Stealing Magic

by Marianne Malone

  Ruthie didn’t answer as she went back to the stove. She had more important things on her mind, like what was taking Jack so long. She drizzled the last of the batter into the crepe pan and watched the color slowly darken, not noticing her own tapping foot.

  “Hey, Ruthie.” Gabe walked into the kitchen. “How’s it going?”

  “Fine.” Ruthie moved the pan out and up in perfect form—almost. This time she tossed the crepe too high, making it turn not once but one and a half times, and it landed folded over on itself in the pan. Her cheeks burned as she turned to the sink. Fortunately, her mom came into the kitchen at that moment.

  “Good morning, Gabe,” she said.

  “Hi, Mrs. Stewart,” he answered.

  “Good job, Ruthie! Looks like I can retire as head crepe maker around here,” she said, admiring the full stack of fresh crepes on the table, not noticing the one going into the garbage disposal at that very moment.

  Finally the door buzzer sounded again, and Ruthie bounded for it. She slammed the intercom button.

  “Hey, it’s me.” Jack’s voice came through the speaker. Ruthie buzzed him in before he finished the short sentence.

  “What took you so long?” Ruthie demanded when he appeared in the doorway.

  “I just got up, remember?” Jack looked at her as though she were slightly crazed and then noticed the telltale smell of fresh crepes. He walked right into the kitchen smiling at everyone.

  “Good morning, Jack,” Ruthie’s mom said. “Pull up a chair.”

  “Wait. First come see what Mrs. McVittie gave me last night.” Ruthie yanked him out of the kitchen and into her room. She closed the door.

  “I’m really freaked out,” Ruthie began. “It’s like my dream was some kind of premonition. I feel like it was telling me to do something important, but I don’t know what!”

  Jack remained calm, as usual. “What did you want to show me?”

  “Oh, right.” She turned to her bureau and opened the top drawer. There among the socks lay the beaded handbag, gleaming brightly in contrast with the mostly dull socks.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Jack was underwhelmed. “It’s a purse,” he said flatly.

  “It’s an antique. Mrs. McVittie said it belonged to her sister. Last night when we were walking home, I thought I felt it warming up in my hand.”

  Jack took the small bag in his own hands for a closer inspection. “Did it only happen once?” He handed it back to her. “What about now? Do you feel anything?”

  She held it carefully and tried to sense the temperature. Was it warming in her hand? Was it glowing too brightly in the indoor lighting of her bedroom? She shook her head. “No, nothing. I probably imagined it.”

  From out in the apartment the two of them heard everyone welcoming Mrs. McVittie.

  “Let’s go to the museum today,” Jack suggested. “At least to take a look at the Japanese room and my bento box.”

  “Okay,” Ruthie agreed. “But we’d better go out and say hello.”

  Ruthie gave Mrs. McVittie a hug as soon as she saw her. The kitchen was too small for all the people who squeezed around the table. Ordinarily Ruthie would have enjoyed a Sunday morning like this, but now she just wanted to rush to the museum and check on the bento box!

  The crepes had been devoured and the newspaper had been passed around the table several times before Jack saw the article about the art thief. “Mrs. McVittie, have you read this?” he asked. “It says some pretty important art collections have been hit.”

  “Yes, I’ve read the reports. Fascinating.”

  “Why fascinating?” Ruthie asked.

  “Because art thieves are not your run-of-the-mill burglars,” she answered.

  “What do you mean?” Ruthie asked.

  “They’re very particular about what they steal. Everyone knows what a television costs, but how about a Ming Dynasty vase? And not everyone knows how to distinguish a real one from a fake. Art thieves either have expertise or are working for someone who does.”

  “Are you worried?” Jack inquired.

  “No. It’s only the high-profile collectors who’ve been burgled. People know me as a book dealer, and my shop has a security system. Don’t worry about me!”

  As brunch came to an end, Ruthie popped up out of her chair. “Jack and I are going to the Art Institute and then to his house.”

  “You know, I still haven’t seen the Thorne Rooms,” Ruthie’s mom said. “Remember, Ruthie, you promised to go through them with me one day. How about today?”

