by Janet Fox
Isaac stopped. “Wait, please. Who are you?”
She stopped and faced him. She looked confused. Or maybe concerned. “Amelie—”
“No,” he interrupted. “Who are you . . . all?” And he waved his hand around to indicate the entire castle.
“Oh!” Amelie brightened. “Sorry. I guess they didn’t fill you in? What, did they just send you up here with no preparation?” She paused. “That’s very odd. No prep and no word to us. Rookskill was a school a couple of years ago. Well, sort of a school. Actually, a haunted castle pretending to be a school, with someone in charge who was not very nice.” She paused, chewing her lip and staring away for a minute. Then, “But between the war and then Lord Craig—it’s his castle—going off to America, and no money for places like this . . .” She sighed. “Anyway, now it’s where the special unit of MI-Six trains those of us who have exhibited gifts.”
“MI-Six?”
“You know. British foreign intelligence. They really didn’t fill you in? Stranger still. Who sent you? Someone must have seen that you have a skill and sent you, otherwise you wouldn’t know about this place.”
Isaac said, with a sigh, “It is a long story.” He didn’t know where to begin.
“Well, then.” Amelie led him on down the hall. “We’re the MI-Six Special Alternative Intelligence Unit. SAIU. Known only to a few. We’re children, but mostly because we’re still unspoiled, so our gifts are fresh and we can learn to use them the right way. They kind of let us do our own thing. Which means we don’t have full approval, if you know what I’m saying. Or much support.” She ran one finger along the edge of a dusty portrait. “But they leave us alone, too, except when they need information from us. Why, just the other day MacLarren gave them some information from Leo that helped them change their plans around some big operation in France next month.” She turned and looked at him. “But don’t tell.” She smiled.
Isaac thought there was no likelihood of that. “So, you, um, have gifts?”
“Well, you do, too. It’s why you’re here, right? Isn’t that why whoever sent you here? To help win the war by alternative means?”
“By . . .”
“Alternative means.” She seemed exasperated now, stopping and putting her hands on her hips. Her blue eyes narrowed with confusion. “To help win the war by using magic, of course.”
* * *
* * *
One of the passages in Frankenstein Isaac liked best was the moment when the monster came to full understanding. Isaac liked the quotation so much he’d written out the words and pinned them to the wall of his bedroom so he could read them over and over.
Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind, when it has once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock.
It had not been a happy moment for the monster, learning what he truly was. Learning that he was different.
Isaac had always known he was different. He’d known it that day his grandfather had lost him, when they’d walked by the graveyard in Josefov on a dusky evening, and Isaac had been scared out of his wits, and suddenly, his grandfather was calling his name and searching the streets even though Isaac was there, right there, frozen in silence, but still there.
And that day at school when he was sitting outside reading and Carl had run past and snatched his book straight out of Isaac’s hands and then ridiculed him for reading “baby stories” as Isaac yelled, “They’re fairy tales.” When the other boys joined in the bullying and Isaac watched his book tossed from hand to hand, and he was shoved so hard against the wall he couldn’t breathe, he wished he could disappear, and then the boys stopped in confusion, staring straight through Isaac as if they couldn’t see him.
And, of course, the hum. That hum he’d felt long before now.
He’d felt it in the silent pine forests above his grandfather’s cottage when he was out alone one summer afternoon and was sure he saw eyes in the underbrush.
He’d felt it each time he entered the Old-New Synagogue and placed his hand on the plaster wall.
That hum, that vibration, ran right through him.
Go ahead and call it magic. Isaac Wolf now realized he was able to hear it, to feel it, and he had been able to for a long, long time. Magic was a part of who he was.
But so were they, if his parents were right. The monsters he’d seen in the hut and in the ring of stones. They would find him. They came with deepest dark. His parents had sent him to Rookskill with information buried in a casket that also had, at least once, opened a window to them.
For now, maybe he was safe here, in this castle with its wards and children who were learning to use magic—to help the Brits win the war—but he still had to understand who they were and what they wanted.
And maybe it was truly important to discover the usefulness of his so-called gift, whatever it was, and how he could control it.
How Isaac Wolf could control magic.
CHAPTER 15
Ralph Baines
From 1919 to 1942
As a boy, Ralph Baines had never thought about magic, one way or the other, until it happened.
He was out with two boys, not because he was popular but because he was not. He’d gone along with these boys because he wanted so much to be liked. He’d gone reluctantly but gone, even when they told him what they were about, even when they slipped inside the broken gate, even when his skin crawled as they stepped among the gravestones in the overgrown thicket of a graveyard in the dead of night.
“Come on,” one of the boys whispered. “You go first, Ralphie.”
They stood at the entry to the mausoleum, the door slightly ajar, the blackness beyond so dense it had weight. Ralph swallowed hard.
“Me mum said this was one of them thin places,” the second boy whispered. “You know, between worlds.”
“Thin places?” Ralph said, trying to keep his voice from squeaking.
“Right,” the second boy said. “Places where our world connects with the next. You know, ours with the faerie world.”
“Well, go on, Ralphie,” said the first boy.
