“These are the notes of Professor Benjamin Amadeus Franklyn,” he said slowly, bent over the parchment, “detailing the final records of the events of this night, October the eighth, eighteen fiftynine, the last night of Professor Ignatius Magnussen, formerly a valued teacher at this institution, and a friend…”
Franklyn stopped and looked up, almost as if he’d heard the boys’ scuffling footsteps. James froze in place, but then he realized that the vision of Franklyn was merely pausing to think. His eyes were bright behind his square spectacles. After a long moment, he drew a breath and leaned over the parchment again.
“The flames still burn in the foundation of the house Ignatius Magnussen once called home. How the fire began, no one knows for sure. I myself suspect a deliberate causation, perhaps even set by the professor himself. The mob that preceded the fire was maddened beyond reason and did nothing to extinguish the flames once they appeared. I am dismayed to announce that there were many in tonight’s assembly who wished to see Magnussen’s corpse pulled from the dying flames, killed as surely as the fire destroyed his home. Preliminary observation of the ruins, however, has revealed no trace of the professor’s body. I have no doubt that further searches over the coming days will prove equally unsuccessful. Magnussen is not here. He has escaped, probably during the very height of the fire, while the vengeance-seeking riot was in full fever.”
Franklyn stopped writing again. He put down the quill and pushed his hand up under his spectacles, rubbing his eyes wearily. He didn’t seem to want to go on, but after a moment, he retrieved the quill and began again, speaking the words aloud as he wrote them.
“Where Ignatius Magnussen has gone, I cannot begin to guess. Surely, he has by now accomplished what he swore was his destiny: he has retraced his steps through the Nexus Curtain, into whatever unknowable realm lies beyond. I believe it is likely that from that realm he will never return, thus I wish to record what I now know of his most recent endeavors. Unfortunately, my interviews with the professor over the previous two days revealed very little useful information. There are only two details worth remembering. The first was his riddle regarding how he learned to open the Nexus Curtain. He told me, and I quote…”
Franklyn paused again and retrieved another parchment from the table next to him. He studied it closely, adjusting his spectacles. James noticed that the woman’s boot was sitting in the darkness beneath the table, leaning against one of the chair’s thin spindly legs.
“And I quote,” Franklyn went on, putting his quill to the parchment before him, “‘The truth walked the halls of Erebus Castle. It was there all along, for anyone to see.’ I myself have walked those halls for well over a century, and have not met anyone or anything that spoke of the paths of the Nexus Curtain. If there is any truth in Magnussen’s claim, then it is carefully hidden and will require further study.”
James turned to Zane, his eyes widening. “Erebus Castle is the home of Vampire House, right?” he whispered.
Zane nodded. “We can get in and explore around a bit, if Lucy lets us.”
“Shh,” Ralph hissed, leaning closer to the ghostly vision of Benjamin Franklyn.
“The second detail is, I fear, an even more obscure riddle. When asked where the Nexus Curtain was, Magnussen only smiled and said nothing. This, of course, is the detail which concerns me most since if what the professor claims is true, then he has succeeded in breaching the divide into the World Between the Worlds. I fear less the dimensional instabilities that might be created by such a rift. More, I fear what may come through into our own dimension from those beyond. My entreaties to Magnussen—that the boundaries between the worlds are there for good reason, to establish barriers between incompatible realities—fell entirely upon deaf ears. Finally, however, late last night, Professor Magnussen gave me an answer to my question, although I suspect that it is as useless as anything that might be provided by his damned Octosphere. When pressed about the location of the Nexus Curtain, he finally smiled and told me,” here, Franklyn made a weary but passable imitation of Magnussen’s accent, “‘It lies within the eyes of Rowbitz.’”
He paused once more, rereading what he had written. With a sigh, he began to write again.
