“Keep your curtains closed. Check every corner for spiders. Always assume, until you’ve looked everywhere, that you are not alone. Here.” Mr. Falborg reached back into the chest and took out another wishbone. “When it acts hungry, you’ll be prepared.” He handed Van the bone, along with a small white card. “My phone number,” he added. “If you need me, just call.”
And suddenly Van found himself being steered back through Mr. Falborg’s winding white house, with a magical creature in a box inside his backpack.
They were nearly to the foyer when a thought hit Van like a snowball in the face. He stopped.
He was supposed to bring the Collectors a part of Mr. Falborg’s secret collection. But now that he knew what it contained, and now that one small, trusting, cuddly part of it was stashed inside his backpack, he couldn’t possibly turn it over to them. Not in a hundred million years.
But they would know he’d been here. A bird, or a spider, or a dark-coated Collector would have seen him walk straight through Mr. Falborg’s front door. He had to bring them something.
“Can I use your bathroom?” Van blurted.
Mr. Falborg turned around. “Of course. Just through the front parlor, behind the door on your left.”
Van rushed across the ferny front room and through the archway, glancing back to make sure he was out of Mr. Falborg’s sight. Then, instead of opening the door on his left, he turned the corner into the room full of paperweights. Without switching on the lights, Van crept toward the closest cabinet.
Its door swung open easily. Van squinted in at the paperweights. He reached out and plucked one from the center, where its absence was less likely to stand out. The glass lump was cold and heavy in his hand. Before he could start to feel too guilty, he stuffed the paperweight into the zippered pocket of his backpack.
He was only doing this to save something much more precious, Van reasoned. Even Mr. Falborg would understand.
In the spotless white bathroom, Van flushed the toilet and washed his hands, just in case anyone was listening. Then he hurried back to the foyer, feeling as relieved as if he had just used the bathroom . . . although he wasn’t quite able to meet Mr. Falborg’s eyes.
Mr. Falborg flung open the front door. “Hans?” he called to a man with springy gray hair and a soft brown sweater, who was trimming a row of bushes. “Would you drive Master Markson back to the opera?”
“It’s not that far,” said Van. “I can walk.”
“Nonsense.” Mr. Falborg waved a generous hand. Then he leaned close to Van, so no one else would hear. “It’s safer this way. You’re still in danger, but at least you understand why.” He smiled at Van once more. “And you know that you have friends.”
A few minutes later, Van was climbing out of a gleaming gray car and stumbling through the doors of the opera house.
There was no one in the lobby, or anywhere in the twisty backstage hallways. In fact, the whole building seemed oddly quiet. But as Van drew closer to the rehearsal room, he caught a new sound—not music, but the low, bubbling hum of many people talking at once.
He nudged the door open.
The opera company was packed together on one side of the room. Van caught sight of his mother clutching her bright silk scarf, and the rehearsal accompanist inching across the floor with both arms out, and the assistant director talking very quickly into his phone.
On the opposite side of the room, shifting lightly on its hooves, stood a deer.
A deer with branching antlers, black eyes, and dusty white hair.
No one else turned to look when Van pushed the door open. But the deer did. Its wide, wet eyes flicked straight toward Van. With a bound, it charged toward the open doorway.
Somebody screamed.
Van, too stunned to move, felt the whoosh of the deer’s body as it leaped past. He felt the silvery dewiness of its coat. He felt the misty softness still caught on every strand of its hair. It raced past him, down the hall, toward the daylight of the lobby.
Everyone began shouting at once.
“Somebody, follow—”
“In the city?”
“—animal control!”
“From a zoo?”
“Giovanni!” His mother’s louder, clearer voice clanged through the noise. Her hands grabbed his shoulders. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” said Van. “I’m fine.”
But he wasn’t.
He was much, much better than fine.
He had just seen a wish come true.
