Maybe she could smell him too, because she lowered the magazine and craned around.
She smiled.
“Well, hello, sleepyhead.” She held out her arms for a hug. “Did you sleep well?”
Van dove across the room and let his mother wrap her arms around him.
“You look tired.” His mother cupped his face with one hand. “I don’t think you did sleep well.”
“Not really,” said Van, looking at the sleeve of his mother’s ivory silk robe rather than into her eyes.
“I know it’s strange, being here.” His mother lowered her voice. “But it’s temporary.” She squeezed Van’s hand. “And even if we’re staying with the Greys, it’s still you and me. A duo. For good.”
Van nodded, but there was a lump in his throat that made it hard to speak.
“What’s wrong, Giovanni?”
“It’s . . .” Van swallowed, and felt the lump go down into his chest, where the aches from last night and the night before still waited. “I’m sorry, Mom. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry you got hurt. And I’m sorry we have to stay here. And I’m sorry that it’s my fault.”
His mother stroked his hair. “It’s all right, caro mio. I’m all right. And you’re all right. And that’s all that really matters.”
Van didn’t argue—even though, for the first time in his life, there were a few other things that really mattered to him too.
A little while later, after telling his mother that he was going to visit Mr. Falborg, Van hurried out the Greys’ front door and onto the shady sidewalk.
The city was a bit of a mess that morning. In the Greys’ neighborhood alone, Van noticed an oak tree full of squawking red parrots, a mountain of mystery novels towering in someone’s tiny front yard, and one turreted lawyers’ office that had been turned into a bouncy castle. On another corner, he spotted an ice-cream truck that had skidded into a hydrant, scattering boxes of melting treats all over the street. Van skirted the crowds of smiling people helping themselves to spilled ice cream and darted around the corner. He wondered if these odd things were wishes come true, or if they were made by the Wish Eaters’ unpredictable magic, and if anyone else in the city would guess the truth either way.
His legs were still rubbery-tired from the night before. He trotted as fast as he could down the shady streets, to the spot where the tall white house loomed into view.
There he slowed.
Mr. Falborg’s house towered behind its hedges, looking as neat and bright as ever. But the closer Van came, the more he sensed that something had changed.
Van tiptoed into the shrubs. From their leafy cover, he checked the windows. Each one was covered with thick white curtains. When he was sure no one inside was peering out, Van darted down the narrow path where Pebble had led him the night before, into the walled backyard.
Yes, something had changed.
The yard had a hushed, disused feeling. The benches and chairs had been put away. The sculptures on their pillars were hidden in knotted burlap. If Van hadn’t stood in the same spot only the night before, he would have guessed that no one had visited this place in months.
The fountain had been turned off. And it wasn’t only off—it was empty. Its scalloped stone bowls were dry, the pond surrounding it drained and cleared. The skulking koi and their lily pads were gone.
Turning away from the silent fountain, Van inched toward the house’s back door.
Mr. Falborg had tried to kill him. But Mr. Falborg was obviously gone now—taking Pebble, and the truth about his plans, with him. Van wasn’t afraid of Mr. Falborg’s empty house . . . was he? Besides, if there was some small, forgotten clue, some hint about where they had gone or what they were going to do next, Van had to find it.
The knob turned easily in his hand.
Van shoved the door open.
He stood on the threshold of an empty kitchen.
It wasn’t just empty of people. It was hollow. Every piece of furniture, every bit of decoration, every cup and plate and saltshaker had disappeared.
Like someone in a dream, Van trailed through the kitchen and into the hallway. The masks, the vases, the framed antique postcards—gone. He wound his way through the front parlor. Empty. No books on the shelves. No cut-paper silhouettes on the walls. He stepped through the archway and switched on the lights. The cases full of glimmering paperweights had vanished.
Van turned around, moving faster now, and ran back along the hallway, up the stairs, past the bare walls and hollow corners and nooks where treasures should have been. He burst into the room with the red curtains. Then he nearly jumped back out again.
