“Does that say ‘Galileo’?” asked Jasper, trying to see faded script in the flickering light.
“No, that’s impossible . . . right?” But Noah did not sound so certain.
The carvings were nothing they had seen before—nothing, except for one thing Wallace noticed, right above an etching of a bird, He pulled his lucky coin from his pocket and held it up to a carving in the wall.
“It fits,” he said. He slipped the coin into the carving. There was a strange noise, like a moan or a hum. Wallace pulled the coin out and the noise stopped. He looked at the coin again. It was ever more a stranger and, once again, warm to the touch.
“We’ve got to get back to the underground castle,” said Jasper. “Then we can retrace our steps.” But he had noticed what Wallace had been doing. It was not something he would forget. And, soon, he would be glad for that,
Suddenly there was a pop and the light went out. But in the darkness, they could see a shadow and dim light in the tunnel ahead. It was coming toward them,
“You are where,” came the anxious voice of the floppy-hatted man, appearing at last with a lamp in his hand and Lucy, asleep, over his shoulder.
“Well, if we knew that, we wouldn’t be lost,” Noah said.
The man turned, and everyone followed quickly behind him. Wallace cast one look back, wondering if he’d ever get a chance to examine that wall again,
After Christmas, Miss Brett and the children set about making bundles to be delivered to Signora Fornaio for the shepherd. It was Boxing Day, and the children were pleased to pack sandwiches, mittens Miss Brett had sewn, and a bottle of wine she had taken from the kitchen coffers. Signora Fornaio embraced them for their kindness, and they all walked home with armfuls of treats.
January brought more bitter cold. Miss Brett was so glad the children had liked their knitted gifts, but with the exception of Lucy and her bunny doll, they did not use them much for the first few weeks after Christmas. They spent much more time indoors. Wallace was experimenting with a bit of the bismuth, floating all manner of metal objects using magnetic levitation. He also assembled a few more electric torches, adjusting the electro-magnetic dynamo to retain more power. Lucy was playing with the Christmas ornaments and making clothes for them out of her ribbons.
Jasper and Faye were trying to devise a more portable design for her snowball-throwing machine. They worked long hours perfecting it, which was easy, given endless ammunition. Faye had not forgotten Noah’s comment that he was glad the machine fired only snowballs. This shooter could have another use should Komar Romak find them again. So she and Jasper fortified the new, smaller machine. They’d slip outside to try it whenever they could.
But that wasn’t the only thing they were doing outside. They had also started investigating, and hunting around, and taking short excursions to see if there were any other places in the forest, or on the other side of the stone walls, where the mysterious men in black might have left clues to their secrets,
After Christmas, Noah had been quieter than usual, so much so that even Faye was concerned. But now he was in better spirits. A bundle of postcards from his mother had come. He had shared some of the adventures with the others,
One, from December 30, said, “Terrible fire in Chicago, so I shall be off to New York (almost directly west of you).” Another, from January 11, said, “Heading to Moscow for Anton Chekhov’s new play. It is colder in New York than it can possibly be in Moscow. It is a record! (Will be northwest of you).”
These postcards brought Noah a sense of calm and pleasure. He would take out his compass and smile to himself, sending silent love in those given directions. Much to Miss Brett’s delight, he had taken up his violin again. She enjoyed the hours spent listening to the haunting melodies wafting through the halls as she perused her Italian grammar books.
Wallace spent time in his room with the magnetic spheres and his bismuth crystal and had created a bismuth alloy using a chunk of the metal he already had. On this morning in January, Noah stood by the large sitting room window and played the violin. Somehow, the music made Lucy hungry, so she went to ask Miss Brett if it was time to go down to the bakery.
Wallace was up in his room. He had been thinking about the painting with the raven and his coin. He had been thinking about the carving in the tunnel and how his coin was suddenly behaving strangely. He wondered, as he moved his coin and watched it react with the bismuth and his magnets. It was spinning, as if someone had turned it.
As he noted this, there was suddenly an ear-splitting screech from the kitchen. Wallace jumped up and Noah suddenly stopped playing.
“I think the water has boiled,” Noah said cheerily, heading into the kitchen.
Miss Brett, followed by Jasper, Faye, and Lucy, ran after him into the kitchen. Sure enough, there was the kettle, and it was whistling all by itself.
“I thought it was a good idea, Miss Brett,” said Noah, feeling confident about his invention. “Happy Christmas, a little late. It’s the steam that causes the whistle,” he explained, “so when it boils, it steams, and when it steams, it whistles. Ergo, no burnt kettles.”
