Knavery: A Ripple Novel (Ripple Series Book 6)

by Cidney Swanson

  Predictably, Skandor flushed.

  “How about you?” he asked, to change the subject. “What would you be doing if you weren’t … stuck in here?”

  “Me? Oh, I’ve always been stuck somewhere. The places run together.” She seemed to lose herself in memory. And it didn’t look like it was a pleasant memory.

  “Different question,” said Skandor, coming to her aid. “If you could do anything in the world—anything at all—what would it be?”

  Katrin’s unfocused gaze became clear. “Glass-blowing.”

  “As in … making stuff from hot molten glass?”

  She nodded, a few strands of her red-gold hair falling forward. She flicked them back. “I saw a demonstration on YouTube. It was a guy making tiny little horses with hooves and manes and everything and he did it so fast you would swear they sped up the video, except he was talking at a regular pace, and his mouth matched his words.”

  “Wow. That would be very cool.” And then, he added, “You know, we could get you out of here and you could learn glass-blowing.”

  Katrin laughed. This time it was a harsh sound that seemed to bounce off all the sharp angles of the tiny room.

  “What?” demanded Skandor.

  “The irony of this situation is that, given the choice, I’d rather trust you than Georg. Really, I would.”

  Skandor sat up a little straighter.

  “But it wouldn’t be right to put you in that kind of danger. Besides I can’t stand the thought of Hanna and Leopold and Michel sleeping forever. That’s no kind of life.”

  “Neither is this,” Skandor said, waving his hand to indicate the small chamber.

  “I have to wait for Georg to get back with Pfeffer, the man who knows how to wake them up.” She examined her hands. “Do you have siblings?” she asked softly.

  “No,” Skandor answered. And then, because it didn’t feel truthful and Skandor wanted very much to be truthful around Katrin, he added, “I did. A brother. He died.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He would be … fourteen. I miss him sometimes.”

  “One of my sisters—the one I was closest to—I thought she had died, but it turns out … well … she may still be alive.” Katrin was quiet for a moment. “Her name was—is Martina.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know her name?”

  “I read the letter you wrote, too. Over Georg’s shoulder.” Skandor sighed. “So I’m just as bad as Georg.”

  Katrin laughed. “Not really. I never told you not to read my letter.”

  Skandor grinned and began scraping all the bits of cookie into a pile. “So, you’re just going to … wait.”

  “Yes. But I’d much rather eat cookies with someone friendly while I wait,” she said, raising her eyes to meet his.

  She was so full of hope. So brave. Skandor felt a fullness in his chest that he couldn’t swallow away. He was slipping, sliding, falling, crashing into love. Without a climbing helmet on. This was so much more dangerous than jumping from the roof onto a twenty foot pile of leaves.

  “So,” she said, her voice soft, tentative. “I grew up in compounds that were very much like living at a camp. That’s what Uncle Fritz told us we should say, if anyone asked: say you grew up in a camp.” She looked at her hands, fidgeting in her lap. “That was during the first twenty-four hours after the inoculations were halted. Back when we all thought Uncle Fritz was a kind man who would help us through our grief.”

  She stopped speaking, shook her head, and placed her palms at rest on her knees. “You know what? Change of subject. I’d really love it if you would tell me more about Camp … Midgard.”

  Skandor nodded. He would do whatever she wanted. Talk about his home … swim across the bay … jump off a tall building…. With a flash he remembered the dream he’d had, where the two were falling, falling, falling together—fearless and free.

  “Unless you … don’t want to talk about it?” Katrin added.

  “Oh, no. I’d love to.” Skandor sat up straighter. “So, Midgard was founded by my great grandparents, when they emigrated from Germany just after the war. They wanted their children, war-orphans they’d adopted, to grow up in a healthy environment, so they bought fifty acres of land right next to Yosemite National Park where the air was so clear you could cut it up into little diamonds.” Skandor explained, “That’s what my Oma, one of the orphans, says. The air is still clear today, but there’s lots of traffic and even some light pollution occasionally.”

