Peripheral connectors are: Pin 1: +12, Pin 72 and 13: Gnd.
It had been in my dad’s workshop, on his corkboard.
Guest Room Heaters: Pin 1: +12, Pin 72 and 13: Gnd.
That had been on Uncle Jon’s noticeboard at the Inn.
Just at that moment, the Princess leaned over and murmured in my ear: ‘1, +12, 72, 13.’ Then she stepped away and put a finger to her lips.
‘Now, what about those rainbows?’ she said.
I ignored her.
So did the Sheriff.
‘My dad is really out there, being held by Hostiles?’ I said, and the Sheriff was saying something similar.
The Princess smiled again. ‘It was in the report. Central Intelligence are looking for him, of course—they will find him eventually, don’t worry yourselves. Now, about . . .’
But I was gone.
I was flying from that room.
Heading home with a wildness I never knew I had—to tell my mother.
He hadn’t been taken by a Purple. He hadn’t run away with the Physics teacher.
It was a third option all along.
You think I was going to spend another second without her knowing?
My mother and I talked for hours, both of us crying. We were crazed, happy, frightened, furious. That all this time we hadn’t known. The wasted time. The wasted trips to Purple Caverns.
But the more we talked, the more we let our anger get out of the way, well, the more it kind of made sense, the idea of Dad and Jon being in some secret Loyalist association. It fits with Dad and what he’d been like in the months before he’d gone; it fits with that spark in him, and how much he and Jon had liked adventure.
Anyhow, all this is to say, the train goes to the Magical North in the morning and my rucksack’s packed.
I’m going to the Lake of Spells, and I’ll catch a Locator Spell, use it to track down the Hostiles that have my dad, and then I’m getting him back.
Meanwhile, my mother’s going to get Central Intelligence talking—no top-level secrecy’s going to stop her. She’s down at the Sheriff’s station right now, to find out all she can about the Hostiles; then she’s going to elbow her way into the Central files, she says.
And she’s got some tough elbows on her, my mother.
So this time it really is goodbye to you, I guess.
I’ll miss your letters.
You take care—and thanks again for the Colour information.
You know what I just realised? That Colour information of yours, it’s true it saved me and Corrie-Lynn, but it’s also what brought the Princess Sisters into town.
That’s the reason they came here, see?
So without that, without that idiot of a Princess coming to Bonfire and giving away state secrets, I still wouldn’t know.
Thanks again.
Anyhow, I hope you got the healing beads in time, and they cured your mother, and you believe in us now and—
Lotta love to you, kid,
Elliot
Dear Elliot
I used to think that my dad was a sky full of colour, that Jack was a dead poet named Byron, and that my mother was a swan who, in a mad flight of fancy, got us locked up in a tower here in Cambridge.
Turns out that my dad has issues with substance abuse, that Jack’s a super-nice guy who wears bandaids on his hands to cover warts and that my mother’s flight of fancy was probably an early sign of a grade IV astrocytoma.
That’s a fast-growing malignant brain tumour, if you don’t know.
I’m sitting here in our attic flat with the mould in clumps across the ceiling and the floorboards more cracked than a stick of celery, and I’m watching my mother asleep on the bed, thinking how unbelievably lucky I am that she’s there.
Also thinking how my over-hyped imagination and my dreamy approach to life, well, basically, I’m thinking how close I came to letting her die.
So I’ve decided to grow up. From now on, I’m seeing things just the way they are.
Mum and I have been talking a lot and we’ve agreed that even though it was crazy and irrational to run away on the spur of the moment with nothing but a sewing machine—well, there was truth in what she did.
Because, like I said, I think Dad might have some problems. I still don’t completely believe it, but I keep remembering things. Like how his reactions were too quick or too slow—his frowns stayed too long, or he couldn’t get them off his face, or they came too quickly. And how he had a tilt to his walk, a veering sort of walk—something funny about his waist, or his hips. Like he wanted to dance with somebody. Mum’s right that he’s gone missing in a way. He’s lost somewhere deep inside himself, and a part of me knew that already.
