“This is true,” agreed Pietro. “But the only thing worse than people finding out the Secret, it is that we lose the Secret forever.”
Max-Ernest looked at the ground, pondering the magician’s words. Like everything about the Secret, they were paradoxical but, he knew, of monumental importance.
“OK, I’ll be strong,” he said after a moment, in as forceful a voice as he could muster. “And if there’s any way to get inside Cass’s head, I’ll find it.”
“Good. But first, return the Tuning Fork!” said Pietro, trying for a light tone he obviously did not feel. “And when this is all over, and our friend Cass is on her feet once more, I will teach you to play the Tarocchino.”
With that last promise Pietro patted Max-Ernest on the back, then stepped back into the trailer to play another hand.
READER ADVISORY
ALERT LEVEL:
90% CACAO, VERY DARK
A RECENT REPORT FROM ABROAD INDICATES THAT SOME OF THE BOOKS IN THE SECRET SERIES MAY HAVE BEEN TAMPERED WITH BY AGENTS OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN.
UNTIL PROVEN OTHERWISE, YOU SHOULD ASSUME THIS BOOK IS EQUIPPED WITH A DEVICE SUCH AS A RADIO FREQUENCY TRANSCEIVER OR GLOBAL POSITIONING SYSTEM THAT ENABLES THE MIDNIGHT SUN TO TRACK THE BOOK AND ANYBODY WHO HAPPENS TO BE HOLDING IT.
IT IS ALSO POSSIBLE THAT THE BOOK MAY BE TREATED WITH AN INVISIBLE INK OR POWDER DESIGNED TO RUB OFF ON THE READER, IDENTIFYING HIM OR HER AS A PERSON OF INTEREST TO THE MIDNIGHT SUN.
THERE IS NO WAY TO GUARANTEE YOUR SAFETY OR THE SAFETY OF THIS BOOK, BUT HERE ARE A FEW ORDINARY PRECAUTIONS YOU SHOULD TAKE:
NEVER LEAVE THIS BOOK LYING OUT IN THE OPEN. (OF COURSE, YOU SHOULDN’T LEAVE IT TELLING THE TRUTH OUT IN THE OPEN, EITHER. THAT WOULD BE EVEN WORSE!)
IF IT IS NECESSARY TO CARRY THIS BOOK IN PUBLIC, DISGUISE THE BOOK. THE MOST COMMON WAY TO DO THIS IS TO BORROW A COVER FROM ANOTHER BOOK OR TO MAKE YOUR OWN COVER OUT OF A BROWN PAPER BAG, BUT I ENCOURAGE YOU TO USE YOUR OWN CREATIVITY. DISGUISES, LIKE ROUTINES, SHOULD BE VARIED AS OFTEN AS POSSIBLE.
STAY ON THE LOOKOUT FOR ANY WHITE-GLOVE-WEARING STRANGERS AND EVEN—I HATE TO SAY IT—WHITE-GLOVE-WEARING FRIENDS. REMEMBER, THE MASTERS OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN ARE SMART AND DEVIOUS. THEY MIGHT ADOPT DISGUISES THAT MAKE THEIR GLOVES LOOK INNOCUOUS—A BATON-TWIRLER COSTUME, FOR INSTANCE. OR THEY MIGHT WEAR OUTFITS THAT HIDE THEIR GLOVES ALTOGETHER—LIKE A FULL-BODY MASCOT COSTUME AT A BALL GAME OR THEME PARK. IT IS BEST NOT TO TRUST ANY WALKING ALLIGATORS OR PURPLE DINOSAURS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
DO NOT PANIC. ANXIETY ATTACKS AND ASSOCIATED MALADIES LIKE DIZZINESS, NAUSEA, HYPERVENTILATION, SKIN RASHES, HIVES, AND INCONTINENCE, WHILE PERFECTLY UNDERSTANDABLE, ARE NOT AT ALL HELPFUL.
USE COMMON SENSE. IF SOMEBODY OFFERS YOU A THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR THIS BOOK, CHANCES ARE THEIR MOTIVES ARE NOT PURE. THEN AGAIN, A THOUSAND DOLLARS IS A LOT OF MONEY. TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN.
