by Lissa Evans
“What?”
“Where the will is. Come on!” And he turned and ran out of the room and along the hallway and down into the basement, April at his heels.
“The one place we didn’t think of….” he said, panting. “The trick we forgot about…. The illusion it all started with. And Miss Edie gave us the clue, remember? She said the will was well hidden. Do you get it?”
The shabby cluster of tricks lay before them. “Here, help me move this,” said Stuart, tugging at the Fan of Fantasticality.
Together, they slid it to one side. Behind, fully visible now, was the Well of Wishes, and April laughed with sudden realization. “You’re right,” she said. “Well hidden. This is the place.”
CHAPTER 41
They stood on either side of the Well of Wishes. Scraped and battered it may have been, but it was still beautiful, steeped in shadow, dusted with the sparkle of stars.
“And what else did Miss Edie say?” asked April.
“Use the male. Use the male to find it.” Stuart could almost hear Miss Edie’s rasping transatlantic voice.
April stared thoughtfully into the well, and then she gave a squeak and leaned further forward. “I can see something,” she said.
Stuart craned over the parapet. Just visible was a series of spidery copper letters, evenly spaced around the inside of the well.
“It says something,” said April, almost upside-down. “It says … hang on … it says PLACED WHERE YOU SHALL FIND IT. Or it might be WHERE IT SHALL BE FOUND PLACED. All the spaces between the letters are the same.”
She straightened up, her face flushed. “I don’t understand,” she said. “How can those words help us? Either way around.”
And Stuart was just about to shrug when the answer came to him, quick and complete and whole. “It’s not the words that count,” he said.
“What?”
“When Miss Edie said Use the mail to help you, she didn’t mean M-A-L-E, she meant M-A-I-L! The postal service. And what do you get in the mail? Not words but—”
“Letters!” shouted April.
“And the clues we got were letters,” he said. “SWOTIE.”
Together, they leaned over the parapet again. The copper letters seemed to glow softly.
P L A C E D W H E R E Y O U S H A L L F I N D I T
Stuart reached out his hand and touched the S of SHALL. The copper letter was slightly raised. He pressed, and it moved inward with a delicate click.
Without speaking, April reached out for the W and did the same thing.
One by one, turn by turn, they touched the letters—O, T, I—and then April paused, arm outstretched.
“There are three Es,” she said. “Which one should I press?”
They straightened up and looked at each other.
“It was definitely E in the last illusion, wasn’t it?” asked April.
Stuart started to say yes and then stopped. “I had to find the right world in the Book of Peril,” he said. “My right world. A had my wrong dad, and so did B. C was—well, C just wasn’t right, D was my wrong mom, and E …” He hesitated, and then spoke more quietly.
“E was the wrong me. A taller me. I shouldn’t really have chosen E at all, I should have gone further, only I was afraid we’d get stuck there.”
“And we nearly did,” said April. “So thank goodness you did choose it. But that means the last letter isn’t an E—it could be any letter further along in the alphabet. So which one should I press? N? Or P? Or T? T for Tony?”
“Or F,” suggested Stuart. “F for final. F for finish.”
“F for friendship,” said April. “I think that’s the one we should try. Don’t you?”
Stuart nodded, and April leaned back over the parapet and pressed the letter. With a sound like a gentle sigh, a section of the parapet slid aside, leaving a hole the size and shape of a mailbox.
They both peered into it.
“Go on, then,” urged April, giving Stuart a bossy nudge. “It’s yours.”
Stuart started to lift his hand, and then he stopped. He thought of April shouting advice to him in the Arch of Mirrors. He thought of her working out how to operate the Reappearing Rose Bower. He thought of her running unhesitatingly back into danger to find Charlie.
“No,” he said. “It’s not just mine.”
“What?”
“It wouldn’t be fair. I couldn’t ever have got this far by myself.”
April looked puzzled, and then—as his meaning dawned on her—her eyes widened. “Do you really mean it?” she asked.
“I mean it,” said Stuart. “We both get the will. One. Two. Three.”
Together they reached into the mailbox, and together their fingers touched a papery cylinder and drew it out. It was tied with a length of red string. April untangled the knot, and Stuart smoothed out the paper. It was headed:
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF ANTHONY HORTEN
and was followed by half a page of handwriting, all long, convoluted sentences stuffed with complex words.
“Complicated, isn’t it?” muttered Stuart.
“May I see?” asked another voice behind them.
They spun around and saw Maxwell Lacey.
“Because if you’ve found a will, then I really would advise you to consult a lawyer,” he said, holding out his hand. “I guarantee that my current service will be free of charge.”
Stuart looked at April and she shrugged. “Might as well,” she said. “We can’t make head or tail of it.”
Maxwell Lacey read the document carefully and then let it snap into a cylinder again before handing it back.
“Straightforward,” he said. “And fully legal. In essence, the discoverer of the will is the owner of the magical illusions—finders keepers, in other words.”
