Stealing Magic

by Marianne Malone

  “But what if Dora comes back?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Jack replied.

  “You’re right.” But Ruthie couldn’t shake the unease. It was something about how Dora had insisted the stepladder be left. She was trying to follow Mrs. McVittie’s instruction about observing, and she told herself to remember this.

  They decided it would be quicker to be big again, since Louisa’s room was near the other end of the corridor. Jack took the metal square out of his pocket.

  He held out his hand, the square in his palm. Luckily, this time the process seemed faster, with no stopping or slowing in the middle. Perhaps the thing was just getting warmed up.

  At E27, Ruthie reached into her bag, lifted out the string ladder, and hung it from the ledge. “I’ve got the clothes in here too.” She pulled out the tightly folded dress for her and the shirt and pants for Jack. They turned their backs to change, not facing each other until they both said, “Ready.”

  Ruthie looked at Jack and was surprised at how the 1930s clothing changed him.

  Jack looked at Ruthie and said, “Weird!”

  “Our shoes are all wrong. I couldn’t fit the vintage ones in my messenger bag,” Ruthie said.

  “We’ll just say they’re what everyone in America wears,” Jack advised. “If anyone cares. Let’s get small.”

  They held hands, and Jack put the square in her free one. The breeze began, their new “old” clothes adjusted, and they shrank even more smoothly, more like with Christina’s key. The magic in the square seemed fully awakened now.

  They scampered up the ladder and climbed onto the ledge. Peering around the framework, they could see the roof garden of the beautiful Parisian library. No one in the gallery was looking at that moment, so they dashed across the room and out the door to the balcony. They flew down and around the spiral staircase, barely making contact with the steps. In no time they were out on the sidewalks of Paris.

  Except for their sneakers, Ruthie and Jack looked as if they belonged among the Parisians of 1937. The streets were filled with people, just as they had been the last time, only now the two barely took note, wanting to find Louisa as fast as they could. They made their way quickly to the Jardins du Trocadéro and down the broad steps, and then they took a right turn to find Louisa’s street, rue Le Tasse.

  “Do you remember the address?” Jack asked.

  “I’m pretty sure it was number seven. And she said it was the second from the end,” Ruthie answered.

  They passed eight or nine doorways, each of beautifully carved wood. They were all quite large and most had big, round brass knobs centered right in the middle, nothing like American front doors. Every door was unique; some had fine carvings, others were rather plain. They came to number seven and saw the metal nameplate next to a door buzzer.

  “There it is—‘Meyer, fourth floor,’ ” Ruthie read. Jack lifted his finger to push, but Ruthie grabbed his arm. “Wait—we haven’t even planned what we’re going to say to them.”

  Jack shrugged. “Easy. We’ll say our dad is a businessman—”

  “What kind of businessman?” Ruthie interrupted. “Import-export,” he said off the top of his head.

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s exactly what it sounds like; buying and selling stuff from different countries. I’m sure it will work. Anyway, we’ll tell them our dad talks to important businesspeople all over the world. We’ll say that when we told him we met Louisa in the park the other day, he said he hoped they weren’t planning on staying in Paris, that Jewish people need to go to England or the United States as soon as they can to be safe from the Nazis. Simple.”

  “What if they don’t believe us?”

  “If we don’t ring this doorbell, we’ll never find out if they believe us or not.” He pushed the button.

  They waited. Jack pushed the button once more. No answer. And then a third time. Neither one of them had considered the possibility that no one would be home.

  Just then, a woman leaned out of the ground-floor window right next to where they were standing. She was a rough-looking woman, her weathered face a stark contrast to the white lace curtains and red geraniums in the window boxes that framed her.

  “Vous cherchez quelqu’un?” the woman said brusquely. Ruthie froze as Jack looked at her for a response.

  “Répétez, s’il vous plaît.” Ruthie figured asking the woman to repeat herself would at least buy her some time.

  The woman said it again, barely any slower but definitely louder. Ruthie’s brain kicked in and she smiled.

