“Collecting is a slippery thing,” said Mr. Falborg, bending down beside him. “The whole world becomes a curiosity shop. Your next discovery could be anywhere. And you know that looking at the world this way is making you distracted and strange, but you can’t help it, because the minute you stop looking, you might miss a genuine treasure.”
Van turned away from the cabinets and stared up into Mr. Falborg’s face. There was a funny prickly feeling in his spine—very much like the feeling he got when he noticed something special waiting for him on the ground.
“And once you do spot that treasure,” Mr. Falborg went on, “you simply have to have it. You need to add it to your collection, because—”
“Because it belongs there,” said Van.
Mr. Falborg’s eyes sparkled. “Exactly.” He put a hand on Van’s shoulder. “I knew I’d spotted a fellow collector. And what is your passion? What do you collect?”
“Just . . . little things that I find,” said Van. “Stuff other people drop or throw away.”
“Intriguing,” said Mr. Falborg. “Would you care for another cookie? Or would you like to see the hair wreaths?”
“Hair wreaths,” said Van quickly.
Mr. Falborg guided Van back through the doorway, around several corners, past many more closed doors, and up a long staircase.
Mr. Falborg’s house was much twistier on the inside than Van would have guessed. Every hall seemed to split in several directions, and every nook and shelf was cluttered with strange treasures. One stretch of wall was hung with hundreds of masks. Another stretch was coated with old circus posters. An entire hallway was filled with the glimmering bodies of stuffed and mounted snakes. By the time Mr. Falborg threw open a door, Van had nearly forgotten where they were going.
This room was narrow and long, with dark paneling and red velvet curtains that shut out most of the light. Brass contraptions sat on polished wooden tables. Van saw something that looked like a typewriter, and something that looked like a very old cash register, and something that might have been a sewing machine or a dentist’s drill. Mr. Falborg turned on the chandelier, and Van could suddenly see that the walls were covered with hanging glass boxes, each one holding something that looked like fancy embroidery without any fabric behind it.
Van moved closer.
Instead of colored threads, the embroidered things were made of thousands and thousands of human hairs. The hairs had been knotted and coiled into tiny buds and trees and leaves and stems—things that should have been green, or pink, or white, but that were all a sort of dusty brown instead.
“These are weird,” Van said at last.
Mr. Falborg nodded. “They are indeed. And just imagine the Victorian craftspeople picking strands out of their hairbrushes night after night.”
“Really weird,” said Van.
“If we had more time, I would show you my music boxes—but they’re down in the cellars. Perhaps on another visit.”
Van smiled up at Mr. Falborg. “That would be great.”
Mr. Falborg smiled back.
And then, just over Mr. Falborg’s shoulder, something caught Van’s eye. In the farthest, darkest corner of the room, inlaid with panels of painted silk and nearly hidden by the red velvet curtains, stood a pair of gleaming black doors.
“What’s in there?” Van asked. “Another collection?”
“Ah.” Mr. Falborg glided between Van and the gleaming black doors. “That is a collection I don’t show to guests, I’m afraid.” He gave Van an apologetic smile. “It is the most valuable of all my collections. Its safety is paramount.”
Curiosity—and Mr. Falborg’s kindly face—made Van bolder than usual. “I’d be really careful,” he promised, with another look at the doors. “You can trust me.”
But he’d barely finished speaking before several secrets loomed up in the back of Van’s mind.
Peter’s stolen squirrel. The way he’d sneaked inside the dingy collection agency, through the endless underground halls, into the chamber full of bottled wishes. The blue glass bottle with its spinning silver wisp wedged into the treasure box under his bed. Of course he would never steal from Mr. Falborg . . . but he hadn’t meant to steal anything from Peter Grey or the underground collection either. Maybe he couldn’t be trusted.
“Oh, I’m certain I can trust you,” Mr. Falborg said, in a voice that made Van feel steadier. “But there are others who . . .”
Mr. Falborg stopped. His eyes locked on a tiny spot on the wall, not far from the half-hidden black doors. Van followed Mr. Falborg’s eyes. When he squinted, he could tell that the spot was a small brown spider, holding perfectly still.
