. “I can see it,” he said with an edge of jubilant wonder in his voice. “But not words, just lines—parts of letters underneath the message and in the top right corner. I can’t read them though. They won’t come clear to me.”
“In the top right corner?” Caleb said. “Give that to me.” He grabbed the card out of Simon’s hand and stared at it. Then he shook his head, closed his eyes for a few minutes, and reopened them. A scowl crept over his face. He closed his eyes again, for longer this time. Abbey scarcely dared to breathe. Caleb opened his eyes again, more slowly this time, and then nodded.
“It says: The final lesson is at 309.”
“309, what?” Abbey said. “Is it a room, an address, what?”
Caleb looked all over the card, flipped it over and back again, and then finally shrugged. “It doesn’t say.”
A Quill Ladder Page 6