15
A Change of Plan
“AND Lily from the box office said that it ran straight out into the street and bounded off,” said Ingrid Markson wonderingly, as she and Van strolled home in the warm twilight. “I’ve never seen a wild deer in the middle of the city. Certainly not an albino one. And it just seemed to appear out of nowhere, right during Michael and Sara’s duet, like some theatrical effect. I swear, there should have been a puff of dry ice!” She laughed and shook her head, her hair gleaming in the last of the daylight. “I was almost sorry you and Peter weren’t there to see it.” She looked down at Van. “So, caro mio. Did you two have fun this afternoon?”
“What?” said Van, whose thoughts had jumped from the deer down to the bottom of his backpack. He adjusted a strap, feeling the Wish Eater’s box shift inside. “Oh. With Peter? It was fine.”
“I wish you could have more time together,” his mother continued. “But it looks like we might be heading to England soon.”
“What?” said Van, more loudly. “When?”
“My contract here only runs through the end of the current show. Leola has some very exciting options lined up for me.” His mother reached down and squeezed his hand. “Lined up for us.”
Leola was his mother’s manager. She was an Italian lady with lipstick so thick and bright it always left a perfect print on both of Van’s cheeks.
Van pulled his hand away. “We might be going?”
“We might be going. We will probably be going.”
“So . . . ,” Van tried to push the panic out of his voice. “How soon would we leave?”
His mother tilted her coppery head to one side. “Well, if Charles doesn’t surprise me with another offer, we could leave as soon as the run is finished. The show closes in just over a month.”
“A month?”
His mother’s eyebrows rose. “Why are you so astonished, Giovanni? You know this is how things work. Sometimes we’re booked years in advance, sometimes I get three days’ notice.”
“I just . . .” Van’s mind whirled from Mr. Falborg’s tall white house to the black deeps of the Collection. “I don’t want to leave. Not yet.”
His mother’s eyebrows rose even higher. “I didn’t think you liked it here so much.”
“I do. I mean—I like it more and more. Can’t we stay longer?”
“Giovanni, I have to go where the job is.”
Van was ready to grasp at straws. Even snooty ones.
“What about the Greys?” he blurted. “Won’t you miss them?”
His mother hesitated. Van saw her face soften, and something cloudy and quiet passed through her eyes. “Of course,” she said. “I would miss lots of people. I always do.” She took Van’s hand again. “But I have the only people I need right here.”
This time, Van didn’t pull his hand away.
He and his mother walked in silence for a moment.
“Like I said,” his mother spoke at last, “it’s only a possibility. A probability.”
“Okay,” said Van softly. “Only a probability.”
Inside the apartment, Van trudged down the hallway.
“I’ll be in my room,” he said over his shoulder. If his mother answered, Van couldn’t hear.
He shut the bedroom door behind him. Then he pulled the shades, closing out the lavender evening light. He scanned the corners. He peeked under the bed. He opened the closet. He checked every piece of lint and fleck of dirt, making sure they weren’t secr
etly spiders. Finally, when he was certain that everything was secure, Van sat down on the floor, unzipped his backpack, and drew out the cardboard box.
He lifted the lid. A tiny, hazy face peeped out at him.
A burst of joy shimmered through Van’s chest. The Wish Eater was as real—and as adorable—as he remembered.
“Hello again,” Van whispered.
The Wish Eater blinked. It craned over the side of the box, looking timidly around.
“You can climb out.” Van held out one hand. “It’s safe. I promise.”
The Wish Eater inched onto his palm. Van felt cool, whispery lightness as it crouched there, looking up at him with big eyes.
Van raised his hand to give the Wish Eater a better view.
“This is my room,” he told it. “For now, anyway. That’s my bed. You’ll sleep underneath it, with my collection, where it’s safe. And this is my miniature stage.”
Van tipped the Wish Eater gently onto the stage floor.
“That’s SuperVan,” he explained, as the Wish Eater blinked shyly at the figurine standing at center stage. “He’s a good guy. He tries to help everyone who needs him.”
