Peter, Wendy, and Ted nodded.
“Shall I light the fuse?” said Neville.
“Yes,” said Wendy.
“Gather in the far corner, then,” said Neville. “I’ll join you in a moment.”
They huddled in the corner near the door. Peter tucked Tink into his coat. Neville struck a match and touched it to the fuse. A shower of sparks erupted. Neville rose and, carrying his empty satchel, puffed across the room, dodging the big tables. As he reached the others, he shouted, “Turn around and cover your ears!” They did, and waited.
And waited.
And …
BOOM!
The concussion knocked them over as the room roared with deafening noise, then filled with smoke. Peter was the first back on his feet. He stumbled through the acrid-smelling haze to the metal cabinet. As Neville had promised, the door had been blown off its hinges; it lay bent on the floor a good ten feet from the cabinet. The rest of the cabinet was also blackened and badly damaged. But inside it, looking unharmed, was a lump of metal. It was roughly the shape of a potato but about twice the size, with an uneven silvery surface that seemed to shimmer in the smoke.
Peter reached in and picked it up. It seemed unusually heavy. Peter’s fingers tingled where they touched it.
“Is this it?” he asked the others, who had come up behind him.
“That’s the Mansfield Stone,” said Patrick.
Tink, emerging from Peter’s coat, chimed urgently.
“Somebody’s coming up the stairs,” said Peter. He grabbed the satchel from Neville and dropped the stone into it. “Who’s going to carry this?” he said.
“You should,” said Wendy. “If the rest of us get caught, you can fly away.”
“I’m not going to leave anybody,” said Peter.
“Yes you are,” said Wendy firmly. “If we don’t keep the stone from von Schatten, all of this will have been for nothing.”
Tink chimed again.
“We have to go,” said Peter. Holding the satchel, he ran for the door, with the others right behind. When they reached the hallway, it was still empty, but they could hear loud footsteps coming from the hallway to the right, the same one they had used to come up to the third floor.
“This way,” said Peter, running to the left, with Tink zooming ahead.
As he reached the far stairway, Peter looked back. Three figures had reached the top of the other stairs. In the dim lighting, Peter couldn’t see them clearly, but somehow he knew they weren’t museum guards. Whoever they were, they had spotted Peter and the others and were running toward them.
“Hurry!” Peter shouted, starting down the stairs. He glanced back. Wendy and Patrick were right behind, followed by Ted, followed by Neville, who was moving more slowly on the stairs. Peter turned back to help, joined by Ted; each took one of Neville’s arms so he could move a little faster. But the three pursuers were gaining. Peter heard footsteps thundering close behind as he and the others reached the ground floor. Two corridors met here; Patrick pointed at one and said, “This way!”
The other four followed him as he ran down the corridor. He jogged right, then left; Peter realized he was leading them along the rear of the building, back toward the door through which they had entered. Peter stayed at the rear, the heavy satchel banging against his legs.
They rounded a corner, and Patrick, still in the lead, stumbled over something. Peter heard gasps, then saw what had tripped Patrick: a museum guard. He lay on the floor, hands and feet bound, eyes wide with fear. He was trying to say something, but all that came out was “He…he …”
Wendy knelt to untie the guard. The sound of running feet grew louder.
“Wendy,” said Patrick urgently, “we don’t have time.”
Reluctantly, Wendy rose. Patrick started running again, followed by the others, with Peter the last to leave the terrified guard. The man looked in the direction Peter’s group was going, then met Peter’s eyes, shook his head, and said, “No. No.” Peter hesitated.
“Peter, come on!” called Wendy.
Peter turned and ran, haunted by the look in the guard’s eyes.
They continued to follow Patrick through the maze of hallways, turning left, then right, then left again. The last turn brought them into a long corridor. Peter’s hopes rose as he recognized this as the corridor they’d been in when they first entered the museum. At the far end was the exit door—and escape.
Led by Patrick, they started running toward it.