  Ruthie, horrified by the idea, tried to keep a poker face. She was casting about for some excuse when Mrs. McVittie spoke up. “I’d like to join you as well, if I may. Dan, what about you? Why don’t you come along?”

  “I’ve got to grade papers,” Mr. Stewart said with a shake of his head. “But you all go without me. You’ll have fun!”

  That was not the word Ruthie would have chosen.

  IT TURNED OUT TO BE great that Mrs. McVittie went along with them, for a couple of reasons. First, Ruthie’s mom insisted that they take a cab—something she rarely splurged on—which meant they would arrive at the museum much faster. Second, she gave Ruthie’s mom someone to talk to instead of Ruthie. Ruthie sat squashed between her mother and Mrs. McVittie in the back while Jack sat up in front with the taxi driver, chatting with him all the way.

  Heading up the stairs at the front of the museum, Jack filled her in on new trivia.

  “Did you know they don’t use knives and forks and stuff in Ethiopia when they eat?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “They wrap their food in bread that’s super thin, like your crepes.”

  “How do you know?” she asked, trying to hide her impatience.

  “The cabdriver was from Ethiopia and he told me. You never know when you might need to know something like that.”

  When they got to the lobby, Ruthie said, “You guys go ahead; I’m gonna check my backpack.” By the time she caught up with them, they had just finished the slow march down the main staircase.

  “So this is it—the famous Thorne Rooms,” Ruthie’s mom said as they stood outside the entrance of Gallery 11, on the lower level of the museum. “I finally get to see what all the fuss is about!”

  “I think you’ll find that they are remarkable,” Mrs. McVittie said.

  Just inside the gallery a docent was giving a tour.

  “Narcissa Thorne created the first set of European rooms, and then made the American rooms, mostly during the 1930s. Note that the rooms are numbered, E1 through E31 and A1 through A37. Some of the objects you’ll see are antique miniatures that she collected from all over the world; others were made to her specifications by skilled artisans in her employ. The scale of the rooms is one inch to one foot, and all the materials are real—the furniture is real wood, the fireplace mantels real marble, the candlesticks real sterling, et cetera. The only fake things are those that would have been alive or might decay—for instance, flowers and food, and the dog lying in front of the fireplace in room E1.”

  Ruthie already knew all of this, inside and out. She gazed past the tour group to see the rooms set into the walls of the gallery, just at eye level. Sixty-eight little worlds, she thought, each so perfect and complete and—perhaps—filled with more secrets to discover. They beckoned to her from behind their viewing windows. Aside from the mystery of the key and its magic powers, the rooms themselves still felt new and exciting to her, the way they had when she’d seen them for the first time on the field trip three months ago. Goose bumps rose on her skin.

  Ruthie did care about her mother’s reaction, but right now she was driven to get to the bento box. She didn’t wait for her mother and Mrs. McVittie, who wanted to look at the rooms one by one and in order. Ruthie had already turned the corner and was walking toward room E31, the Japanese room. Jack was right behind her.

  Ruthie saw it first and gasped. There in the beautiful Japanese room sat Jack�
��s bento box, in miniature. The box, which Jack had left sitting squarely on the table with the lid on, had been turned. And the lid was askew!

  “I knew something was wrong!” Ruthie said in a hushed voice.

  “I can’t see if the letter is still in it or not.” Jack tried to get a good angle. “Can you?”

  “No,” she answered.

  “Maybe a maintenance person opened the glass front, like to do some dusting, and moved it accidentally. Maybe they didn’t even see the letter.”

  “We’ve got to find out!” Ruthie insisted.

  They were speaking very softly, not wanting the steady stream of viewers to overhear. Jack dropped his voice even further, saying, “I have the keys. Both of them.” Jack was always prepared; he had the magic key and the key he had secretly copied months ago from Mr. Bell’s museum keys, the one that opened the locked doors to the access corridors that ran behind all the rooms.

  “But how can we do it? My mom’s here!” At the thought of shrinking with her mother so close by, Ruthie felt her palms turn clammy. This wasn’t something she’d planned on today.

  At that moment her mother appeared around the corner.