“Ours to keep,” said Stuart, his mouth curving into a grin. “And ours to sell.”
“Indeed,” agreed Maxwell Lacey. “And I’m sure my client’s offer will be to your joint satisfaction. I shall, of course, have to speak to your respective parents, who would be advised to take financial advice of their own, but in the case of—”
“Excuse me?” said April, putting up her hand. “Can I ask something?”
“Go ahead, young lady.”
“I’m just being curious, but what’s Miss Edie actually going to do with the illusions?”
For the first time, Maxwell Lacey appeared disconcerted. He paused, and appeared to choose his words. “I believe that she has a specific destination in mind for them.”
“You mean a museum or something?”
“No, I don’t think a museum is part of her plans.”
There was a pause. Stuart looked at April, and then back at Mr. Lacey. “What do you mean, a destination?” he asked.
The lawyer gave a short sigh. “My client’s grandmother, Jean Carr, was a shrewd businesswoman with a particular interest in the invention and manufacture of stage tricks. She emigrated from England to Canada and founded a huge and successful industry.”
“We know,” said April and Stuart simultaneously.
“You do? Well, with a portion of her frankly enormous fortune, she had a statue of herself erected outside the factory she owned, with a space underneath for a large metal plaque, detailing her remarkable life and achievements. Some eighty years after her death, the space for that plaque remains empty.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently—and I have no explanation for how this is possible—she wished for it to be manufactured from a very specific metallic source.” He cleared his throat, and his gaze slid past Stuart toward the objects behind him.
Stuart caught his breath. “Great-Uncle Tony’s tricks,” he said. “She wanted these tricks found and then melted down and made into the plaque!”
Maxwell Lacey nodded stiffly. “That is correct. And that is precisely my client’s intention.”
“But that’s such a waste,” exclaimed April. “A waste of money and a waste of things—these tricks are fa
ntastic, they’re unique.”
“It’s Jeannie Carr’s revenge,” said Stuart, with utter certainty. “If she couldn’t have them, then she wanted to make sure that nobody else ever did.”
He felt suddenly protective of the shabby cluster of illusions. They didn’t deserve to be squashed and ruined; they should be cherished, he thought. Cherished and used. He remembered the strange feeling he’d had of being on a bridge: on one side of him a heap of cash, on the other the world of illusion and adventure conjured up by his great-uncle.
April had her hand up again.
“Yes?” asked Maxwell Lacey.
“Why did you tell us?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why did you tell us what Miss Edie was going to do with the tricks? Did you have to? Legally, I mean?”
The lawyer’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Ever thought of becoming a lawyer yourself?” he asked.
“Yes,” said April.
“Okay, well then—no, I didn’t have to tell you.”
“So, why did you?”
“Because I happen to agree with you that it’s a waste. I think Miss Edie could do a whole lot of charitable good with the money she possesses, instead of spending it on some kind of ancient score settling that I don’t happen to understand. However, as her lawyer, I am obliged to carry out her current wishes.”
“Yes, but we’re not,” said Stuart.
“No,” echoed April. “And if we don’t agree to sell them, then maybe she’ll spend her cash on something better.”
A little smile appeared on Maxwell Lacey’s pale, composed face. “You would be turning down a life-changing amount of money.”
“My life’s already changed,” said Stuart.
“And I don’t know that I want to change my life that much,” said April. “I already argue with my sisters most of the time. Imagine the arguments we’d have if I was the only millionaire in the family. And anyway, I’d rather become a millionaire by doing something brilliant and useful.”
Maxwell Lacey nodded. “Yes, I can see that happening,” he said drily. “And you,” he asked Stuart. “Will you become a stage magician like your great-uncle?”
Stuart tried to imagine himself standing in a spotlight in front of a huge, expectant audience, and hastily shook his head. “I think I’d rather do something adventurous. Outdoors. Crossing deserts on camels, mapping out uncharted territories.”
“Bravely rescuing people who’ve got stuck,” added April, nudging him.
“Yes, that sort of thing,” he said, a bit embarrassed.
“So, what will you do with Tony Horten’s legacy,” asked the lawyer, “if you don’t sell it to my client?”
All three of them turned to look at the illusions, and Stuart thought of his great-uncle’s message:
lead you to my w ou can decide if you
truly wish to k rhaps give them
away to someo
The Well of Wishes, the Pharaoh’s Pyramid, the Arch of Mirrors, the Fan of Fantasticality, the Reappearing Rose Bower, the Cabinet of Blood, the Book of Peril: seven miracles of engineering, seven gateways to magical worlds (now closed forever), seven tricks in need of skilled and loving attention and an admiring audience.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Stuart.
EPILOGUE
“See you tomorrow, Stuey,” shouted one of Stuart’s friends as he turned the corner onto Beech Road.
“See you.”