Tink, flying just above Peter, emitted a sharp chime.
Suddenly, Patrick stopped.
Peter froze as he saw the reason. A dark figure had just stepped out of a shadow at the far end of the corridor. It was a man wearing a cloak with a hood that shrouded his face. But Peter had seen that awful face, and felt the excruciating pain that the man could inflict with the merest touch of his clawlike hands. Remembering that agony, he felt his legs weaken, his stomach roil.
The hooded man started walking toward the group. Behind them, they heard the sound of their pursuers, getting closer in the maze of corridors.
“What do we do?” said Ted.
“There’s only the one in front of us,” said Patrick. “We can rush him. He can’t stop us all.”
Yes he can, thought Peter. But he kept silent, ashamed to show his fear.
“The important thing is the stone,” said Wendy. “Peter, you must escape. Fly if you can. Leave us behind if you have to. Just don’t let him get the stone.”
Peter nodded, staring at the oncoming figure.
There were shouts behind them. Peter looked back. The pursuers had entered the long corridor. Peter saw there were two large men and a woman.
“Now!” shouted Patrick. He started running toward the hooded man, followed by the others. Behind them they heard the shouts of the three pursuers. As they neared the hooded figure, Peter caught a glimpse of the face—more skull than face—and the lone yellow eye. Somehow Peter knew the eye was looking straight at him.
They were twenty feet from the hooded man…Ten …
The man’s left claw-hand shot out, reaching for something on the wall.
The corridor went completely dark.
Peter ran into Ted, who had stopped. They both stumbled forward. An urgent chime came from Tink. Peter felt Ted’s body stiffen, then heard Ted scream, his voice impossibly high-pitched. Peter knew why. He turned and crawled the other way in the blackness, still holding the satchel. Footsteps—the three pursuers—clattered toward him, past him, the pursuers missing him in the blackness. He huddled against the wall. Behind him he heard shouts, grunts, yells, the sounds of struggle. He could make out Patrick’s voice, and Neville’s. He debated what to do. He remembered Wendy’s words. Leave us behind if you have to. Just don’t let him get the stone.
He started to crawl back the way he and the others had come, away from the struggle. Slowly, he rose to his feet and shuffled forward, feeling for the wall in the utter blackness. Behind him the shouts continued. He heard Wendy scream. And then an odd sound, a deep rumbling, then a fearsome roar. The sounds of struggle increased, a confusing mix of shouting and banging. Peter listened for a minute, paralyzed, then again started shuffling away from the noise.
STOP!
Tink’s urgent chime was right in his ear. Peter froze.
Close your eyes.
Knowing what was coming, Peter shut his eyes tight. Through his eyelids he saw the brilliant flash. He opened them just as the flash ended, and saw the reason for Tink’s alarm.
The hooded man was in front of him, not three feet away.
His back was to Peter.
Either he had been looking the wrong way, or he had somehow known that the flash was coming. It had not blinded him.
He was turning around.…As the last of Tink’s light faded, Peter saw the gaping hole where a mouth should have been, the empty socket, the lone yellow eye …
The claw-hand reaching out…
Peter screamed, and turne
d. In the blackness, he stumbled away from the hideous thing. He started running blindly. He fell over something; it moaned, and he realized it was a person. He struggled to his feet. Strong hands grabbed him, and he screamed.
“It’s all right, Peter,” said a gruff voice. “It’s me.”
Magill.
The big man held Peter’s arm and half pulled, half carried him down the corridor, then through the door.
“This way,” said Magill, taking off at a run. He led Peter away from the museum through a maze of streets, Peter running behind, his mind too numb to think about anything except putting one foot in front of the other. After ten minutes they ducked into an alley so dark that at first Peter didn’t realize there was anyone else there. As his eyes adjusted, he could just barely make out the silhouettes of five figures—Wendy, Patrick, Neville, Ted, and the huge, hairy figure of Karl, in an overcoat and hat.
“Found him,” said Magill.