Ralph took one step forward, then another. He didn’t want to enter that black place, but he wanted them to like him so much, so very much . . .
Then, “Cripes! What’s that?” and a screech, and the second boy yelled, and the first yelled, and then Ralph had his back plastered to the outside wall of the mausoleum, and he was trying very hard not to see what he saw.
It was both beautiful and hideous. Its face was delicate and lovely, but it had leathery wings and hands with clawlike fingers, and its fingers held the arm of one of those boys, who hung from its grip, limp and insensible, while the other boy shouted and beat the monster with a stick.
And the eyes, oh, the eyes of that creature, red like coals, burning red, and Ralph closed his own eyes and stumbled backwards, and then heard another scream that faded into the distance.
Ralph had had enough, and he ran. He ran out of that graveyard, never looking back. He ran home and dove into his room. He ran home and vowed he didn’t care about being friends with those boys.
Which was just as well, because one of them the next day rattled on and on to everyone in town that he’d fought off a monster, and he was judged to be off his rocker and taken away, especially since the second boy was found bruised and unconscious and the first boy was blamed for his injuries. Neither boy was ever the same after. Ralph never admitted to anyone that he’d been with them, never admitted to himself what he’d seen, decided once and for all that it was all some kind of hoax, that there was no such thing as monsters, no such thing as magic.
* * *
* * *
So, when Ralph, now grown and working for the SIS—the Secret Intelligence Service of MI-6—as a systems analyst, learned that an obscure branch of His Majesty’s Service was looking for ways to use magic against enemies, why, Ral
ph (still unpopular with his peers) determined that that notion was dangerous, and that kind of madness needed to be exposed for what it was: false and ridiculous. Ralph found a way to get to Rookskill Castle, where children—children!—were learning magical skills under the auspices of the SIS, so that he could rid the world of this foolishness.
Because maybe someone would finally look at Ralph Baines with something other than disdain, and maybe, maybe, his revelations would make him a hero.
CHAPTER 16
Isaac
1942
Amelie stared at Isaac, her face showing concern. “Are you all right?”
“I think I might be hungry,” Isaac said, his voice soft. He wasn’t entirely lying.
“Right. We’ll fix you up.” She tugged him along again, saying, “I know. I talk too much. Sorry about that. My sister says I’ve gone chatty. I used to be really quiet but, well, I guess I’ve changed.” Then, out of the blue, “You’ve got an accent.”
“I am refugee. Czech.” He bit his lip. Should he say more? He added, “I have spent three weeks escaping Nazis, all the way from Prague.”
“Golly! How terrifying! You must have had quite a time,” Amelie said. She tilted her head. “Who sent you here, then?”
Isaac hesitated again but decided he wouldn’t hold back. “My mother and father sent me to Rookskill. They said I would be safe here.”
“Oh,” she said. “Hmm. I wonder how they knew about us.”
So did Isaac, but as he thought about it, his parents had to have magical gifts, too. They’d given him that mysterious casket and then disappeared into thin air. Maybe they’d seen Rookskill in a vision. Or maybe something else . . .
At that moment he and Amelie stepped through a partly closed door and into a dining hall lit by low lamplight.
It must have been quite a banquet room in its day, Isaac thought. Fireplaces at both ends. High clerestory windows, now blocked by blackout shades to keep the bombers from finding them. Stone walls hung with tapestries. Light from sconces that lined the walls. One long table running down the center, and a dais at the far end. The odors of musty age, of woodsmoke, of food—the last of which made Isaac’s mouth water.
No one sat at the dais. And only a handful of people sat at the far end of the table. It seemed a little pathetic.
Willow hovered above the table like a floating, semitransparent chandelier.
Amelie led Isaac down the long hall to the others.
“Everyone, this is Isaac Wolf. All the way from Prague.” She paused and then added, “Sent here by his parents, but not by MI-Six, at least that he knows of, unless perhaps his parents are agents or have some other connection.”
Subtle glances were exchanged among the crew.
Colin was there, surrounded by his dogs, who lay scattered across the floor watching Isaac. “’Lo, again,” Colin said.
“This is my sister, Kat. Kat Bateson.” Amelie pointed to an older girl with brown hair who nodded, watching Isaac carefully. “And that’s Leo Falstone.” Leo was also a bit older, black-haired, plump, with a slightly anxious gaze but wearing a friendly smile. He stood up to shake Isaac’s hand.
“You are the Leo who knew I was coming?” Isaac asked.
Leo shrugged. “It comes and goes, my little talent. But I saw you.” He smiled quickly, ducking his head. “Can’t quite control it yet. Have had some lucky breaks with it, though, and Miss Gumble thinks I’ll manage it before too long.” Leo nodded his head in the direction of an older woman. “Then she’s going to teach me how to make a doppelgänger. You know, a double of me. Which could be quite useful in a sticky spot.”
Doppelgänger. Isaac raised his eyebrows.
Miss Gumble was thin, kindly looking. She gave Isaac an appraising look.
“And that’s Mr. MacLarren,” Amelie said of a stout, older man. “Gumble and MacLarren are our teachers. Willow, Isaac’s hungry. Can you fetch some supper?”