  “Light pollution?”

  “It’s where the night sky is bright and you can’t see the stars.”

  “Stars,” sighed Katrin. “I remember stars. We used to wish on the ones that fell.”

  “We do that at camp, too,” said Skandor. “There’s a meteor shower every second week of August. We let the campers stay up an extra three hours on the peak night for meteorites.”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Well,” said Skandor, shrugging, “the hard core star geeks would probably sneak out of their cabins if we didn’t let them stay up late.”

  “Star geeks,” said Katrin, smiling softly. “I love it. And what do your star geeks do in the day time?”

  “Oh, you can do a thousand different things at Camp Midgard,” said Skandor, his voice lifting with enthusiasm. “Well, maybe not a thousand. But more than any single camper could ever do in their three week stay even if they changed activities every day.”

  “Like what? Glass-blowing?”

  Skandor laughed. “No. Definitely not. Do you know what a fire hazard that would be? We live in a forest. We used to do jewelry making using heated metals, but we had to discontinue that, too.”

  “I’d like to make jewelry,” said Katrin, brightening. “I might pick that over glass-blowing, actually.”

  “Well, we still have jewelry as an activity. You can do beaded crafts or weave friendship bracelets or if you’re in the oldest group—that’s Alfheim cabin for girls and Vanaheim cabin for boys—you can make hammered copper or hammered silver jewelry, depending on how much money your parents put in your spending account. The campers have to pay for the silver. We include one copper bracelet in the cost of the camp.”

  “I wish I could be fourteen again,” said Katrin, dreamily. “It sounds like heaven.”

  “It’s no Asgard,” said Skandor, “but I think the campers have a lot of fun. And they lose a lot of weight.”

  “They … what?”

  “When my parents took over, about twelve years ago, the camp was losing money every year. They sold off thirty acres to a wealthy Japanese businessman who visits for one week a year, but they still couldn’t make a financial success of it. So, then they redesigned Camp Midgard as a place where overweight kids can come, have fun, and learn new habits so they don’t continue on the road to Type 2 Diabetes. Anyway, it saved the camp. Now we have to turn campers away every year.”

  “Bet your parents wish they still had that extra thirty acres.”

  Skandor nodded. “They ask Mr. Hashimoto every year if he wants to sell.”

  Katrin laughed. “And he says no?”

  “Yup. But he says it so politely you can hardly pull the ‘no’ out of the answer he gives.”

  The two were silent for several seconds.

  Then Skandor spoke. “You know, you ought to just take me up on my offer to whisk you away. You could visit Camp Midgard and make a hammered silver bracelet. And we wouldn’t charge you for it.” He smiled softly. “Oh, and Hanna, too, of course. I could take you both, one at a time.”

  Katrin shook her head. “I’m going to wait for Georg to get back. I need the passwords to wake Hanna and the others.”

  Skandor nodded. And then, because he couldn’t stand the thought of Katrin running off with a jotun like Georg, he made one last attempt to persuade her. “Georg is a liar. How can you be sure he’ll help you? He looked at your letter when you said not to. And he also lied about that necklace,” continued Skandor. “
The starfish one he tried to give you.”

  Katrin’s brows drew together. “What do you mean, he lied about the necklace? What did he lie about, exactly?”

  “Well, I’m not sure,” Skandor admitted. “I mean, I sort of overheard him practicing what he was going to say when he gave it to you.”

  “You spied on him?”

  “Yes. I spied. It’s a bad habit I brought with me from camp where you had to spy on the campers to make sure they weren’t burning the place down or eating candy bars or—”

  “It’s okay,” said Katrin. “We all spied on each other growing up. There is a lot to be said for being invisible at the right place and the right time.”

  Skandor nodded in agreement.

  “So, Georg was … practicing what he would say?” asked Katrin.

  “Yes. And he had all sorts of versions of the story of how he got your necklace back. Which makes me think that the version he told you was just one more story he made up.” Skandor turned his gaze away from Katrin and lowered his voice. “The one that would make you like him the best.”