  “Nous cherchons la famille Meyer, s’il vous plaît.” Turning to Jack, she translated, “We’re looking for the Meyer family.”

  “La famille Meyer n’est pas ici!” the woman said harshly.

  “They’re not here?” Ruthie repeated in English. Then she quickly tried to ask in French where they were. “Où sont-ils?”

  “À la campagne. Ils reviendront vendredi.”

  “What’d she say?” Jack asked.

  “They’re in the country. And something about Friday, I think.” Ruthie really wasn’t certain. “Vendredi?” she asked the woman again.

  “Oui! J’ai dit vendredi,” the woman said, and blew air through her lips as she shooed them away like flies.

  “You don’t have to know French to figure out she wasn’t being friendly,” Jack commented when the woman had disappeared behind the curtains. They heard the sound of a radio coming from inside, getting louder as if telling them to leave. “So what do you think she said?”

  “I’m pretty sure—but not positive—she said the Meyer family has gone to the country and will be back Friday.” Ruthie let out a big sigh.

  This mission was weighing on her. It felt like such a huge responsibility, and she wanted to know that she had done her job and that Louisa would be safe.

  “Hey, we’ll just come back Saturday, then,” he said, eternally optimistic. “We’re going to that big gala thing with my mom. We can sneak in then.”

  “But are we sure it will be Saturday here?” Ruthie questioned.

  “When we went back to visit Sophie, the time had passed the same as our time. Remember?” Jack reasoned.

  “True.”

  “Besides, we don’t have any other choice, do we?”

  JACK CHECKED HIS WATCH. “MY mom isn’t expecting us until dinner. We’ve still got plenty of time to check out the South Carolina room to see if the handbag really comes from there.”

  “While we’re on the American side, let’s go see if we can find out anything about where Thomas’ Mayflower might be. You know, like Mrs. McVittie told us to do—look again and find clues,” Ruthie suggested.

  As they retraced their steps along the streets of Paris, Ruthie observed that many of the windows had well-tended flower boxes. Shops had beautifully lettered signs with pictures describing what kind of business it was: bakery signs showed cakes, others displayed paintings of yummy-looking cheese, or elegant shoes and hats. Paris seemed like a wonderful place to live, with all the people strolling on the broad sidewalks and enjoying themselves in sidewalk cafés and restaurants. She thought how awful it must have felt when the Nazis occupied the city and how horrible it would have been if they’d never been driven out. Could something like that ever happen in her life, in Chicago? She couldn’t imagine it; it was unthinkable.

  They hiked up the spiral staircase and in no time were back in the corridor and leaping from the ledge. At their full size, they rolled up the ladder and stuffed it in Ruthie’s bag. They found their clothes right where they had left them and changed again before heading toward the duct-tape climbing strip.

  The strip allowed them to reach the air vent leading to the duct that ran above the ceiling, over the viewing space. They could pass through it to get to the access corridor for the American rooms. The vent measured roughly two feet wide by ten inches tall, so they had to be small to fit. It was also about eight feet from the ground, which didn’t seem so high when
they were full-sized. But when they were small, the scale change was daunting—it was like climbing a nine-story building. Ruthie marveled with pride at her creation, with its two strips of tape securing the middle one, which had the adhesive side out. At the base of the strip, Jack held Ruthie’s hand, the metal square between their palms, and they shrank. The climb was incredibly long, but it was the only way.

  Ruthie shifted her messenger bag so that it sat squarely on her back, and she started climbing by pressing her hands to the sticky path. Then she lifted her toes to the strip. She hadn’t forgotten how to do it: release only one hand or foot at a time for stability. Left hand, right hand, left foot, right foot, over and over. Jack followed behind her. She was surprised at how well they both clambered up the wall, as if they did it every day.

  The climbing strip was still in good condition, but it had picked up a layer of dust, which to their tiny hands felt pretty chunky, like bread crumbs. Hand over hand they neared the top. When they were just about at the air vent, they heard the distinct sound of the key in the lock.