Mum thinks our only chance of getting through to him is to be gone. He has to realise on his own, she says. It hasn’t happened yet; he’s still sulking. She says he’s sending my letters back, and even telling my friends to do the same, as a way of turning all this into our fault, so he doesn’t have to take any responsibility. So he doesn’t have to look at himself, or at the truth. And all we can do, she says, is hope that eventually he’ll look.
I’m thinking maybe I’m a bit like him and I don’t like to see the truth. So from now on, I’m going to be different. I’m going to sweep away my mad imagination, and only see the truth—and you probably think that all this is leading to me telling you I don’t believe in you.
But you know what?
At this moment, I totally do.
I believe in the Kingdom of Cello. I believe that you’re a boy named Elliot Baranski with dark blond hair, that you persuaded a Butterfly Child in a doll’s house to spin healing beads for me, and that these saved my mother’s life. I believe that a princess told you the truth about the night that your father disappeared, that your dad’s being held by Hostiles, and that you and your mother will rescue him.
I can actually feel my heart speed up because he wasn’t taken by a Purple, and he didn’t run away with the Physics teacher. I feel so happy for you, but also scared because I guess he’s in danger. And you must be scared, and no wonder you’re angry that nobody told you the truth before—I’m angry for you, too.
But excited and hopeful.
Also, I believe that you used colour information from me to save your little cousin from an attack by a level-one Yellow, and that makes me smile.
I can’t take the credit for those ideas, though. They come from Isaac Newton. I’ll let him know you say thanks.
I believe all that, and I want to hold on to it, all of that belief, which is why it’s good that you’re saying goodbye. Cause that’s what I’m doing too.
If you do write another letter, I won’t read it. I’m moving on, like I said, to the real world, but I want to take the memory of you with me—and if we kept writing letters, it’d all disentangle and dissolve. I’d have to let in some truth, I’d have to start seeing how impossible it is. I’d see the mechanics behind your illusions.
I’d have to admit that healing beads can’t cure cancer and that my mother’s tumour could come back. The people at the hospital don’t trust that it’s gone—they want her in once a month for check-ups; they’re still talking about chemo and radiation and anti-convulsion drugs, even while they try to figure out how the tumour disappeared. Apparently they’ve never seen that happen before. They’re not, like, falling to pieces about it—they talk about how the human body is always surprising you; how there are a million examples of things that miraculously cure themselves; how pathology might have got it wrong in the first place; how mistakes can be made—and they’re also very cautious about being too happy. If it can go this way, it go can the other too.
So I’m being cautious too.
If I read another letter from you, and it talks about Colours, well, what I’ll see is the white of my mother’s eyes rolling back into her head; the rust-brown of the freckles on the ambulance driver’s hands; pale blue of the ink on the hospital forms; the grey of her face against the hospital p
illow; the tarnished gold of the bracelet on the neurosurgeon’s wrist—it slid up and down her arm while she talked to me about ‘palliative care’ and about the ‘team’ that would manage my mother’s treatment in the last days or weeks of her life—neurosurgeons, oncologists, neurologists, neuropathologists, psychiatrists—
Anyhow, we’re not sitting around waiting to be rescued from the tower. Mum wants to find out if she can do some course in fashion design cause that’s what she’s always wanted to do; and I guess I’ll just sort of study hard and maybe get a scholarship to university one day.
I might try to get on that quiz show of Mum’s too cause turns out I can answer the questions.
Well, I hope this letter makes sense. The thing is, Elliot, you were like a piece of magic.
You held the fixed stars in place for me and you stopped them from falling.
If I open another letter from you, I think they might start to tumble.
So, bye,
and thanks,
and
lots of love,
Madeleine
1
Overnight, winter fell on Bonfire.
Elliot Baranski wore his coat and his grey wool hat, rucksack on his shoulders. He was crossing the Town Square, leaving boot prints in the fresh white snow.