A man in a long black coat stood between the hidden room’s open doors.
At the sound of Van’s steps, the man turned around. The faces of two black rats peered out of his coat’s front pocket. Above a high collar, Van saw Nail’s high, hard cheekbones, sharp nose, and tousled hair.
Like Mr. Falborg last night, Nail didn’t look surprised to see him. Unlike Mr. Falborg, Nail didn’t look relieved. His face stayed hard and cool and calm, but Van could see a tiny touch of sadness in it.
Nail tilted his head toward the hidden room. “They’re gone.”
“He took Pebble,” Van blurted at the same time. “He wished for her to go with him.”
Nail nodded. “We were watching.”
“Do you know where they went?”
Nail shook his head. “It could be almost anywhere. Ivor Falborg is a man of vast resources, of both ordinary and extraordinary kinds.”
“We have to find her.” Van took a few steps into the room. The emptiness around him made the space feel larger and colder than it ever had before. “We have to get her back!”
Nail’s craggy face was unreadable. For a long moment, he didn’t answer at all. Then he said, “We can try.”
“Try?” Van repeated, exasperated. “If you and your Creatures are always watching, if you know so much, then how come you didn’t keep this from happening in the first place? Why didn’t you stop him?”
“You know what he had.” Nail’s voice was firm. “What he has. Imagine the damage that hundreds of those creatures could have done if he’d felt the need to use them against us.”
Van moved closer to Nail. Beyond the taller man’s silhouette, he could see into the hidden room, the rows of wooden shelves all completely bare. “The Wish Eaters . . .” he said slowly. “Did he take all of them? These little ones, and . . .”
“And the ones you released?” Nail’s voice grew even firmer. “Some of those we trapped again ourselves. They’ve been returned to the Hold. A few did leave with Ivor Falborg. And a few—we believe—are loose. By now they could be almost anywhere.”
Van swallowed. So Lemmy might not be alone out there, in the huge, open world. He wasn’t sure if this thought was comforting or frightening. “Razor said all Wish Eaters get dangerous and unpredictable if they grow too big. But . . . what if some of them don’t?”
Nail’s eyebrows drew together. He tilted his head quizzically to one side.
“I mean . . . ,” Van went on, “what if some of them are good?”
Nail’s mouth moved into a tiny smile, although his eyes didn’t smile at all. “It isn’t a matter of good or bad. It’s not about kindness or evil. It’s not even a matter of intention. You can mean to do good and still do terrible things.”
Van took a little step back. Pebble had said nearly the same thing to Mr. Falborg last night. And now Nail was saying it to him. Van had used wishes with only the best intentions. And where had it led him? His mother had been hit by a car. Her leg was broken; her job was lost. He and she were stuck in the last house in the city where Van would have wished to be.
“If you give someone, anyone, too much power,” Nail went on, “enough power that they can control everyone around them—then you run a terrible risk.”
The next words flew out before Van could weigh them. “But isn’t that exactly what you Collectors do when you trap all those wishes
and Wish Eaters? Control everyone around you?”
Nail straightened. His eyebrows rose. His mouth softened. “You are a smart boy, Van Markson.”
And that was all.
For a moment, the room was quiet.
Then Nail said, “Come. We should leave before anyone notices us.”
They made their way back through the hallway and down the steps, both keeping mum. They’d just turned into the lower corridor when a furry silver streak bounced past them.
“I checked the fourth floor,” reported Barnavelt, skidding to a stop in front of Nail’s boots. “Maybe I should check the third floor again, just to be sure.”
“You’ve already checked the third floor four times,” said Nail.
“Are you sure?” The squirrel blinked. “All of it?”
“All of it. Four times.”
“Maybe I should check the fourth floor.”
“You just checked the fourth floor.”
“All of—?”
“All of it. Yes,” said Nail. “Four times.”
The squirrel flicked its tail. “What about the basement?”
Nail sighed. “Barnavelt. She’s gone.”
“Gone?” The squirrel repeated the word as though he’d never heard it before. “She’s gone?”