  “Quick, into the vent!” Jack directed. Ruthie was already doing just that. They lay flat on their stomachs, peering over the edge into the immense space below. They saw two men in maintenance clothes, one carrying a toolbox, walking in their direction. The two climbers knew they were in trouble.

  “It’s somewhere along here, near a vent,” one man said. “Look, here it is.”

  The two men were standing directly below them, inspecting the three strips of duct tape. One man scratched his head.

  “Well, that’s the darnedest thing. Can’t imagine what it’s for.” Their eyes followed the strips from the floor all the way up to the vent. Ruthie and Jack withdrew out of sight.

  Opening the toolbox, the men pulled out two flat-edged scrapers, using them to pry the tape from the wall. “Gonna take some time,” one said as they began dismantling the only escape route Ruthie and Jack had.

  They crawled farther into the darkness of the vent. “That’s not good,” Jack whispered.

  “Let’s just hope they haven’t been in the American corridor yet and taken down our climbing strip on that side,” Ruthie whispered back.

  “We’ll have to jump if it’s gone.”

  Ruthie groaned, remembering how hard they had hit the floor the last time they’d had to do that. “Might as well keep going.” She stood up. “Do you have your flashlight?”

  “Didn’t bring it this time. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” Ruthie answered. The complete darkness made them feel even smaller as they headed into it. The first time they’d made this trek they’d been knocked flat by a gust of hot air, so they were prepared when it happened again—though this time the air was cool from the air-conditioning. They heard the rumble just before it hit them, and they crouched low. With the chilled wind at their backs, they proceeded.

  About a hundred paces along they began to see faint light coming from the American rooms. They picked up speed and finally arrived at the edge. They dropped to their hands and knees and felt for the adhesive.

  “It’s still there!” Jack said. “Ready to climb down?”

  “Ready,” Ruthie responded.

  Jack went first. “Ew,” he said halfway down. Not only had dust gotten stuck on the adhesive, but a couple of flies had alighted on the sticky surface and never escaped. They measured about the length of Ruthie’s forearm. Such close-ups of dead insects were something Ruthie and Jack hadn’t expected. The prickly hairs covering the inert creatures were stiff and spiky, the eyes—with their hundreds of individual globes—appeared fake, and their jointed legs looked more like mechanical inventions.

  “But the wings are kind of beautiful,” Ruthie commented, wondering if one of them was the fly she had freed last time.

  Now on the ledge, Jack suggested they go to Thomas’ room first. They hustled along the narrow path, stopping at A1 and the entrance to the side room, the one with the two low beds.

  “Look around—do you see the ship anywhere?” Jack asked.

  There weren’t many possible places for it to be, but they checked thoroughly, including under the beds and in a small chest. Then they peered around the corner into the main room. The ship was not visible; when they had the chance, they entered the room and opened the doors of the cabinet. It was empty. They checked behind the high-back bench and then exited into the entryway that led to the outdoors—and the seventeenth century. It wasn’t in this room either. Ruthie felt tempted to go out looking for Thomas. But then she noticed something.

  “Jack, look.” She was standing at the door, looking out its window. “It’s not alive anymore.” Jack joined her. They saw a painted diorama, not the dusty street where they’d been chased by a witch-hunting mob. They looked up and even saw a lightbulb creating the daylight. “It’s like the Japanese garden.”

  “I wonder why.” They stared at the lifeless diorama. “Maybe the square isn’t bringing it to life?” Jack theorized.

  “I don’t know. It worked in the Paris room—if it was the metal square making that happen.” She looked around, breathing the stuffy air. “I think it’s something else. Remember when we read in the archives what Mrs. Thorne said about objects animating the rooms? And remember my dad told us animating can mean ‘bringing things to life’?”

  “The Mayflower,” Jack said, understanding what she meant.

  “Exactly. Maybe the really old objects—like the Mayflower and Sophie’s journal—are what make these rooms time portals. It must be! Without the Mayflower in the room, the outside isn’t alive.”