It was early. Elliot had said his goodbyes to his mother. He was going to collect a new protective jacket that Clover Mackie had sewn for him late the night before. Then he’d have breakfast with his friends at the Bakery, and get the 7.35 am train to Magical North.
The Bakery was the only place open in the square, and even there chairs were still upturned on tables and coated with snow. But now, as Elliot passed, the door swung open and there stood the Sheriff.
A cloud of steam floated from the coffee in Hector’s gloved hands, and he blew out another puff with his grin.
‘Elliot!’ he called. ‘Just the boy I want to see.’
Elliot paused and grinned back.
‘I was going to swing by the station to say bye, Sheriff,’ he said.
‘Not about that!’ The Sheriff pulled the Bakery door closed behind him and loped out, sliding on a patch of ice. Elliot reached out a hand to straighten him.
‘I was hoping to be the first to tell you!’ Hector’s face was deep pink, his eyes crinkled with snow-light and excitement.
‘Tell me what.’
‘You don’t know then! They must’ve missed you at your place this morning! You’ve been selected, Elliot! You’re the third and final member! I got word late last night—they’ve chosen you for their Royal Youth Alliance!’
Elliot breathed in deeply.
‘Ah, for crying out loud,’ he said mildly. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘What’s that mean? You don’t read the papers? You’ll be meeting with the Princess Sisters regularly—their tour finishes next week, so they’re having their first Royal Youth Alliance conference in a fortnight!’
‘Sheriff,’ said Elliot heavily.
‘I know you’re off on another trip to find your dad, but don’t you worry about that. I’m working with Central myself. Me and Jimmy, we’ll get him back. You go on and have fun with the Royals and the youths and so forth! Be young again, Elliot, it’s your time!’
Across the square, the door to Clover Mackie’s house clicked open. They both turned and looked. Strange to see her framed by the doorway like that, instead of sitting on her porch.
She waved, and they both waved back.
‘Hey, Clover!’ called Elliot, then to Hector. ‘See you in a bit.’ The Sheriff protested, but Elliot was heading across the square again.
On Clover’s porch, he turned back again and shouted to the Sheriff.
‘Tell the Princess Sisters I’m taking a train this morning,’ he called. ‘Tell them I regret it, but I’ll have to respectfully decline their invitation!’
The Sheriff threw up his hands, and Clover Mackie took a step back inside her house.
‘Come on in,’ she said to Elliot, ‘and tell them yourself.’
In Clover Mackie’s living room, Princess Ko stood by the fireplace, dressed in a sleeveless ball gown. It was pinned at the hem. The Princess was folding her arms against the chill.
Across the room, facing the mirror, was another golden-haired girl. She was standing on a small footstool and the sleeves on her dress reached down to cover her hands.
‘Just doing some adjustments,’ said Clover. ‘Help yourself to the pastries and I’ll fetch you a coffee.’ She disappeared into the kitchen.
Elliot let his rucksack slide to the carpet. He hung his coat on the back of the couch.
He rubbed at his forehead.
‘Ah, Your Majesties,’ he said, and bowed, trying to recall the protocol. ‘Cold morning, eh?’
Princess Ko was gazing at him.
‘We don’t have long,’ she said, stepping forward. ‘Less than ten minutes! So we need to talk fast. I believe the Sheriff just told you about your selection to the Youth Alliance?’
Elliot rubbed his forehead harder. ‘About that,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry,—’
But the Princess was reaching for a plastic envelope that was lying on the coffee table. She sat on the couch, and opened it.
‘Take a seat,’ she told him, patting the cushion beside her.
Princess Jupiter, meanwhile, continued to gaze at herself in the mirror.
‘Now,’ said Princess Ko, ‘you will not “respectfully decline”, you will exclaim what an honour it is. And I will now tell you why.’
She drew a pile of papers from the envelope.