“The riddle is intentionally misleading and probably hopelessly obscure, and yet I know the professor well enough to know that he would not merely lie. He is too arrogant not to have offered up a valid clue, even if it would be impossible to solve. In time, I will study both of these quotes, in the hopes of finding the Nexus Curtain, and closing it forever. For now, however, I find that my duties must revolve around the more immediate concerns of calming the school and explaining myself to Arbiter Douglas Treete. I have failed in my duties… in more ways than one.”
Franklyn sighed deeply, put down his quill, and carefully folded the parchment he had written upon. When he was done, he retrieved the small boot from the floor next to him, slipped the folded parchment into it, and then tapped the boot with his wand.
The vision evaporated in a puff of dry smoke, returning the Hall of the Disrecorder to its normal dimness.
Immediately, Zane tucked the skull under his arm, turned around, and reached for the old boot that sat atop the stone pedestal. He peered inside it.
“It’s still there!” he said, smiling. “Franklyn’s old note! Parchment feels like it’ll crumble to bits if I pull it out, though. Cheshire and the catalog crew probably would have preserved it somehow if they’d known it was there.”
“The Nexus Curtain lies within the eyes of Rowbitz,” Ralph said thoughtfully. “Any ideas who Rowbitz is?”
Zane scrunched his face up with concentration. “It rings a bell, actually. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“And we can ask Lucy about letting us look around the halls of Erebus Castle,” James added. “We have two clues to go on. Not bad.”
“Wait a minute,” Ralph said, shaking his head. “If these clues were solvable, don’t you think that Chancellor Franklyn would have figured them out by now?”
Zane glanced at Ralph, thinking. “How do we know he didn’t?”
“What do you mean?” James asked.
“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time somebody had discovered some terrible secret and then just sat on it. You heard him in the vision. Even if he did find out the secrets of the Nexus Curtain, it wasn’t like he wanted to go out and share it with the world. He just wanted to shut it down or guard it, so nothing could get through from either side.”
“Including us, maybe?” Ralph said, raising his eyebrows.
James shook his head. “Maybe, but I doubt it. If Franklyn had figured out the truth of the Nexus Curtain, I think he’d have told us when we asked him about it. I mean, he obviously doesn’t want anyone snooping around about it, right? If he’d found it and shut it down, he’d just say so.”
Ralph frowned. “Why?”
“Because,” Zane answered, “we’re just a bunch of curious kids, right? If he could have killed the mystery for us by telling us that he’d already found the Nexus Curtain and closed it for good, then there’d be nothing left for us to be curious about. Set and spike. Good one, James.”
Ralph picked up the boot again. “Let’s take the relics back down to the restricted section and get out of here. I’ve had enough creepy mystery for now.”
Zane nodded. “Come on, then. We still have time to look up this Rowbitz dude tonight.”
“I’ll just wait up here, if you don’t mind,” James announced, shuffling his feet a little.
Zane glanced back, one eyebrow raised. “Sure, all right. What’s the matter? You still hinky about Patches hiding out in the shelves?”
James shook his head. “No. I just… there’s only the two relics. You guys don’t really need me. Hurry back, all right?”
Ralph nodded. “The sooner the better. Come on.”
A moment later, the door to the Archive’s lower levels eased shut, leaving James alone in the hall of the Disrecorder.
He
waited for a moment, listening intently, and then, when he was sure that Ralph and Zane had begun their descent to the restricted area, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans.
He’d been carrying Petra’s dream story around in his pocket for days, folded into its seamless packet and encased in a plastic bag that he’d found in the kitchen of Apollo Mansion. He didn’t know for sure why he had started keeping it with him, except that it seemed safer, somehow. He held the plastic bag gingerly between his thumb and forefinger and turned toward the Disrecorder.