Van dragged out his collection box and rummaged through the miniatures. He pushed aside a helicopter, a purple elephant, and a tiny Santa Claus in a reindeer-drawn sleigh. At last he uncovered a wizard made of molded white plastic.
The Wish Eater watched, wide-eyed, as Van pushed the wizard across the stage.
“SuperVan!” cried the White Wizard. “We need your help! You are the only one who can save us!”
“I want to help you,” SuperVan answered. “But I’ve been called away on another quest.”
“Please, SuperVan,” the White Wizard pleaded. “The entire species of Wish Eaters depends on you!”
The Wish Eater’s eyes flicked from one figurine to the other.
“I have no choice,” said SuperVan. “The mother ship is about to take flight.”
“Then use your powers!” said the White Wizard. “Act fast! You must find a way!”
Van sat back on his heels.
The White Wizard was right. SuperVan would find a way.
He had to help the Wish Eaters. And now he had even less time.
Van glanced at the window. The light tinting the curtains was deepening from lavender to violet. Soon it would be dark. He couldn’t sneak out of the apartment until his mother was asleep anyway, by which time it would be really dark, and he’d have to venture out into the huge, shadowy city all alone, heading straight into the grasp of potential danger. . . .
Van swallowed.
Onstage, the Wish Eater glanced back and forth between SuperVan and the White Wizard, as though it was waiting for them to speak again. With one tiny, hazy finger, it reached out and gave SuperVan a tap. SuperVan toppled forward and hit the stage floor with a smack.
The Wish Eater reared back. It took a terrified leap into Van’s lap.
“It’s all right,” said Van, wrapping his arms around the weightless, shivering thing. “Don’t be scared. I’ve got you.”
The Wish Eater lifted its head and blinked up at him.
And that’s when Van knew, with solidifying certainty, that he was going to help this creature. This one, and every other poor little creature like it who was trapped in the darkness deep underground.
He rubbed the Wish Eater’s ruffled ear. If only he had SuperVan’s powers. Then he could get to the Collection quickly and safely, and—
Wait.
Van paused, mid ear rub.
He did have powers.
And he had a very good reason to use them.
An hour later, after a hurried round of toothbrushing and a soft kiss on the forehead from his mother, Van closed his bedroom door for the night. He flicked on the night-light and switched out the others. He slipped Mr. Falborg’s paperweight into his left pants pocket. Then, with his hearing aids still in place, he climbed into bed, pulled the covers up over his clothes, and settled back against the pillows to wait.
After what felt like ages, the light beneath his bedroom door winked out. His mother had gone to bed at last.
Van slipped out of the blankets. He crouched beside the bed, pulling the cardboard box out of its hiding spot.
The Wish Eater stared eagerly up at him from beneath the opening lid. The glow of the nightlight made its whole body shimmer.
“Everything all right in there?” Van whispered.
The Wish Eater leaned over the side of the box, reaching out with both nubby hands.
“I can’t just keep calling you the Wish Eater,” said Van, as the creature clambered up his arm. “You need a name. You look kind of like a lemur, so what if I call you Lemmy?”
The Wish Eater’s ruffly ears twitched.
“Lemmy,” Van repeated. “Do you like it?”
The Wish Eater didn’t answer, but its ears twitched faster.
Van reached for his backpack, which lay on the floor where he had dropped it, and unzipped the front pocket. He drew out the wishbone.
Instantly, the little Wish Eater straightened. It sniffed at the air like a cat that smells an opening tuna can.
“All right, Lemmy,” Van whispered. “I’ve got a wish for you.”
He grasped the wishbone’s fragile ends.
But there Van hesitated. When he’d made his last wish, he’d had Mr. Falborg to guide him. If anything had gone wrong, he would have had help in fixing it. Now he was completely alone. The Wish Eater gave an eager little bounce in his lap. Well—not completely alone. He had Lemmy’s help, and he was going to help Lemmy in return. He had to help. And the night was already sliding past him. There was no time to waste on fear.
I wish to get to the Collection as quickly, and safely, and secretly as I can, Van thought.