IN THE UNFORTUNATE EVENT THAT YOU FIND YOURSELF CORNERED BY A MEMBER OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN, PICK YOUR NOSE. REALLY. MOST MEMBERS OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN ARE VERY FASTIDIOUS. THE SIGHT OF SOMETHING SO DISGUSTING WILL LIKELY CAUSE THEM TO BACK AWAY IN HORROR, GIVING YOU A CHANCE TO ESCAPE. IF THAT DOESN’T WORK, YOU MIGHT TRY TELLING THEM THEY HAVE SOMETHING STUCK IN THEIR TEETH. MIDNIGHT SUN MEMBERS ARE EXTREMELY VAIN AND THE THOUGHT OF SOMETHING DIRTYING THEIR PEARLY WHITES SHOULD SEND THEM RUNNING TO THE NEAREST MIRROR.
LASTLY, I AM AWARE THAT CERTAIN TEACHERS AND LIBRARIANS AND EVEN SOME VERY IRRESPONSIBLE PARENTS HAVE ON OCCASION READ ONE OR MORE OF MY BOOKS ALOUD TO ONE OR MORE CHILDREN. IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING THAT I HIGHLY DISAPPROVE OF THIS APPROACH. THE ONLY THING WORSE THAN PEOPLE READING ONE OF MY BOOKS TO THEMSELVES IS PEOPLE SHARING IT WITH OTHERS. BE THAT AS IT MAY, I SUSPECT THAT ANY PLEADING ON MY PART WOULD HAVE LITTLE EFFECT ON THE SITUATION; THOSE RECKLESS READ-ALOUDERS WOULD ONLY READ ALOUD LOUDER. PERHAPS, HOWEVER, A SUGGESTION OR TWO WOULD NOT BE INAPPROPRIATE. IN THE EVENT THAT YOU OR SOMEBODY YOU KNOW SIMPLY MUST READ THIS BOOK ALOUD, PLEASE MAKE SURE THE BLINDS ARE CLOSED, ANY RECORDING DEVICES ARE TURNED OFF, AND OF COURSE THAT THERE IS PLENTY OF CHOCOLATE AVAILABLE FOR EVERYONE.
THANK YOU,
P.B.
The Double Monocle gave her a headache.
Cass wasn’t sure what she’d expected—to see all those ghosts the Seer was talking about?—but all she got was the dizzying experience of seeing double through a single eye.
Holding the monocle tight, she turned in a circle, surveying the world around her. As one object exited her vision and another took its place, the first object—a pitchfork, a donkey, a bale of hay—seemed to leave an afterimage. Like when you wave your hand through the air and it appears to leave a trail in its wake. A curious effect but hardly paranormal.
This is just double vision, she thought. Not second sight.
But when she put down the monocle, she noticed something rather surprising. Some of the things she’d been looking at were much farther away than they’d appeared through the monocle. To the naked eye, they were mere specks in the distance. She looked into the monocle again and confirmed that, yes, it functioned like an exceptionally powerful pair of binoculars.
As she moved the monocle away from her eye and then back again, she noticed something else: some things she was seeing through the monocle weren’t visible at all otherwise. They were blocked by walls, by animals, by people. With the monocle she could see almost everything around her, no matter how far away or how covered up. Maybe not as exciting as seeing spirits, but to Cass thrilling nonetheless. And more useful.
Certainly, it would make finding someone much easier.
She turned in the direction in which she’d last seen the Jester. The crowd had not yet fully dispersed. With the monocle, she could see through the throngs of people at the market and yet she still could not see him. The box he’d been standing on was bare.
A quick glance around through the monocle was sufficient to confirm the bad news: he was gone.
Despair threatened to overtake her, but she stifled it with an act of will. She had been in plenty of situations more difficult than this, she reminded herself.
Of course, in most of those situations, Max-Ernest had been with her. More often than not she complained that he was just getting in the way, but now that he wasn’t by her side, she suddenly felt helpless. She depended on his logical mind to solve puzzles and crack codes.
If he were here with her, what would he say that would help her find the Jester?
Well, what do we know about the Jester? she imagined Max-Ernest asking.
Dutifully, she started making a list in her head:
The Jester was the founder of the Terces Society.
He liked to rhyme and tell jokes.
He wore a silly hat with bells.
He worked for the King (if you could call being a jester work).
He had pointy ears like hers and he was her great-great-great- (she wasn’t certain how many greats) grandfather.
He lived in a tent.
He knew the Secret.
Most of these things Cass knew from talking to her friend, the late great homunculus, Mr. Cabbage Face. Being five hundred years old, he’d known the Jester personally. He also was only two feet tall (or nearly) and born in a bottle, but that’s another story—a story told in “The Legend of Cabbage Face.”*
On the list, Number 4, He worked for the King, and Number 6, He lived in a tent, seemed to be the only items of information that might help at the moment.