The idea had come to him while they’d been watching the vision of Franklyn. The Disrecorder was only supposed to work on objects that had been especially enchanted, of course, but James couldn’t help wondering. Ever since he had saved Petra’s life on the back the Gwyndemere, the dream story had become too magical for him to touch directly. Perhaps, however, it was just magical enough to trigger something in the Disrecorder, something James could make sense of. James couldn’t guess why Petra and her dream story seemed to possess such strange magical intensity, but he meant to find out. Even if it meant that he was, essentially, spying on her dreams. Gingerly, he tipped the plastic bag upside down over the stone bowl.
The parchment packet tumbled out and fell into the bowl with a tiny thump.
A gust of dry wind pushed past James suddenly, whipping his hair and forcing him to squint. He turned around on the spot, and dull brightness filled his vision. He was in daylight, standing atop a grassy plateau. The hall of the Archive had completely vanished. Even the stone pedestal of the Disrecorder itself was gone. This, James realized, was no hazy vision; it felt utterly solid, and yet surreal, as if every blade of dead grass was watching him and every cloud in the low, heaving sky was glowering down at him, coldly angry. The featureless grass of the plateau stretched away in all directions and James realized that the plateau was actually an island, surrounded by craggy cliffs. Slate grey waves slammed against the cliffs, sending spray up into the windy air.
And of course, there was the castle, jutting up in the near distance. It was made of black stone, small but so tall, so encrusted with towers and turrets, that it seemed to claw at the cloudy sky. The structure loomed over the edge of the cliff, as if the rocks had eroded away beneath it, and yet the castle still stood, held up by sheer bloody-minded determination.
Someone was watching from the darkness of the castle. James sensed the weight of their gaze like hot stones on his skin. He peered up at the castle, shading his eyes against the grey light. A figure was standing on a high balcony, obscured in shadow.
I have come, a voice said. The words echoed over the grassy plateau like thunder. I watch and I wait. My time is very near. I am the Sorceress Queen. I am the Princess of Chaos.
James strained his eyes, trying to see past the shadowy dimness of the balcony. He could barely make out the figure except that it appeared to be a woman. Her hair streamed darkly in the wind. When she spoke again, a slow chill came over James, freezing him to the spot. His eyes widened, and the vision began to intensify, to bleed and pulse, to shred apart, but the words rang on, echoing louder and louder, pounding James’ ears to the point of pain.
I watch and I wait, the voice repeated. My name will be known throughout all of the destinies. My name… is Morgan. She who strides between the worlds.
The vision shattered and flew apart. Darkness swirled, compressed, and vanished into a single dark point, which hovered over the pedestal of the Disrecorder like a hole in space. A moment later, even that winked from view.
James stood rooted to the floor of the hall, his hair sticking up and his heart pounding.
It’s just a dream, he told himself, repeating the words over and over. It’s just that part of Petra’s mind—the Morgan part—wanting to get out. Petra has it locked away, imprisoned, under control. That’s all it is. That must be all it is…
James shuddered violently, remembering the hopeless toll of that dreaming voice.
Footsteps approached, accompanied echoing voices; Zane and Ralph were returning. Quickly, James stepped forward to retrieve the dream story, but then he stopped, his eyes widening.
The bowl of the Disrecorder was empty. Petra’s dream story had completely vanished.
15. THE STAR OF CONVERGENCE
Now that the Alma Aleron Halloween Ball had officially come and gone, the campus got down to the serious business of unwinding toward the winter holidays.
No sooner had the floating pumpkins in the cafeteria been taken down than a collection of papier-mâché turkeys and strange buckled hats had gone up in their place. Thanksgiving, the holiday that, according to Professor Sanuye, celebrated the successful harvest of the first American pilgrims (with the help and cooperation of the Native Americans whom they’d met there) seemed to be a surprisingly big deal among the Alma Aleron students and faculty. Most of them were making plans to go home over the long weekend, where they would apparently eat lots of roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, and pumpkin pie and listen to or attend a lot of commemorative sporting events, including a blockbuster professional Clutchcudgel match known as the Superbrawl.