“Thank goodness!” said Wendy. “Peter, we were so worried!”
“A very close thing,” said Neville. “If Magill here hadn’t appeared …”
“I thought I’d follow you—just in case, as Lord Aster would say,” said Magill. “But it was Karl here, old as he is, who turned the tide.”
“Indeed!” said Patrick. “Karl is a good man—that is, bear—to have on your side in a fight.”
“But who were those people?” said Ted. “They clearly weren’t museum staff. What were they doing there?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Wendy. “I think they were there for the same reason we were.”
“To get the Mansfield Stone?” said Patrick.
“Precisely,” said Wendy. “They must have been sent by von Schatten.”
“If that’s true,” said Ted, “we got there just in time.”
“Yes,” said Wendy. “It was a near thing, but the stone is ours.”
Peter cleared his throat, and when he spoke, he could barely choke out the words.
“I…I don’t have it,” he said.
“What?” said Wendy.
“The stone,” said Peter. “I dropped it when he…when he …” He looked down, his eyes burning.
The dark alley fell into a silence that, to Peter, seemed to go on forever. It was Ted who finally spoke. “Don’t be hard on yourself, Peter,” he said softly. “I felt just a little of the pain that thing could cause, and I screamed like a baby. Nobody blames you. You’re a brave person; you’ve shown that many times.”
Not tonight, thought Peter. Tonight I was a coward. He looked around at the group. He saw that Wendy was looking at him, but in the darkness he couldn’t see her expression. He looked down again, willing himself not to cry in front of everyone.
There was another uncomfortable silence, and then Patrick, trying his best to sound cheerful but not quite succeeding, said, “I suppose we should make our way back to the hotel. We’ll get some rest, and we’ll come up with a new plan in the morning.”
“Follow me,” said Magill. He started toward the entrance to the alley, the others following.
“Wait a moment,” said Peter. “Where’s Tink?”
“Isn’t she with you?” said Wendy.
“She was,” said Peter, “but she…that is, I thought she must have …”
“Must have what?” said Wendy. “She’s always with you, isn’t she?”
Peter’s mind went back to the terrifying moment when Tink had flashed in the museum. The flash would have left her weak, perhaps unconscious. Of course. He should have grabbed her, should have protected her the way she had protected him. But he had been too terrified to think of saving her, or the stone. He had thought only of himself.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
“Tink’s a strong little lady,” said Ted, patting Peter’s shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll turn up.”
“Nothing to be done about it now,” said Magill. “We have to go.”
They started out of the alley, Ted holding Peter’s arm. All the way back, Peter’s eyes searched the sky, looking for the familiar darting point of light. He saw only darkness, and the occasional streetlamp, blurred by his tears.
CHAPTER 52
THE VELVET SACK
REVILE, HIS WIDE FACE CLAMMY with the sweat of fear, stood outside the door to the king’s chamber. His left hand was in his coat pocket. He raised his right hand toward the door, made a fist, then let it fall. He took several deep breaths, trying to work up the courage to knock.
“Enter.”
Revile jumped. Somehow von Schatten had known he was outside the door. There seemed to be nothing von Schatten didn’t know.
Revile entered the chamber. As always, it was almost dark, lit only by a candle burning on the king’s writing table. Von Schatten stood next to the table. The king was nowhere to be seen.
“Do we have the stone?” said von Schatten.
“Yes, Baron,” said Revile. “The Skeleton and his people took it to the Underground. But there was a…That is, we did get the stone, but there was an unexpected development.”
Von Schatten took a step closer, almost touching Revile. Revile felt a horrible coldness creep into his chest. He tried to step back, but found he could not.
“What unexpected development?” said von Schatten. By the flickering light of the candle, Revile saw his own terrified face reflected in von Schatten’s coal-black eyeglass lenses.
“There were other people at the museum. They got there before the Skeleton. And they had the stone.”
The dull-red glow appeared at the edges of von Schatten’s glasses. “Who were they?” he said.