The King, Cass assumed, lived not in a tent but in a palace or castle. (What was the difference, anyway?)* This palace or castle, Cass could hear Max-Ernest saying, would be the logical first place to look for the Jester. If the Jester wasn’t there, she might find him in his tent nearby.
So the question was: where was the palace? (She dropped the words or castle for the sake of brevity. And because Max-Ernest wasn’t really listening to her thoughts—not that she was aware of, anyway.) Being invisible, she couldn’t very well ask for directions.
There were no signs, unfortunately. The market might
have looked like a Renaissance faire, but there were no helpful markers stuck in the ground with arrows pointing one way to the King’s palace, the other way to Ye Olde Pizza Stand.
Which way had she come from? That would be a place to start. Since she hadn’t seen a palace on her way into town, maybe she should try the opposite direction?
Before she could start retracing her steps, a trumpet sounded.
“Make way! Make way! The Duke is on parade and he brings gifts for the King!”
All at once the crowd of people in the market divided in two. Some grumbled in annoyance, others chattered with excitement, but everyone stepped aside as if there were no option but to obey.
A moment later, a long procession started passing through.
Cass surveyed the participants through the Double Monocle. First came a series of soldiers on foot—footmen, she presumed, unless the word had a more specific meaning? They held curving swords and wore puffy pants—knickers, Cass wanted to call them—that ended at the knee.
Then there were the knights on horseback. They were in full armor and gleamed in the sun. Long swords and longer javelins hung at their sides, ready and waiting for the next joust.
“Whoa, boy!” “Tally-ho!” they shouted to their horses.
Also on horseback were several finely dressed men and women who would simply be called lords and ladies in a Renaissance faire, but who in actuality, Cass figured, had more specific names and titles. They did not call out to the crowd but rather chattered and gossiped among themselves, teasing one another and cooling themselves with fans, their stiff ruffled collars moving only slightly in the breeze.
Who were they? The Duke’s family? Princes and princesses? Watching them pass by was like looking into a history book without being able to read the text. The images meant nothing without captions explaining them.
In the very middle of the procession was a large wooden chest studded with brass on all sides and held aloft by four muscle-bound soldiers. They grunted with effort and counted rhythmically—“one two three four, one two three four”—to synchronize their steps.
Around Cass, peasants grumbled at the sight of the chest:
“Gifts for the King, he says? More like duty for the King.”
“’Tis not a gift if you demand it!”
“Ah, don’t shed a tear for the Duke! He can afford it.”
“’Course he can—he takes all our profits!”
I wonder what’s inside that chest, Cass thought, edging closer to the procession. She examined the chest through the monocle. There was something about the lock—it was large and ornate and resembled a coat of arms—that told her more than simply money lay inside. In any case, the chest was headed for the King. So she would follow it to the palace. And, with any luck, to the Jester.
Her invisibility gave her great freedom of movement, and she was about to fall into place behind the last footman when a funny thing happened in front of her: a head—a man’s head, to be more precise—peeked out of a barrel of onions that sat, seemingly abandoned, at the edge of the market.
Surprised—and momentarily overwhelmed by the scent of onions—Cass exhaled loudly.
The man wheeled around and looked straight in her direction. He was wearing a black mask over the top half of his face while the bottom half was covered by some rather angry-looking whiskers. He held a large axe in his hand. Were it not for the sticks of hay and assorted onion skins sticking out of his hair, he would have looked very sinister.
Cass tried not to flinch, reminding herself he couldn’t see her.
Frowning, the masked man turned back and quietly stepped out of the barrel. He gestured silently to his right and Cass saw another man step out of a sack of potatoes. Still another man stepped out from behind an apple cart.
Afraid to make a noise, Cass watched, transfixed. It was clear that these three men were about to embark on some kind of illicit, probably criminal activity—but what activity in particular, she had no idea.
Suddenly the sound of a galloping horse drowned out all the other noise in the market.
Looking over her shoulder, Cass saw another masked figure thundering toward her on a tall black steed. The horse’s neck was bent low, his long black mane flying in the wind. Matching the horse’s posture, the rider was also bent forward, long dark hair flying. Around them, carts overturned, cages sprung open, people scattered, but horse and rider seemed to occupy their own universe, so fast-moving that in comparison, the rest of the market seemed to exist in slow motion. And yet with her monocle, Cass could see every inch of horse and rider as if time had stopped altogether.
The horse came closer—a living cyclone of clattering hooves, flared nostrils, and gleaming muscles—and for a brief second Cass caught a glimpse of the masked rider. It was a woman, a beautiful woman, her lips pursed in concentration.