Curious about the details of such a quintessentially American holiday, James and Ralph shamelessly invited themselves to Zane’s family home near St. Louis, Missouri for the Walker’s Thanksgiving dinner. Zane’s father, communicating via James’ owl, Nobby, happily agreed to host the boys.
Thus, on the last weekend of November, the three boys traveled by train to a small old station in the quaint little city of Kirkwood, which Zane proudly proclaimed as ‘the first official suburb of St. Louis’. This fact was woefully lost on James and Ralph, however, who were both preoccupied with the narrow, snow-dusted streets and brightly lit Christmas decorations that adorned the city’s lampposts. As the three boys waited in the purple dusk for Zane’s parents to pick them up, they peered across the street to where a gaggle of gaily dressed Muggles milled around an artificial forest of neatly cut and arranged pine trees. Occasionally, a minivan or car would motor out onto the street with one of the trees tied to the roof by a length of twine.
“People around here get started early with their Christmases, don’t they?” Ralph said with a happy smile. “I could get used to that, I bet.”
“That’s nothing,” Zane replied. “There’s a family in the block next to my house that leaves their Christmas tree up all year long. True story.”
James frowned. “Are they magical folk?”
“Nah,” Zane answered easily. “They’re just weird. Here comes my mom!”
The boys waved and collected their duffle bags as a white car pulled into the circle drive that fronted the train station. It still gave James an odd sensation whenever he saw someone driving from the left side of the car, but Zane, of course, thought nothing of it. He climbed into the front seat with his mother, an attractive blonde woman wearing tortoise-shell glasses. She smiled back at Ralph and James as they clambered into the back.
“Hi boys,” she announced, offering each one a cookie from a paper bag. “Welcome to Kirkwood. Hope you’re hungry.”
“I am,” Ralph agreed eagerly. “Mmm! Chocolate chip cookies. And are those chunks of cherry?”
“Still hot too!” Zane nodded, his mouth full.
“Just came out of the oven ten minutes ago,” Zane’s mother concurred, steering the car back out onto the street. “Greer stayed home with her father, watching the last batch, but she’s just as excited as we are to have you all over for the holiday.”
James watched the small town unroll past the windows of the car until they reached a neighborhood of little houses and neat yards, not unlike the area surrounding the Alma Aleron gate. Zane’s mother slowed and angled up a short drive toward a simple stone house perched on a hill.
“Home sweet home!” Zane announced eagerly, already opening his door. “Dad’s got the fire going, I bet!”
“That’s not very hard,” his mother commented. “It’s a gas fireplace. But I’m sure you’re right.”
As the four climbed out of the car, the back door of the house swept open and a head of curly blonde hair poked out, lit brightly by the overhead light.
“Dad’s carving the turkey,” the girl called, “but I can’t get him to stop eating it as he goes. You better get in here right away.”
Zane’s mother sighed with weary affection.
“Hi Greer!” Zane called to his younger sister, waving, and then turned to James and Ralph, shaking his head happily. “Some things never change. Come on inside, I’ll show you my room!”
Thanksgiving at the Walker family home turned out to be not unlike any family gathering that James had known back at Marble Arch. The dining room was rather small, and by the time Zane’s aunt and uncle had arrived with their two younger children, the house rang with a cacophony of overlapping sounds: laughter and conversation, the clank of dishes, the burble of Christmas carols from the kitchen radio, the staccato of clambering footsteps as Zane’s cousins and sister ran about the small house. Zane and Ralph spent a goodly amount of time playing video games on the family television, although James could never quite get the hang of them. The food was excellent and apparently never-ending, so that by Thanksgiving evening, James felt utterly stuffed. The family gathered around the table to play board games and James joined in, even though he had never heard of any of the games, and had no idea how to play them.
“Sorry, James,” Zane announced happily as James marched his marker around the board. “You owe me two hundred bucks. Enjoy your commute, and thank you for patronizing Reading Railroad.”
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