“Five of them. Three men—we don’t know who they were—and two children. The Darling girl…and the flying boy.”
The glow around von Schatten’s glasses intensified. Revile felt the cold deepen.
“Was the boy captured?” said von Schatten.
“N…No, Baron, they…uhh.” Revile was unable to finish, as a searing pain shot through him. He realized he was feeling von Schatten’s anger. It lasted a moment, and then subsided. Revile desperately wanted to step backward, but still could not.
“They what?” said von Schatten.
“They escaped, Baron. There was a struggle; others arrived and set upon the Skeleton’s men. It was dark; apparently they had some kind of animal, which wounded the Skeleton’s men. But the Skeleton did get the stone.”
There was a long and, for Revile, exceedingly uncomfortable silence. When von Schatten spoke, his tone was measured, though Revile could still feel his fury.
“If they were after the stone,” said von Schatten, “then they know about the sword. They must know the entire plan.”
“Yes, Baron.”
“Tell Superintendent Blake I want him to intensify his search for the boy and the others. Tell him to concentrate on the neighborhood around the museum. They have to be staying somewhere.”
“Yes, Baron.”
“What is the situation at the Tower?”
“All is in readiness, Baron. We have three men in place, posing as representatives of the king. The Beefeaters weren’t happy about this, but they could hardly argue with a direct request from His Majesty. Officially, our men are there to oversee the safeguarding of the jewels as they are transported from their cases and prepared for the coronation next week.”
“Do these preparations involve Curtana?”
“As it happens, Curtana is to be polished tomorrow, Baron, along with the Sword of Spiritual Justice and the Sword of Temporal Justice.”
“I see,” said von Schatten, looking away, thinking. Seconds passed, stretching out to a minute. Finally von Schatten turned back to Revile and said, “Tell our men at the Tower I want the substitution to be made tomorrow, when the sword is being transported.”
Revile was stunned. “Tomorrow?” he said. “But—”
“Tomorrow,” said von Schatten. “Inform the Skeleton there has been a change of plan. And arrange for the train. We will reunite Curtana wi
th its tip tomorrow night. We must act quickly, before the boy and his allies can make any more mischief.”
“Yes, Baron.”
“And tell the Skeleton to be on guard. We cannot allow the boy to thwart us. I am disappointed that the Skeleton has failed twice now to capture him.”
“He did not fail completely, Baron.”
“What do you mean?” said von Schatten.
Revile pulled his left hand from his pocket. He was holding a black velvet sack, tied tightly at the top with a double-knotted silver cord.
“What is that?” said von Schatten.
“Something very dear to the flying boy,” said Revile. He handed the sack to von Schatten. “I suggest you open it carefully.”
Von Schatten swiftly untied the knot with long, bony fingers. Keeping a firm grip on the top of the bag, he opened it just a bit. From within came a faint glow, and then a lone mournful chime. Von Schatten retied the knot and looked at Revile. He did not smile—von Schatten never smiled—but there was a look of grim satisfaction on his hatchet-thin face.
“This pleases me,” he said, his bony forefinger tapping the velvet sack. “The boy will never leave England without her.”
“No, Baron.”
“Which means,” said von Schatten, “the boy will never leave England.”
CHAPTER 53
UNTIL TONIGHT
PETER SAT SLUMPED IN A CORNER chair in the drawing room of the Scotland Landing Hotel. He had barely spoken a word since the night before, when he and the others had returned from their ill-fated trip to the museum.
Mrs. Bumbrake fixed breakfast for everyone—Peter hadn’t touched his—then retired upstairs with John and Michael. Karl was asleep in front of the fireplace, periodically emitting massive bear snores. Magill was out buying food for his new guests. Wendy, Neville, Ted, and Patrick were seated in the center of the room, discussing what to do next.
“We have no choice now,” Wendy was saying. “If we can’t stop them from fixing the sword, we have to stop them from getting to the Cache.”
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