Snap went the wishbone.
Something pale and delicate dribbled from the bone’s broken edge. Lemmy craned upward, mouth open, to catch it. The air swirled with mist. Van felt it dampening the ends of his hair, coating his skin with its softness. When the mist cleared, Lemmy was leaning back in his lap, looking contented, and everything was quiet.
Van held his breath.
He looked around. He listened.
Nothing.
Van let out the breath.
Maybe the wish hadn’t worked. Maybe it had been too big for little Lemmy to handle. Maybe he hadn’t been specific enough, or clear enough . . . or maybe all of these magical, impossible things were just as impossible as they seemed.
Then, as Van started to lose hope, something shot out from under his bed.
Van turned. The thing had already flown straight behind him, its velocity rippling his hair. He turned again. Whatever it was still hovered just out of sight. But a little voice near his left ear exclaimed, “Ho, ho, ho!”
Van whipped around. A few feet away, outlined by the glow of his night-light, was a flying miniature sleigh drawn by flying miniature reindeer. A tiny chuckling Santa grasped the reins. Van let out something between a gasp and a laugh.
He glanced down. Lemmy leaned back in his lap, wearing what looked like a sleepy smile.
The sleigh flew on, bounding over invisible hills. It sailed across the room, lifting higher and higher, heading straight for the curtained window. Before Van could make a move, it hit the covered pane with a THWACK.
“Careful!” whispered Van, not sure if he was talking to the tiny plastic Santa or his tiny reindeer, and realizing that neither seemed believable anyway. “My mother will hear!”
The reindeer smacked against the window again.
Van slid Lemmy into the cardboard box and jumped to his feet. “Shh!” he hissed, as the sleigh struck the curtained pane even harder. “We have to be quiet!”
Thwack thwack thwack, went the sleigh against the window, like a fly trying desperately to get out.
“Please!” Van begged.
THWACK THWACK THWACK.
Van dove the last few feet to the window. Before the sleigh could strike
it again, he whipped the curtains apart and shoved the pane upward. A cool river of air poured into the room. Santa and his sleigh sailed out into the night.
Van stared after it, expecting to see the escaping toy dwindle into the distance.
But the sleigh didn’t dwindle.
It grew.
It hung in the night air just outside his bedroom window, twinkling with a haze of pearly mist. It swelled and stretched until it was the size of an actual sleigh, and the plastic reindeer were as big as real reindeer, and the plastic Santa that turned its cheery smile toward Van was just the right size for a jolly old elf.
“Ho ho ho!” said the Santa, patting the space beside him on the red plastic seat.
A laugh that Van couldn’t hold back burst out of him. He’d imagined flying like SuperVan hundreds of times. He’d never imagined flying like Santa Claus. Was he really going to climb out of a fourth-floor window into a floating plastic sleigh, in the middle of July? He glanced at the row of hovering reindeer, and at the seat that Santa patted invitingly once more. Yes, he really was.
He absolutely was.
Van climbed up onto the windowsill. The sleigh waited just inches away. With a deep breath, Van plunged over the sill and half stepped, half fell into it. It rocked under his weight like a carriage on a Ferris wheel. Before Van could settle into the seat, Santa twitched the plastic reins. The reindeer shot forward.
They all whooshed out into the city, Van clutching the side of the sleigh with both hands. They threaded between tall buildings that melted around them into a soft gray smear. They dove over rooftops and whipped around corners. One instant, the reindeer were climbing, and Van was staring straight up at the fuzzy purple sky. Then the reindeer plunged, and the sleigh tilted after them, and he was staring down at the glinting black street below.
“Ho ho ho!” announced the plastic Santa.
Van heard himself laugh too.
He probably should have felt afraid. But he didn’t. He felt electrified. He was part of something magical and impossible and odd, wrapped up inside it, carried through the dark in its speeding weightlessness.
And then, long before Van was ready for the ride to be over, the sleigh came to a gentle stop. Van peered over the side.
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