‘Do you realise,’ she said distractedly, ‘that your Deputy Sheriff, Jimmy, is the bomb when it comes to solving missing persons reports? That means he’s a whirlshine of excellence. Anyhow, not long ago, Central Intelligence heard of his skills and sent him some unsolved cases. Here they are.’ She placed five reports on the coffee table, lining them up side by side, describing each as she did so. ‘This is a man who went missing in Golden Coast,’ she said. ‘Here’s a woman, also in Golden Coast. A teenage boy, disappeared from Nature Strip. A girl, gone from Golden Coast. And here, finally, is a lost little boy, vanished from Magical North.’
She sat back in the chair and studied Elliot’s face.
After a moment, he felt he should speak.
‘All right then,’ he said.
Princess Ko reached for a pen.
‘Watch what I am doing,’ she said.
Then she began to write on the documents.
King Cetus, she wrote at the top of the first.
Queen Lyra, she wrote on the second.
Prince Chyba.
Princess Jupiter.
Prince Tippett.
She replaced the lid on the pen and turned back.
‘I don’t understand,’ Elliot said.
‘Neither do I,’ sighed Princess Ko. ‘But there it is. The entire Royal Family—excluding me, of course—have been missing for over a year.’
At this point, Clover Mackie returned and placed a cup of coffee in Elliot’s hand.
‘It’s a shock,’ she said, chattily, ‘isn’t it?’
Elliot scratched his eyebrow.
‘But they’re not missing,’ he said. ‘I read about them in the paper just the other day—I’m always reading about them. And as for Princess Jupiter . . .’
Here, the girl across the room swung around and faced him.
‘Hey,’ she said, and smiled.
Only it was not a she.
He had fine features, a delicate nose and long yellow hair—but he was not a girl. He was a boy.
‘Oh, that’s not Jupiter. That’s my stableboy, Sergio. He wears the wig and the clothes, and waves from the carriage. It’s all worked remarkably smoothly, you know. The great thing is, it’s always been tradition for my sister and I to take turns doing official visits. So. Perfect. It’s always me, you see—I play the role of both myself and Jupiter. It gets exhausting, but, well, so is running the Kingdom an
d pretending that my family are still here.’
Elliot ran his eyes over the names on the documents. He leaned forward, his heart thudding uncertainly.
Princess Ko picked up a cherry pastry and took a bite.
‘I’m sorry but we do have to rush this,’ she said around her mouthful. ‘You seem a bright boy, so could you just gather your shock and confusion into a little handkerchief-size and save it for later? Thank you. Anyway, obviously this is a huge secret. The Kingdom would crash to its knees if word got out that the Royal Family is gone! As for our neighbouring kingdoms, don’t get me started about the potential for invasion. Hence, our charade. Hence, all the false stories about the family’s whereabouts, constantly planted in the papers. Most of Central Intelligence don’t even know—only a tiny handful. That’s why we use Sergio to play the role of Princess Jupiter—you’d think we could have got a girl to do that, rather than a stableboy, but Sergio knows Jupiter well, and he’s a great actor. More to the point, he already knew about the disappearances—he’s my best friend, you see, so of course I told him—and we didn’t want to extend the circle of knowledge any further than we absolutely had to. Most of my staff don’t even know.’
She stood while she was speaking and swirled her dress, raising a questioning eye at Clover, who nodded and came forward.
‘Meanwhile,’ she continued, ‘I have to pretend that I’m a total moron, which is enormously tiresome, but there it is. It seems an effective way to hide the fact that I am running the show.’
It occurred to Elliot that Princess Ko’s voice was not at the same high pitch as it had been the day before. It had dropped at least an octave.
‘The columns in the Cellian Herald,’ she continued, sighing. ‘Well, obviously I write those in my idiotic voice, and make as many mentions of the other Royals as I can. Plus, there’s all sorts of codes in there to get word back to my allies—you’ll have to get to know the code, when you join us. It’s just things like, if I say I’d give away my last peach-nettle candy, I mean that a certain town has Wandering Hostiles at its edges. If I say the coffee’s bitter, I mean they’re tending towards Hostility. That sort of thing. Oh, the paper itself drives me insane! It is a ratbag of a paper. But I suppose the editing helps maintain the image.’
A Corner of White Page 33