“Anastasia…! Anastasia…!” The name rippled through the crowd, repeated like an incantation.
A moment later, the horse was hurtling toward the procession.
It all happened so fast, nobody seemed to know where to turn. There were screams and shouts and commotion. Soldiers waving swords. Horses spinning in circles. Ladies (and even a lord or two) fainting in fright.
Within seconds, the big wooden chest was on the ground. The bewhiskered bandit, a few onion skins still stuck to his hair, dropped his heavy axe down on the lid of the chest, breaking the big brass lock. The soldiers who’d been carrying the chest watched helplessly, their hands tied behind their backs.
Quickly and deftly, the masked woman—Anastasia—tossed ruby rings and emerald necklaces, silver goblets and golden candlesticks, to each of her masked cohorts in turn. Now on horseback themselves, they caught the glittering booty with outstretched hands, then urged their horses away from the market, in the direction of the neighboring woods.
“What’s this—?” Her axe-wielding companion opened a small wooden box and held up a jagged black rock. The rock was about the size of a cantaloupe and had thin veins of gold running through it.
“It is ugly, but it must be very valuable,” said Anastasia, ripping open a heavy bag and finding it full of gold coins. “Otherwise the Duke would not dare send it to the King.”
As she spoke, coins started flying out of the bag and landing on the mysterious rock. Reins, spurs, chains, every bit of metal in the vicinity seemed to be drawn to it. Soon the rock was covered with a small mountain of metal.
Cass watched from the crowd. Through the lenses of the Double Monocle, the rock had a unique bluish glow. It seemed almost to pulsate. Was she imagining it, or could she feel the monocle being tugged in the rock’s direction?
Anastasia stared at the rock. “I have never seen the like….”
Experimentally, her bandit colleague brushed away coins, making a clear patch. He brought his axe close to the rock—it stuck to the rock with a clang.
“What power!” he said, pulling them apart. “It is the stone of a sorcerer—do you think it is cursed?”
“Nonsense. There is a much simpler explanation, I am sure,” said Anastasia. “Put it away, Thomas—there will be time to play later. Take the chest with you. It’s nearly empty now.”
Eyeing the rock with more than a hint of nervousness, the masked man—Thomas—carefully placed it inside his rucksack. Then he strapped the big wooden chest onto the back of the nearest horse, jumped on, and galloped away.
Meanwhile, Anastasia had raised another bag of coins above her head.
“And now I give back to the people what is theirs!” She spun the bag around with a flourish, raining gold coins on the cheering crowd.
“Anastasia…! Hooray for Anastasia…!” they chanted.
Her horse reared, tossing his thick black mane in the air so that it was backlit by the sun. As she brought her horse down onto four legs, the mysteriously generous thief tossed her own black mane in similar fashion. Then she, too, galloped away, following her bandit comrades into the woods.
Cass watched wist
fully through the Double Monocle. She felt an unexpected yearning to follow after this daring woman and her band of thieves. But her job lay elsewhere.
With a sigh, she lowered the monocle. She turned back toward the procession—or what remained of the procession after the robbers had done their work—and prepared to follow it to the palace.
Hear Ye! Hear Ye!
All lads and lasses of the
Xxxxx School are hereby summoned to
Her Majesty’s court at the
Renaissance Faire on Friday, October 10.
Be there, or a pox be upon you!
Prize for best costume will be awarded by
Queen Elizabeth herself.
School Field Trip sponsored by Medieval Days Family Restaurants.
Eat, Drink, and Be Medieval!
The yellow flyer showed a picture of a pair of knights jousting on horseback.
Max-Ernest shook his head. “Why doesn’t anybody ever know the difference between Renaissance and medieval?” he muttered to himself. “They’re almost exact opposites—”
The Xxxxx School visited the Renaissance Faire every fall; it was the first big event of the season, coming about a month after the start of school. Usually Max-Ernest was excited for Ren-Faire. He’d never worn a costume, but he always found something to be interested in: whether it be solving obscure Renaissance riddles or distinguishing between English and Italian styles of armor. This year, he couldn’t have been less interested in the annual field trip. As far as he was concerned, with Cass’s life on the line, it was no time for merriment. And if he absolutely had to take a trip to the Renaissance, he would have preferred that it be to the real Renaissance—so he could retrieve Cass in person. That is, assuming she’d made it all the way back to the Jester’s time and hadn’t gotten stuck at her mother’s high school prom.
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