“Yes.” Nail’s voice was very gentle. “She’s gone.”
There was a beat. Barnavelt stared up at both of them, his whole body trembling. “Maybe I should check the third floor.”
“You should climb up onto my shoulder and come home with me,” said Nail. “We’ll try to find her. And we’ll bring her back. If we can.”
As slowly as Van had ever seen the squirrel do anything, Barnavelt clambered up the fabric of Nail’s dark coat. He sat on Nail’s shoulder, even his tail keeping still.
They all slipped through the hollow house and out the back door, into the hushed daylight of the garden.
“Will he be all right?” Van asked, nodding at Barnavelt.
“We’ll take care of him,” Nail promised.
“And if Pebble comes back, will you—will you let me know?”
“We will.” Nail gave a small smile. “We’ll be nearby. We always are.”
He put out one hand. Van shook it.
“Take care, Van Markson.”
With a sweep of his coat, Nail turned and strode away.
“Good-bye, SuperVan,” Van thought he heard Barnavelt say—but by the time he looked after them, Nail and Barnavelt had vanished.
Van shuffled around the edge of the empty pond. The rocks lining its bottom were gray and dusty. A couple of coins glinted dully on the stones. Van reached down and picked up a nickel. He turned it between his fingers, wondering if it had held one of Mr. Falborg’s wishes. Maybe this one had transported Mr. Falborg’s stuffed snake collection, or moved the pond full of giant koi. But moved them where?
Van let out a long, tired breath.
Slipping the nickel into his pocket, he turned away.
A fluffy gray cat stood just behind him.
“Renata?” Van whispered.
The cat’s eyes narrowed. It glanced to either side. Then it said, in a gravelly voice, “Call me Chuck.”
Van blinked. “But I thought your name was—”
“Renata? Hmph.” The cat snorted. “Only to Mr. Fancypants. My mother named me Charlene. I go by Chuck.”
“Oh,” said Van. “My mother—”
“Your mother named you Giovanni, but you go by Van. I know.” The cat squinted her blue-green eyes at him. “I pay attention. You know, most of the time, cats are just pretending to be asleep.”
“So do you . . .” Van glanced around too, making sure they weren’t being overheard. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Are you one of the Collectors’ spies?”
“I’m a free agent.” The cat raised her chin. “I go where I like. I talk when I like. If I like.”
“Is that why Mr. Falborg left you behind?”
“Oh, he didn’t mean to leave me. But you can’t force a cat to do something she doesn’t want to do. Certainly not just by wishing.” The cat took a lazy glance around. “Life here was getting stale anyway. I’ll have a few weeks of adventure on the streets, maybe go back to my old job, mousing in a downtown diner. And then . . . maybe I’ll move in again when he comes back.” She flicked one ear. “Mr. Fancypants does always spring for the top-shelf tuna.”
Van’s mind sparked. “So he’s coming back?”
“He always does.” The cat gave her paw a lazy lick. “He’s got places everywhere. The country, the city. Italy. Russia. Japan. But he always comes back here eventually.”
“Do you know where he went?”
The cat paused for a moment. Van couldn’t tell if it was because she didn’t want to tell him, or because she didn’t want to admit that she didn’t know. “Not this time,” she said. “But if I were you, I’d forget about all of this. Falborg is a dangerous man. He always knows exactly what he wants. And he’s not going to let anyone get in his way. Then again, I wouldn’t want to get on those Collectors’ bad side either.” The cat paused again, gazing up at Van. “You know that old saying about the rock and the hard place? You’re the thing that’s stuck between them.”
“But I thought, with Mr. Falborg gone—”
“Oh, this isn’t over,” said the cat. “They all know about you. They know what you can hear, and see, and do. It’s far from over.” The cat turned with a swish of her silvery tail. Over her shoulder, she gave Van a little nod. “So long. Watch your back.”
She stalked into the shrubbery. In an instant, she was out of sight.
Watch your back.