It was a crisply cold day in November, the sky a brilliant blue, and Stuart was just arriving home from school. Everyone in his new class called him “Stuey” and he quite liked it. It was certainly no worse than anyone else’s nickname, and a lot, lot better than Shorty Shorten. No one ever called him that anymore.
“Hail,” said his father. “Another satisfactory day at your pedagogic institution?”
“Yeah, it was pretty good,” replied Stuart.
“And how was the inaugural meeting of the after-school Explorer’s Club?”
“All right. In fact I’ve … I’ve been voted president of it. Unanimously.” He tried to sound casual, but it was hard not to show how pleased he was.
His father smiled. “Splendid.”
“Dad, can I go over to April’s after supper? She’s writing an article on dog training for the school magazine, and we want to try and teach Charlie to balance a cookie on his nose.”
Although what Stuart really wished he could teach the dog was to come when he was called. He opened the back door and tried out another couple of names he’d thought of on the way home.
“Chuckle! Chopper!” The dog carried on sniffing around the yard.
“A duo of postal missives arrived for you,” said his father.
“Two letters? For me?”
The first was a large envelope with a cluster of Canadian stamps. Stuart opened it and drew out a piece of cream card, edged in gold.
You are cordially invited to a grand reception to celebrate the opening of the
Jeannie Carr Charitable Foundation “Well of Wishes” project
A plan to provide clean drinking water to poorer communities across the world
Also incorporating the Jeannie Carr Charitable Foundation “Good Manners” project, a plan to make modern children more respectful and less disobedient to their elders.
Grinning, Stuart turned the card over and saw a few lines of handwriting.
Dear Stuart and April,
I would imagine that you’re unlikely to be able to attend this event, given that it’s in Toronto, so I will therefore be unable to thank you in person. You should be proud, however, of the results of your decision not to sell the tricks—rather than wasting her fortune on empty revenge, my client is at last doing something useful with her grandmother’s money. Well done to the pair of you, and good luck—now and in the future.
Cordially,
Maxwell Lacey
The other envelope contained a small object wrapped in tissue paper, a newspaper cutting, and a postcard of a theater, with a cheerfully scrawled pencil message on the back.
Don’t know if you saw this—best review I’ve ever had! There was also a talent scout in the audience, and Elaine and I have now got a five-week run as the palace conjurers in “Sleeping Beauty” at Southend-on-Sea Theater Royal. All thanks to you and April!
Come and see us!
Clifford
P.S. Getting married in January.
P.P.S. Elaine found this thing when she was renovating the Well of Wishes—it was in the same space that you found the will. Hope it’s useful.
Stuart picked up the small object wrapped in tissue paper. He could feel through the wrapping that it was small and circular. It’s a coin, he thought, and then drew a quick breath.
A coin.
A coin that had been found in the Well of Wishes.
He hesitated, holding the object in his palm, not knowing quite how he felt—anxious? scared? excited? Could this, he wondered, be the start of another quest? He hesitated for a long moment before putting it down again, still wrapped, and unfolding the cutting from the Beech Road Guardian.
TRIUMPH!
Those members of the audience who had seen Mysterioso the Magician’s first two shows were rewarded for their loyalty last week with his triumphant third outing, in which the wonders of the lighting were actually matched by the fabulousness of the magic tricks themselves.
GASPS!!
Audience members gasped in amazement as a series of incredible illusions took place before their very eyes. Mysterioso’s lovely assistant Elaine, in elegant silver overalls, survived being impaled with swords, trapped in a pyramid, and shut in a giant book, and when an entire arch made of mirrors completely disappeared, there was a standing ovation that went on for nearly a minute.
DONATION!!
After the show, Mysterioso (also known as Mr. Clifford Capstone) publicly thanked his young friends April Kingley (10) and Stuart Horten (also 10) for their kind donation of the tricks, which had origi
nally been created nearly fifty years ago by the extraordinary and brilliant magician known as Teeny-Tiny Tony Horten. Mysterioso also thanked his assistant, Elaine Coleridge, for her skilled restoration of the previously somewhat battered illusions, which now looked as good as new. Finally he thanked his guinea pig, Gerald, for …
“Stuart!”
April was standing at the back fence, pointing at her watch and then holding up a dog biscuit.
“TEN MINUTES!” shouted Stuart through the window. “I WANT SOMETHING TO EAT FIRST.”
“Okay.”
Stuart glanced at Clifford’s postcard again, and then, for the second time, picked up the tissue-wrapped coin. Quickly, before he could lose his nerve, he unwrapped it.
A small metal disk fell out, bounced on the tabletop, and then rolled to a stop.
Relief and disappointment mingled inside him, and he found himself laughing.
It wasn’t a coin.
It had a hole punched through it and a name etched in capitals across both sides. A short name. A short name for a short dog.
Stuart ran to the back door and wrenched it open.
“Chips!” he shouted.
And Chips came running.
THE END
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