  “And Mrs. Thorne must have known.”

  “Or at least one of her craftsmen,” Ruthie suggested.

  “I’ll add that to the rules list: that something really old in the rooms animates the dioramas,” Jack noted.

  “I wonder where the ship is.” Ruthie scanned the room.

  “It’s not here,” Jack declared. “That’s for sure.”

  “And without the Mayflower in the room,” Ruthie observed, “it’s like an entire world’s been stolen.”

  Entering room A29, the South Carolina ballroom, was tricky. They had to use a side door, which was completely closed, so they couldn’t tell if anyone was looking at the room or not. They put their ears to the door, but that didn’t really help.

  The door obviously hadn’t been opened for a long time—maybe not since Mrs. McVittie and her sister had visited—and the knob felt stiff and squeaked as it turned. Ruthie gave it a nudge and immediately heard a voice from the museum. She froze with the door open a few inches.

  “Did you see that door move just now?” The voice sounded like that of an older woman.

  An older man’s voice said, “I didn’t see anything. Maybe the air-conditioning went on and there’s a bit of airflow in there.”

  “You’re probably right,” the first voice responded.

  From where they stood, Ruthie and Jack could see reflections in an oval mirror hanging on the opposite wall. It caught the tops of heads as they passed by. Watching the mirror, they waited for their moment to go in.

  Once inside, Ruthie was surprised by how small the space was; since it was called a ballroom, she expected it to feel larger. At the far end she saw an elaborately decorated piano, next to a graceful harp and another instrument that looked like a lyre (she’d seen one of those when they studied ancient Greece in school). A plump sofa covered in green silk sat beside the fireplace. Ruthie walked over to a tall wood cabinet with gold trim, near the front of the room. Behind the panes of glass the doors were curtained, hiding whatever rested on its shelves. She felt an overwhelming impulse to open it.

  A few chairs anchoring the corners of the rug had colors and designs that corresponded to the handbag. The handbag! She opened her messenger bag to check on it. Sure enough, the gems were faintly pulsing with light—not as bright as when the metal square had been hidden within the lining, but still, it was unnaturally bright. Since the metal square was in her pocket
, Ruthie wondered, what was making it glow? She was about to reach into her pocket to see if the square showed any signs of warmth when Jack grabbed her arm.

  “Uh-oh!” he pulled her across the room to a set of open French doors that led to a side porch. They hurried out just as three kids came into view through the glass.

  They found themselves standing on a grand covered porch, painted white. Though the air was still and thick—much hotter than Chicago—the sounds of birds, voices, and other street noises couldn’t be missed. This world was alive!

  They climbed the steps down from the porch and came to what looked like a freestanding front door facing the street. Neither of them had ever seen a front door that opened to a porch instead of into a house. Next to it an ornate wrought iron fence enclosed them in a very large garden adjacent to the house.

  “Where are we?” Jack asked.

  “Charleston, South Carolina, I’m pretty sure. That’s what the catalogue said. I think before 1835.”

  “Cool. That’s before the Civil War.” Jack looked up and down the street. From where they stood, they had an expansive corner view of an intersection. It looked nothing like Chicago—from any time. “Look—palm trees!”

  Besides palm trees, Ruthie and Jack saw a bustling town, with horse-drawn carts and carriages, gracious homes mostly painted white, and quite a large number of people going about their day. The women were wearing dresses with huge ruffled skirts and elaborate necklines, and bonnets on their heads. The men were wearing something like tuxedos. No one seemed to be dressed simply, despite the heat. Ruthie wanted to explore but realized that they would stand out too much in their modern clothes.

  “If this is before the Civil War, do you think some of these people are slaves?” she asked Jack, noticing the large proportion of African American faces.

  “I guess so,” Jack said. They saw dark-skinned people driving the carriages that light-skinned people were riding in. But they also saw a few people who might have been slaves who appeared to be selling goods from street corner stalls, such as handmade baskets with beautiful striped patterns.