Mr. Falborg whipped the blue handkerchief out of his pocket. With a vicious thwack, he smashed the spider against the wall. Van winced. The sound of Mr. Falborg’s hand against the wall was surprisingly loud, even to Van. Louder than it needed to be to smash a tiny spider.
Mr. Falborg turned away from the wall. His gaze landed on Van, and the look of cold distaste on his features melted quickly back into a smile. He dropped the handkerchief onto the nearest table. “Not all creatures are our friends,” he said. He glanced at his wristwatch. “Oh, my. The time has gotten away from me. We’d better make our way to the opera house.” He gestured to the door. “After you, Master Markson.”
The walk to the opera was short and lit by streaks of afternoon sun. Mr. Falborg kept up a stream of stories about unusual marbles and extremely rare stamps that Van could only half hear, and Van found an old-fashioned key in the gutter, and by the time Mr. Falborg opened the opera house’s lobby door for Van and bowed good-bye, Van couldn’t quite remember why the tiny seed of a strange, unsettled feeling had rooted deep in the pit of his stomach.
11
We Will Come for You
THREE minutes after midnight, Van’s window inched open.
Van, who was fast asleep with his hearing aids in their usual spot on the bedside table, didn’t hear the window creak. He didn’t hear the click of talons on his bedpost. He didn’t hear the thunk of a heavy metal hook catching over the windowsill. A gust of cool air washed through the open window, fluttering the ends of Van’s hair. Van stirred slightly. But he didn’t wake up.
Two pairs of booted feet climbed up the brick wall beneath his window. Two long, dark coats rustled over the windowsill. Van didn’t hear this, either.
It wasn’t until a shadow fell over him, blocking his nightlight’s misty glow, that Van’s eyelids finally slid open.
Two dark-coated men loomed over his bed. One had a live raccoon draped around his collar. The other had a hard face, glittering eyes, and a huge black raven on his shoulder.
Before Van could scream, Jack’s big hand clamped over his mouth.
Jack’s lips moved. The other man nodded, whipping back the covers. Van didn’t even have time to wish that these two hadn’t seen him in his model train pajamas before he was thrown over Jack’s shoulder. Someone tugged a black cotton bag over Van’s head.
Van felt the jostle of being lifted over the windowsill, the rush of damp night air through his pajamas, the jut of Jack’s shoulder in the middle of his stomach. He tried to scream, but the bag seemed to trap the sound inside his own head, where he could barely hear himself anyway. For an instant, he thought he was falling, and then another pair of hands caught him, and Van felt himself being hefted onto a narrow, springy seat. Someone sat down beside him.
A moment later, a jerk made Van sway back. A breeze told him he was moving forward. Fast.
They must know about the bottle, Van realized. They knew he had stolen it. His body went cold.
“Please,” he gasped through the black bag. “I’ll give it back. I’ll do whatever you—”
The big hand clamped over his mouth again. If anyone answered, Van couldn’t hear.
With Van’s breath and sweat and that big heavy hand sealing the air inside, it didn’t take long for the bag to grow stuffy. Soon it was stifling. Very slowly, trying not to pani
c, Van let his head droop sideways. The hand stayed where it was. At last, the bag had twisted just enough that Van could peek past its bottom edge.
He was seated in a small open carriage. It had black leather seats and large, spidery wheels. Two men on bicycles pulled it along, their dark coats flaring behind them.
The carriage turned into an alley, and then into another alley, and then another. Soon Van had lost track of their path. He supposed it didn’t matter. He already knew where they were going.
At last the carriage rolled to a stop. Van was hoisted over Jack’s shoulder again, and the bag slid back down over his eyes. He felt the dim enclosure of the empty office, and the chilling of the air as they all climbed down the steep stone staircase.
“Please,” he begged. “I’ll do whatever you want. Please.”
The body carrying his didn’t even pause.
More turns. More stairs. Down. Left. Right.