Willow sighed audibly, then disappeared with a pop, reappearing seconds later with a plate of food that they set down before Isaac.
He dropped his pack and sat on the bench, staring at the plate. Pink stuff, green stuff, blue stuff. Very, very strange-looking stuff. He took a tentative bite. It tasted far better than it looked, with a rich texture and the flavor of beef stew. He ate with gusto.
“Well, Mr. Wolf,” said Miss Gumble. “Welcome to Rookskill. Can you share any clues as to why you might have been sent here?”
He swallowed a large mouthful, considering. What could he tell them? Exhaustion flooded him now that he’d had a bit to eat.
“Why don’t we start with this?” Gumble said. “What is your gift?”
Isaac looked from one of them to the next. “I am not sure how to explain.”
“Ye mean, laddie, ye nay ken the right words,” Mr. MacLarren said.
“Oh,” murmured Willow from overhead, “we’ve got one idea. Saw it, we did.”
Isaac said, “I never thought much about it. Except that I have these feelings. And then my parents wanted me to leave Prague, leave home, but it happened very fast, and no one said anything about, about magic . . .”
“Well,” said Gumble. She pulled herself upright, officiousness itself. “We’ll suss it out. No one arrives at Rookskill Castle without good reason.”
Isaac blurted before thinking it through, “I did not say I have no reason.”
“Then you might start with that.” It was Kat, Amelie’s sister. She was a miniature of her teacher, Isaac thought.
Amelie, her back to Kat, rolled her eyes as if to say bossy, and for the first time in a long while Isaac was tempted to smile.
He said, “My parents had me smuggled out of Prague. They sent me to Orkney. When I arrived there, well, it is hard to explain.” He cleared his throat. “My parents were there . . .” and here Isaac paused. How much should he say? Should he tell them about the casket or the pendant? About the feeling of being in a different time?
About the monster, and the terrifying vision of the end of days?
Leo closed his eyes and said in a strange, strangled way, “Oh, that’s awful. What is that? That . . . that creature?”
Isaac said, startled, “You can see it? You can see what I saw?”
Leo nodded, his eyes wide and worried. Everyone else stirred.
Isaac shook his head. “I do not know what it was. Some kind of monster.”
Leo stood, swaying a little. “Terrible.” His face was drained of color, and he stared into the distance. Gumble reached over and put her hand on his arm, and he sat again, beads of sweat on his forehead.
“I think it was chasing my parents,” Isaac said. “They want me to keep searching for a certain symbol. A number of circles. They called it, I think in English it means a forever knot. They told me to come here and then they vanished.”
In other times and places, if he’d said his parents had vanished, Isaac was sure people would laugh. But not this crowd.
Kat said, “A forever knot? I’m guessing you must mean an eternity knot. An eternity knot is an ancient Celtic symbol. Like this, right?” She drew it with her finger on the table.
Isaac nodded. “That is the one.”
Gumble said, “Not just Celtic, Miss Bateson. That symbol has been used in many cultures over time.”
“Clearly,” said MacLarren, “this all be a puzzle to solve.” He rubbed his hands together as if ready to go to work. “Now, laddie, have ye found that symbol anywhere?”
Isaac nodded. “Where I saw my parents it was carved into a stone.” Isaac’s voice dropped and he propped his head on his hand. Exhaustion flooded him through and through. He ought to tell them about the casket and the pendant. But something held him back. Possibly it was the low hum or heartbeat or ocean wash that he heard, now louder, now softer, a thrumming ache in his head. He closed his eyes, unable to keep them
open.
MacLarren said, “Your parents, what else did they—”
“Angus,” Gumble interrupted, “we can plainly see that the boy has suffered a long and painful journey. He’s been separated from his home and his family. Fled grave danger. Let’s continue this tomorrow.”
At that instant, a door behind her blew open, and something came into the dining hall carrying a tray.
Some “thing,” Isaac thought, because he couldn’t see the whole of it, because it was only as tall as Isaac’s waist and carried the tray above its head. Isaac could see its feet, which were bare and grassy green. “Not before sweets,” came a lilting voice from below the tray, which it deposited on the table in front of Isaac, revealing itself.
It was a she, with green skin and curling lavender hair, wearing an apron over a full, round, bright orange skirt. She tossed her hair and said, “I’m Lark. Did you like it?” She pointed at Isaac’s clean plate.
Isaac nodded.
“Lark’s a ghillie-dhu,” Kat said, “in case you’ve never met one.”
“I have not,” Isaac murmured, nodding hello.
“Ghillies like to experiment with different human activities,” Amelie said brightly. The way she said “experiment” gave Isaac pause. “Lark wants to learn to cook. She’s still learning, aren’t you, Lark?”
Lark rolled her eyes and heaved a sigh. “Have a sweet?” she said shyly, as she pushed the tray toward Isaac.
The food Isaac had finished had looked weird but tasted good. These—they seemed to be tiny cakes—looked very good indeed.
“Um,” Amelie began, but stopped when Lark gave her a narrow-eyed glance.
Isaac took one of the cakes and put it in his mouth, and . . .
. . . tried not to gag.
“Good?” Lark asked in a slightly threatening way.