  “There you two are. Ruthie, you were right! Now I understand why you’ve been so bewitched by these rooms!” As her mother said the word bewitched, Mrs. McVittie smiled at Ruthie.

  “Exactly! Magic! Right, Ruthie?” Mrs. McVittie said.

  “Minerva tells me that she was about your age the first time she saw these rooms!” her mother went on. Ruthie tried to smile blankly as though she wasn’t really interested in such ancient history. In fact, she knew far more than her mother about Mrs. McVittie and her magical visit in the Thorne Rooms so many years ago.

  “Mrs. McVittie, let me show you something,” Jack broke in, taking her arm and guiding her away from Ruthie and her mother.

  “Why don’t we go back to the beginning and you can show me the ones you like best?” Ruthie’s mom suggested. That was the last thing Ruthie wanted to do at the moment. She only hoped that Jack would come back and interrupt them—soon.

  They walked along, following the European rooms in order, her mother pointing out details that Ruthie knew so well: the candle stand from the castle room, E16, that Jack had used to fight off the cockroach; the ornately carved cabinet from E17 where she had discovered Mr. Bell’s photo album; the cozy French bedroom, E22, where she and Jack had found the clothes from that time. She had to bite her tongue as she gazed into the rooms, reminding herself that her mother knew nothing about her adventures.

  “This might be my favorite one yet: the French Revolutionary period!” her mother said. It was E24, Sophie’s room. Ruthie tried not to overreact as she viewed the many-drawered desk she had sat at, with Sophie’s journal right where she’d left it.

  “The view through the windows is wonderful too.” Her mother pointed to the painted dioramas that allowed glimpses of the outdoors. Ruthie spied eighteenth-century France from beyond the balcony curtains. Silently she relived the moment when she had first discovered the painted exterior was alive—when she and Jack had stepped out into that world and met Sophie. How strange it felt now to be standing outside looking in! Even without the necessity of retrieving the bento box and the letter, looking at the rooms like this made her realize that she wanted more adventures in them. There was so much exploring to do!

  It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes—although it felt much longer to Ruthie—before Jack and Mrs. McVittie reappeared alongside them. Mrs. McVittie held a linen handkerchief to her forehead.

  “Minerva, are you feeling all right?” Ruthie’s mom asked.

  “Helen, would you take me to the ladies’ room? I think I need to sit for a few minutes.” Mrs. McVittie’s voice sounded weak.

  “Are you sure? I could take you home,” she offered.

  “No, no; it’s just a little spell. There’s a comfortable bench in there. I’ll be fine if you keep me company until it passes,” Mrs. McVittie assured her.

  “She’s totally faking,” Jack explained as soon as the two women were out of the exhibition. “I told her everything. We have about fifteen, twenty minutes, max!”

  Ruthie and Jack quickly backtracked to the little alcove that held the locked door to the European rooms’ access corridor. The Thorne Rooms are displayed in Gallery 11 in two parts: the European rooms are installed along the perimeter walls, and the American rooms are in a U-shaped island in the middle of the gallery. Each has a corridor running behind the rooms that is off-limits to the public. To reach the Japanese room, which was the very last one, and check the bento box, Ruthie and Jack needed to get into the European corridor and follow it to the end.

  “We can’t unlock the door—there are too many people around,” Jack said.

  Ruthie looked about. The gallery was fairly crowded.

  “Okay, this is how we’ll do it,” she suggested. “Since it only takes a second or two to shrink, you can stand in front of me and hand me the key right here. I’ll shrink and squeeze under the door like we did before. No one will see because it’ll be so fast and you can block me.”

  “Sounds good,” Jack agreed.

  “But wait—how will I get up to the room?” The rooms were about four feet off the ground and would be unreachable to a five-inch Ruthie. “I don’t have time to build the staircase!” she worried aloud, remembering how long it had taken her to construct stairs out of the Thorne Rooms catalogues that were stored in the corridor.

  “Ta-da!” Jack pulled out of his pocket the string-and-toothpick ladder that he’d made for their last adventure. “I thought it might come in handy! But you’ll have to climb fast.”

  “And when I need to come out,” Ruthie continued, “I’ll look for you, okay?”