  Katrin laughed softly. “That sounds like the Georg I used to know.”

  Skandor frowned. In his opinion, the conversation was not moving in a positive direction. “Listen, all I’m trying to say is that maybe you shouldn’t put too much stock in Georg coming back here to help all of you.”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t,” said Katrin, her voice low.

  Skandor felt his pulse trip. “I would never lie to you about, well, about anything. And I’m a really good liar, so that’s saying something.”

  Katrin laughed again. “Oh, Skandor, that is indeed saying something, although I’m not sure the ‘something’ is the right something to use to persuade someone.”

  “Please?” he said. “Come with me? Now, while Dr. Gottlieb is away?”

  Katrin shook her head sadly. “I can’t. But I’d love it if you stayed here with me while I waited. You could tell me more stories about life at Camp Midgard.”

  She smiled and Skandor realized with a sinking feeling that she had claimed his heart for her own as surely as if she’d eaten it for breakfast like one of Loki’s wolves.

  19

  KATRIN LIVES

  Georg slipped into town as the sun was beginning to rise above the trees in Las Abuelitas, California. Signs in a public playground labeled these “blue oak,” “digger pine,” and “Oregon ash.” To Georg, they appeared exotic, for though he had grown up around the world, he’d mostly lived on islands at sea level. Sitka spruce or royal palms had formed the only forests he knew. He gazed in wonder at the sheer variety before him.

  It occurred to him that the world was a vast place.

  At such a time, when everything surrounding him felt new and full of possibility, Georg’s plans prickled and tingled inside him. Someday, he would change the world. Someday … someday.

  But for today, he had to change a few minds.

  Carefully masking his thoughts with a counting exercise, he crept into the sleepy town.

  Georg vacillated between approaching Pfeffer first and approaching Martina first. Pfeffer struck him as the more understanding (and probably sympathetic) of the two. But Martina had been so close to Katrin, growing up, and he had her letter. In the end, Georg drifted silently to Sir Walter’s abode and, having found it empty (and unlocked—not that this mattered to a caméleon), he entered Martina’s bedroom, came solid, and placed Katrin’s letter on her pillow.

  Now, he just needed Martina to return home. An hour passed and the sun rose higher overhead, piercing through branched trees and turning their leaves to flame. The bedroom was silent; the house remained quiet. Georg began to fear they had all gone somewhere. For Americans, this was a three day weekend. Did Waldhart and his associates go … camping?

  Perhaps he ought to appear in physical form, roaming the streets in search of Martina or Pfeffer or de Rochefort. It had served him last time, wandering to the bakery and calling aloud. But other things had not worked well last time. Opening the discussion with a gun in hand had been ill-advised, Georg now realized. No, he needed them to look at his latest appearance in Las Abuelitas with new eyes. He needed them to read Katrin’s letter.

  And after they did, he was going to need to apologize. He mentally scowled at the thought.

  As Georg was considering these things—and still counting—he heard the sound of approaching feet, crunching through the graveled forecourt of de Rochefort’s dwelling. The heavy oak door creaked open, thudding against the rock wall, and the footsteps continued over the slate paving stones, over the thick area rugs, and into the very room in which he waited, invisibly.

  Martina strode into her bedroom and opened the door of an armoire containing clothing neatly hung and sorted by color. Georg felt a desire to snicker.

  His foster sister swore softly—in French—and turned to her bed.

  See it, see it, see it! thought Georg.

  In that instant, Martina froze. She looked about the room as if listening.

  Had he forgotten to mask his thoughts? Hansel had often laughed at Georg’s attempts. Georg felt a rush of anger toward the girl in the room with him. If not for her, Hansel would be alive today.

  The girl shifted from her frozen posture and shook her head, as though she must have been mistaken.

  She’s not going to see the letter, thought Georg.

  But then her gaze came to rest on the bed, and she reached for a thick scarf, laughing softly as if amused it was out of place. She also saw the letter on the pillow, propped up at an angle. Cautiously, she reached for it.