Van glanced over his shoulders. For a split second, he thought he caught sight of something shifting and smoky and huge lurking within the leaves of a big maple tree—but then a breeze stirred the leaves, and the thing was gone.
Van headed along the hedge-lined path.
At first he was too occupied by everything that had just happened to pay any attention to the ground beneath his feet. But when he finally looked down and, out of habit, started scanning the gravel for any lost treasures, he noticed something strange.
There, half hidden by the glossy green leaves of the hedge, was a marble. It was made of sparkling blue glass, and it held a spiral of glittering gold. It was the marble he had given to Pebble. And arranged around the marble were other small things: three mossy pennies. A half-burned birthday candle. One branch of a broken wishbone.
It was a sign.
A sign for him.
Pebble knew that Van—maybe only Van—would notice.
But he wasn’t sure what it meant. The marble had been his gift to Pebble, and she’d kept it in her pocket ever since. The other objects seemed to represent kinds of wishes. Was this a message about collecting? Was it just her way of saying good-bye? Or was it a sign that she knew he’d come looking for her? That she wanted him to keep looking?
Carefully Van collected the marble, the coins, the candle, and the broken bone. He slipped them all into his pocket. They were such tiny things, and the world was so big.
Big enough to hold creatures that ate wishes, big enough to hold an army of underground people in long dark coats, big enough for spiders and ravens and talking cats and distracted silvery squirrels. And somewhere out in that huge world, there was a tall, gray-haired man in a white suit, and a girl with eyes the color of mossy pennies.
But small things could be powerful too. Van knew it. He ran his fingers over the little objects in his pocket once more.
Then he set off toward the Greys’, keeping his eyes sharp.
There were treasures everywhere. You just had to know how to look.
Acknowledgments
I’VE got a lot of people to thank for making my writerly wishes come true:
Van and his story wouldn’t exist without the help of several deaf and hard-of-hearing students and their teachers: Shanna Swenson in River Falls and students Austyn, Noah, Brian, and Kennedy; Ama
nda Kline of the Minnesota State Academy for the Deaf and students Dalina, Gifty, Dexter, Amber V., and Amber H.; and Angela Dahlen in Red Wing and Cannon Falls, and students Ella, Cara, Nikki, and Maddie. Thank you all so much for letting me hang out and bombard you with questions. I hope I’ve reflected a tiny bit of your brilliance in this book.
The magical Martha Mihalick, for her enthusiasm, honesty, and faith in this story, and for pushing me harder whenever I deserved it. And to Laaren Brown, Lois Adams, Virginia Duncan, Paul Zakris, Ann Dye, Meaghan Finnerty, Gina Rizzo, and all at Greenwillow: Thank you for making me and the Collectors so at home.
Danielle Chiotti and everyone at Upstart Crow: I’m so lucky to have you on my side. Danielle, thank you for your (endless!) work, insight, and guidance. Whenever things get dark and twisty, I know you’ve got the flashlight.
They didn’t actually see this one in progress, but my critique group—Anne Greenwood Brown, Li Boyd, Connie Kingrey-Anderson, Lauren Peck, and Heather Anastasiu—has made me a happier human, a smarter reader, and a better writer. Giant hugs and cupcakes to you all.
Adam Gidwitz, for the GI Joe story.
Stephanie Watson, for hosting the Hoverdraft panel where I read the opening chapter of this book aloud to strangers for the very first time.
All the music teachers and opera singers it was my good fortune to study with over the years.
My family. Thanks to Mom and Dad for literally everything (especially the babysitting!), to Dan and Katy and Alex, and to all the grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins and in-laws who make me feel so supported and who make family get-togethers so loud. Love you all.
And finally, lastly, mostly: Ryan and Beren. I can’t wait for more adventures with both of you.
About the Author
JACQUELINE WEST is the author of the award-winning and bestselling The Books of Elsewhere series. Her short fiction and poetry appear in a variety of publications. She is also a classically trained singer and an actress, and she still performs with local theatre troupes. She lives with her family in Red Wing, Minnesota.
www.jacquelinewest.com
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