Then, with dizzying speed, he was set on his feet. Hands shoved him backward. Van staggered onto a cold metal surface that vibrated and swayed beneath his bare toes. Someone wrenched off the bag.
Van blinked, woozy and light-headed, and found himself staring down into bottomless, waiting dark. He let out a shriek. Without his hearing aids, the sound was muffled and dim, even inside of his own head. Could anyone else hear it at all?
He stood in some kind of swaying elevator—or really, Van realized, in some kind of hanging cage. Its walls were grates of wide-spaced metal bars. Just inches beyond his toes, one side of the cage hung open, revealing the plummeting depths below.
Standing on a solid stone platform a few feet away were Jack and two other hard-faced men. Jack’s hands were clamped around a handle that spoked from a large metal wheel. The wheel led to a pulley and a set of cogs and cords.
Van saw it all in a flash: They were going to lower him into the darkness. Into that deep, blinding black, along with whatever monstrous thing had made that stone-shaking roar. Into the Hold.
“NO!” he screamed. “Don’t! Please! I’ll give it back!”
Jack’s mouth moved. He stopped, waiting.
“I can’t hear you!” Van shouted.
Jack’s lips moved again. Van couldn’t make out a single word.
One of the other men said something into Jack’s ear. Jack’s eyes narrowed. The raven on his shoulder lifted into the air.
“Lies!” Van heard the bird cry. “LIES!”
Jack cranked the handle.
The cage plunged. It halted a few feet down, swaying wildly. Van skidded on the metal floor, grabbing the edge of the open wall so hard that he thought his bones might snap.
“PLEASE!” he shouted toward the men on the platform above. “I don’t know what you want!”
The man with the ponytail shook his head. The third man muttered something. Jack’s eyes were like flint. He watched Van, waiting.
Then he cranked the handle again.
Van lost his footing. He fell onto his backside, sliding across the metal box to one of the far corners. His spine slammed against the bars. He stared up at the three men, at the platform, at the green-gold light that was already starting to dwindle away. His body seared with terror.
“No!” he screamed. “Somebody! Help! Please!”
Something flashed above him.
Something with pearly wings.
It soared across the darkness of the pit, skimming past the metal box with Van trembling inside. The pigeon landed gracefully on the handle right between Jack’s clenching hands.
A second later, a woman in a long dark coat rushed onto the platform. The pigeon flapped from the handle up to her shoulder. Van recognized the sleek-haired woman from the crowd that had surrounded him in the Calendar. Sesame. She was shorter than Jack, but when she stood chest to chest with him, Van could have sworn he saw Jack flinch.
The woman whipped around, gesturing to the swinging metal box, and to Van cowering in it. Her face was irate.
“What . . . relieve . . . this!” she shouted. “ . . . dare . . . who . . . own!”
The floor beneath Van gave another shudder.
The box rocked. Van pressed himself to the wall, bracing for another drop. But instead, the cage began to rise, swinging slowly back toward the platform.
Hands grabbed him once more. Van was too overwhelmed to do anything but flop over like a sack of wet sand. He barely noticed who caught him, or who carried him away, or where they were going, but suddenly they were stepping inside another room—a smaller, stone-walled room with a blazing fireplace and scattered rugs, and towering Nail with his rats was there, along with the sleek-haired woman and Jack and his men, and everyone looked absolutely furious.
Someone plunked Van down in a worn armchair. The adults were yelling, Sesame nose to nose with Jack, Nail and the other men right behind them. The noise made an ugly music inside Van’s head. Every now and then, a word seeped through. Betrayed . . . hear . . . only . . . know . . .
But Van was too shaken and exhausted to even try to follow. He stared down at the floor instead.
Firelight made the stones look damp and blurry. Strange shadows scuttled at the corners of his eyes. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe that gentle touch on his ankle was his mother sitting on the edge of his bed, waking him up.
Van blinked.
Two big black rats were climbing up his pajama legs.