  Yes, yes, thought Georg, counting through the nine hundreds for the sixth time this day. Nine hundred seven, nine hundred eight, nine hundred nine.

  Martina regarded the envelope. A tiny smile bloomed across her face.

  She must have thought it was from Matteo. So much the better. She would open it right away, and time was slipping through Georg’s fingers.

  Absently, Martina draped the scarf around her shoulders. All her attention was given to the letter. Georg felt as though he was holding his breath.

  She read it.

  Georg remembered bits and pieces of the letter—Katrin’s sharp wit, her swipe at Georg’s dignity, her reference to herself and Martina using childish names. What was Martina feeling as she read it?

  Martina gasped softly. The letter fell from her hands. For several seconds, Martina did nothing. Then she turned her gaze to the letter where it had fallen at her feet. She looked at it as if it were a snake about to strike. And then her breath caught in an enormous sob.

  Georg judged his moment had arrived. He quit counting through the nine hundreds.

  Martina.

  He waited. He saw her head tip to one side.

  Martina. It’s Georg.

  His mind ached with the effort of listening to see if she would respond.

  When she responded, she did so aloud. “Georg? Are you here? Did you bring this?” She stared at the letter, but she did not reach for it.

  I did, he replied.

  She scowled, crossed her arms, and addressed him silently: Well, show yourself, why don’t you, before you give yourself a brain aneurism.

  Martina was right, of course; such conversations were exhausting for him.

  There was a long pause as Georg considered the likelihood that she would harm him, and then he slipped back into substantial form.

  “Sister,” he said.

  Not hello, not how have you been, just the word that acknowledged their shared past.

  “You brought this letter?” demanded Martina, her voice quavering slightly.

  “Katrin lives,” he said in reply.

  She raised her head, holding herself as straight as a soldier. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

  Georg released his breath with a sound indicating exasperation.

  “I think it’s a reasonable question,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. Her voice no longer shook.

/>   “She needs our help,” Georg said.

  “I asked you for proof you’re not lying.”

  Georg threw his hands to the side. “I’ve already brought it. What do you think that letter is?”

  She regarded it once more. Briefly, her face contorted, and she turned aside.

  “Pick it up and read it again,” said Georg. “The whole point of a letter was so that you would know I’m telling the truth. Katrin’s alive, Martina. But she’s in danger. From … from Fritz.”

  Martina made a derisive sound, avoiding both Georg’s eyes and the letter.

  “I know you don’t trust me, Martina. I don’t care what you think of me. For the record, I don’t like you, either.”

  Martina’s eyes snapped back to his. “Tell me something I don’t know already,” she muttered. “Why do you suddenly want to help Katrin?”

  Georg grunted in anger and snatched the letter from the ground. “If you can’t figure that out, then … then … you’re an idiot. She needs help, Martina. I would have thought—”

  “Shut up so I can concentrate,” snapped Martina.

  Her eyes ran back over the letter, taking in the words, the shared jokes, the sarcasm—Georg knew Martina would recognize the Katrin she’d known and lost. She had to. He waited until Martina’s eyes had fallen still on the final phrase.

  Softly, she spoke. “Katrin says Uncle Fritz placed her with another family, telling her we had all died.”

  Georg nodded. “In a boating accident.”

  “But that’s … that’s…. ”

  “Despicable,” said Georg. “Much worse than the lie he told us—that one sibling died.”

  Silence hung over the room. A ray of sunlight pierced through Martina’s bedroom window, turning dust motes into bright dancing spots.

  “I have to get back to the bakery,” said Martina. “They’ll be wondering where I am. We’re making a brunch to eat at Bridget Li’s, so everyone’s there. You’d better come with me.”

  “Come with you?” Georg backed away a step.

  “Yes. If Katrin’s alive, we have to rescue her,” replied Martina, her voice as filled with certainty as Georg could have hoped for. “And when I say ‘we,’ I don’t mean you and me on our own. We need to consult Sir Walter. He knows Fritz best.”