From the top of the stairs, Wallace, heart pounding, could hear the whistle stop screeching, and then Miss Brett calling from the kitchen. It was time to have a warming cup of tea before heading down to the bakery. Wallace ran back to his room to grab his coin. He would never leave it behind. As he watched it spin, he realized he did not know what his coin was made of. He suddenly wanted to analyze it, but knew he’d have to wait until he had the time. He pulled the spinning coin from the magnetic field and put it back in his pocket. Then, rushing back, he grabbed one of the magnetic spheres and his bismuth crystal and the alloy and put those in his other pocket.
Soon, the children and Miss Brett were leaving the house, and Jasper and Faye were speaking to each other in silent glances,
As the others headed to the bakery, Faye and Jasper split off and walked down to the chapel. Again. Since Christmas, along with the forest and surrounding areas, Jasper and Faye had been exploring the chapel for answers. They’d peruse the mosaic and feel the walls for secret levers, sometimes even climbing up onto the broken walls, They looked in vain for the secret entrance, only to find a stone wall where they had thought the entrance to the tunnels had been. Faye was determined, and frustrated, but Jasper secretly thought that this was probably for the best. They would never have found the way back through the maze of tunnels.
Today, though, they did find the little old shepherd there in the chapel. He was all alone, sitting on a crumbled stone wall, singing to himself. The poor little man, Faye thought. She immediately felt the urge to search. She wished she could have found the entrance to the tunnels, because they would surely be a safe place for the shepherd. What if a storm hit suddenly? Or a sudden drop in temperature, like the one before Lucy’s birthday that killed those poor creatures? If the shepherd knew the secret entrance to the tunnels, he’d be able to go inside. Faye thought of the secret door in the beast garden, too, but that would be a tomb more than a shelter.
The little man smiled through his scruffy beard. He climbed down from the wall and began a slow walk away from the fields. He must be heading back to his flock, Faye thought. She hoped he had some food and a place to stay.
Faye didn’t know why the little man made her feel so sad. But he did. It tugged at something in her heart, watching him walk away He was cold and all . . . alone. He was alone. Faye felt the rise of that feeling. Yes, she knew what it felt like to be alone. Back in her home in India, with all the riches and servants, she had always felt alone. But at least she had not been cold.
She followed Jasper as they hurried towards the bakery to catch up with the others.
Presently, Miss Brett, Noah, Wallace, and Lucy arrived at Signora Fornaio’s. The bakery seemed oddly quiet. Outside, there was only an empty plate of milk and no ravens. When they walked inside, it seemed to be empty. There was only one candle lit in the front room. This was odd.
It worried Miss Brett. Signora Fornaio was always there when they arrived, singing and forcing sweets upon the children. But she was not at the counter.
“She isn’t here?” said Wallace.
Where could she be? “Signora?” Miss Brett called. Signora Fornaio would not just leave a candle burning.
It was then they heard it: a whimper from the back room.
“Signora?” Miss Brett called again. “Are you all right?”
Signora Fornaio waddled out from her kitchen. Her face was drawn, and her cheeks, usually rosy with pleasure, were red and streaked from tears.
Miss Brett quickly stepped around the counter and put her arms around the baker. She could feel the woman shaking, her breath coming in stutters as she tried to control her sobs. Miss Brett noticed that she seemed thinner. Had they not noticed? Suddenly, this strong lady felt truly frail. Miss Brett held her closer.
“Signora, what happened?” Miss Brett said softly caressing the baker’s back. It was several moments before Signora Fornaio could speak. And then, she did so between great, gasping sobs. Noah stepped back outside and urged the others to do the same.
“It feels rude to stare,” he said in uncharacteristic awkwardness as Faye and Jasper appeared, spotting the baker’s shoulders shaking. But they pushed past Noah and went inside. Wallace adjusted his glasses and stepped out to stand next to Noah. They waited outside the tiny bakery.
Lucy went right up to Signora Fornaio. She put a hand on the baker’s arm.
“Don’t cry, Signora Fornaio. We love you,” she said, leaning into the baker’s skirt. Signora Fornaio reached down to pat Lucy, but it did not stem her sobs.
“For days I wait. For weeks I hope. It is past Christmas, and Antonio has not sent me a package,” she said. “He send me a birthday gift and a letter in June, and I receive one more in August, written in July, but that is all. This is not like my figlio—my Antonio. This is not like my bambino.” She blew her nose like a trumpet into her fancy American handkerchief.
“I’m so sorry,” said Miss Brett, putting her hand on Signora Fornaio’s shoulder. “Could there have been a problem because of the fire in the postal carriage? Perhaps something else happened to a different carriage.”
“No, it was Signora Maggio who was there before and saw that no package had come,” she said, her English breaking as she fought tears and tried to speak. “Later, Mezzobaffi said he check for me, but I forgetted to tell him that Signora Maggio already, she check. I am so fearing that my little friend, il pastore, the shepherd is hurt from the fire, but he come back. So worried.”