  “Yeah. Just peek under first, to make sure no one’s around. I might not be able to get here. If I’m not here, just leave the key there.” He pointed to the floor near the door hinge. “I’ll come back and get it right away.” Ruthie couldn’t hold the key without shrinking like Jack could—at least not so close to the corridor—so he would have to be the one to pick it up.

  Ruthie thought that was a pretty good idea, and she was almost sure she could accomplish what needed to be done in the brief time she had. But she worried about the magic. After all, it had been a few months since she had held the key and had its magic act on her. What if it didn’t work anymore?

  Ruthie and Jack hovered near the alcove. Trying not to arouse suspicion, he slyly handed her the string ladder to put in her own pocket so it would shrink with her. He held the key in his own hand.

  They waited. It seemed as though everyone in Chicago had chosen this day to come to the Thorne Rooms. Nearly three precious minutes passed before finally there was a break in the crowd, with no one looking in their direction. Jack stepped in front of Ruthie and swiftly pressed the key into her palm.

  She gripped the key, her fingers wrapping tightly around it. Please let it work, Ruthie thought fleetingly. But the worries flew from her head in less than an instant. She had almost forgotten the sensations involved in the shrinking process. In a split second, a gentle breeze began to blow her hair. Her clothes caught up to her new size as she got smaller and smaller; she perceived what she thought must be the minute sound of threads crinkling. Her skin temporarily tightened ever so slightly and her muscles contracted as she shrank under the unstoppable force of the magic. Jack and the room melted into a weird expanding blur around her. When the process stopped, just a few seconds after the key had touched her palm, Ruthie stood five inches tall, and the now-enormous room came into focus. Tiny Ruthie scurried across the carpet—the loops of wool came nearly halfway up her shins—and scooted under the door.

  The immense corridor was dark and dizzying. Ruthie, as small as a mouse in the vast space, crouched with her back against the giant door and looked up to the ledge that ran behind all the rooms. That was where she needed to be in order to have access to the rooms. She wanted to pause and r
egain her equilibrium, but she had to keep moving. She stood and let the key fall from her hand so she could go back to her full size, nearly losing her balance as she regrew. She felt her clothes tighten, then expand; her muscles tingled. The ledge appeared to descend to her height right in front of her!

  Taking the rope ladder out of her pocket, she untangled it and secured it to the ledge with the little wire hooks Jack had fashioned. Then she picked up the key and let herself shrink again.

  From her vantage point down on the floor, the ladder seemed higher than she remembered, and her head spun. But she had no other option, so she started the climb. She gripped the yarn, which was as thick as rope in her tiny hands. She could barely believe her weight was being supported by toothpicks! Don’t look down, she repeated to herself until she reached the top. She hurried along the ledge and around one turn, then another, until she reached the end.

  Ruthie was out of breath by the time she reached the Japanese room. She hoped she could run in, grab the letter and the bento box and make her exit. Everything would be fine then, and she could stop worrying!

  She approached the back of the room. Tiptoeing into the small hall to the left of the main room, Ruthie listened.

  “Although Mrs. Thorne created the European rooms after her many travels there, she based the Chinese and the Japanese rooms on literary sources, having never visited Asia herself.”

  The museum docent must have stopped right in front of the room! Ruthie had no choice but to wait for her to leave. This could take forever. She worried about what would happen if her mom and Mrs. McVittie returned to the gallery before the tour moved on!

  There was nothing Ruthie could do about this, so she went back out to the corridor. The last thing she wanted was to waste what little time she had. Luckily, one of her favorite places was just three rooms away. She couldn’t resist; she decided she might as well slip in and explore for a couple of minutes rather than pace in the corridor.

  E27 was a French library from the 1930s. It was hard for Ruthie to explain why she liked this particular room so much, but it had something to do with how open the space felt with its high ceiling. And of course it had a balcony! The room was entered by way of its roof garden—a luxury she would love to have in Chicago. She was pretty sure lots of rich people’s apartments had them, but her family’s didn’t. The elegant garden was enclosed on one side by a tall limestone wall. A statue of a woman stood in front of it. There were small rectangular patches of grass and bushes trimmed into perfect globes. The voice of the docent was distant.