Van froze. The rats scurried over his torso, up his arms, and came to rest on either side of his neck. The tips of their pointy fingernails needled his shoulders. Whiskers tickled his skin. Wet noses bumped lightly at his earlobes. Van shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut tight.
But then, with the other voices fading into darkness, Van realized that the tickle on his skin wasn’t just whiskers.
It was voices.
High, tiny voices, like the tick of a watch tucked deep in a pocket.
And even without his hearing aids, he could hear every word they said.
“A Collector,” the voice on the right said.
“Collecting what?” asked the voice on his left.
“Little things,” said the first, slightly higher voice. “In half of a little room.”
“Ah. Little room with red curtains.”
Van took a shaky breath. “You mean my maquette?” he whispered, in a voice that was almost as soft as the rats’.
Both rats froze.
“It’s a miniature stage,” Van went on. “With curtains.”
“Ah,” said both rats. They went quiet for a moment, patting at him with their paws.
“Are you . . . are you reading my mind?” Van asked.
“Can’t read,” said the first rat.
“Are rats,” explained the other.
“No—I mean, can you tell what I’m thinking? How did you know about my collection?”
“Lemuel saw,” said the lower-voiced rat. “Serafina saw.”
“I don’t know anybody named Lemuel. Or Serafina.”
“Lemuel raven,” said the rat. “And spider Serafina.”
“They’ve been watching me?”
“Are watching you.”
“Raduslav,” warned the higher-voiced rat. “You say secrets.”
“Stupid secrets,” said Raduslav. “He is not liar, Violetta.”
“Yes. Smells true,” said Violetta, sniffing Van’s earlobe. “Seems true.”
“Um . . . Violetta? Raduslav?” Van ventured. He nodded toward the arguing adults. “What are they going to do to me?”
“Don’t know,” said Raduslav.
“Something,” said Violetta.
Van swallowed the knot in his throat. “Are they going to hurt me?”
“No,” said Raduslav. “Just keep you.”
“Keep me?” Van squeaked.
“Maybe,” said Raduslav. “Maybe forever. Maybe not.”
“Where is your machine?” Violetta asked.
“My machine?”
“Little blue machine.”
“Oh. My hearing aids. They
’re at home. So I can’t hear what the grown-ups are saying about me.”
Both rats froze again. Then Violetta jumped down and scurried across the floor to the hem of Nail’s coat. Van watched her clamber up and speak into his ear.
Nail’s face shifted.
A second later, Nail’s tall, dark shape strode between Van and the firelight, blanketing him with shadow.
“Van Markson,” said Nail. He crouched in front of Van so that they were eye to eye. The other rat leaped from Van’s shoulder back to his. “If I am close to you, can you understand me?”
“It helps if I can see your face,” said Van. “And if the rest of the room is really quiet.”
Nail aimed a glance at the others. “It will be.” He faced Van again. Firelight fell over his features, making his cheekbones even sharper than usual. “We know what you have done,” he said slowly.
The blue glass bottle. Van’s stomach was a whirlpool. His head was a bomb. He glanced over his shoulder and found Jack and his men glaring back at him. There was no escape.
“I didn’t—”
But Nail cut him off. “We know where you’ve gone. Who you’ve seen.”
Van’s mind scrambled. “The baby robin? Do robins work for you too? Because I was just—”
“. . . not a match,” one of Jack’s men interrupted. Not a match? Knows too much?
“. . . weak and rusty,” Jack growled. We can’t trust him.
Nail stopped Jack with a raised hand. “Heavy . . . anyone . . . bout us?”
“No!” Van squeaked. “I haven’t told anyone anything! I swear!”
“Scared,” said Violetta’s clear little voice.
“And a little guilty,” added Raduslav. “But not lying.”
“Yes!” said Van gratefully. “See? I’m not lying.”
Everyone froze.
Something that wasn’t actually a smile pulled at the edge of Nail’s mouth. The room had gone so still that his words seemed to echo off the walls. “Who are you talking to, Van Markson?”
Van stared back at Nail, petrified.
“Say you know what we collect,” Violetta whispered.
The Collectors Page 7