“Perhaps the weather,” said Miss Brett. “The weather can hold up the post for months. Or perhaps there is so much because of the holiday, so many packages, I . . . I don’t want you to be sad. I am sure—”
“Don’t you worry for me, mia bella,” said Signora Fornaio, taking Miss Brett’s hand and kissing it, forcing a smile between her tears.
With Signora Fornaio refusing to hear any more sympathy, she gave them some loaves of bread and warm iced buns,
As they hurried out the door, Signora Fornaio rushed after them with a small bundle.
“Per favore, can you give this to the poor shepherd? It is so cold in the field, and he works so hard all the day. Please—it is biscotti and warm milk,” Signora Fornaio said. Miss Brett told her she would be glad to bring it to the poor shepherd.
As they ambled up the hill toward the field, they came upon Mezzobassi, who was now standing in the field with his staff in his hand, clearly chilly and tired. The walk from the chapel must have worn him out. The old shepherd took the bundle with gladness, looking out toward the hillside where his flock must have headed. Then he devoured the warm biscuits and sweet milk as he walked,
“Poor man,” said Miss Brett. “Poor Signor . . . um . . . shepherd. Oh dear, to be so old, and have to live off the land, alone but for his sheep.”
“He must make money in the spring, with lambs and wool,” Jasper said.
“How many sheep does he have?” asked Lucy.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Miss Brett. At the moment, no sheep were visible at all.
“It’s terribly cold,” Lucy said. “Shouldn’t we ask him to come to the house?”
Miss Brett called after the shepherd. He looked around, then back at them. Poor dear, Miss Brett thought. His hearing is clearly not very keen. “Would you like to come inside?” Miss Brett said, clearly and loudly.
“Mio?” The little shepherd seemed to be amazed that anyone would have considered him worthy of an invitation. He dusted off his ragged arms, as if he was sprucing up for the event.
This made Miss Brett all the more adamant. “We’d really love to have you.”
“Yes, it will be lovely,” said Lucy.
Mezzobassi looked down into his hands and shook his head.
Miss Brett smiled. “Why don’t you come?”
“It won’t be any trouble. Mr. Frilly Aprons, he’s one of the mysterious men in black, and he will make lovely sandwiches, and Signora Fornaio will bring sweets and cakes and delicious treats,” said Lucy.
Mezzobassi shook his head, laughing. “Non, grazie. So beautiful, molto bella, gentile.” He smiled.
“Won’t you come?” Lucy asked again.
But the shepherd again laughed, shaking his head and wagging his finger. He took out another biscotti and waddled off, a lone raven circling overhead.
Miss Brett’s heart sank. Poor thing, she thought as she watched him go.
The next morning, Miss Brett and the children again walked down the hill to the bakery. They were getting some sweet buns for breakfast, but mostly, Miss Brett was worried about the baker.
Before they even arrived at the door, they could hear banging and a volley of Italian that no one could understand and, from the tone, it was probably for the best. Signora Fornaio looked terrible, She had clearly been crying all night. But she was not crying now, and she had a fierce look in her eye,
“It’s your son,” Miss Brett said, coming around the counter. “Have you heard something?”
Signora Fornaio shook her head, shaking her fist in the air. “Monello sconsiderato! That thoughtless, inconsiderate scoundrel.”
Miss Brett didn’t know what to say. Clearly, the baker’s worry and fear had transformed itself into anger. “If there’s anything—”
“Oh, that boy!” cried Signora Fornaio. “Always istigatore! Troublemaker. Always egoista, selfish! He is always wanting more, wanting bigger He wanted to be in the big cities, to have the fine clothes. He fought Mario, the welder’s son, because he wanted the girl. That is how my beautiful, mio bello, how he is having the scar right across his eye like this.” She drew a line with her finger across her left eye. “My Antonio and I were so thankful he did not lose his eye.”
Lucy gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“What is it, Luce?” Jasper asked his sister in a whisper. Lucy shook her head, tears filling the corners of her eyes.
“Lucy? Are you all right?” asked Miss Brett. Lucy shook her head, then suddenly turned and ran out and up the road to the palazzo.
Faye hesitated, looking at the baker who was wiping her eyes,
“Go, bella. Go to her.” The baker waved her hand for Faye to go.
Faye nodded, though she felt bad about leaving her. Noah followed close behind. They hurried to catch up with Jasper, who had run after his sister. They caught up at the stone wall by the chapel.
“What is it?” asked Noah. “What happened back there?”
But Lucy just shook her head, tears streaming from the corners of her eyes.
“Lucy, please, what is it?” Jasper asked.
Lucy shook her head all the harder.
Jasper took a deep breath. He hugged his sister and let her cry Then he pulled her back and looked her in the eyes. “You need to tell us, Lucy,” said Jasper, trying to be comforting but also growing a bit impatient. “If you don’t, we can’t help.”
“But n
o one can help!” she cried. “It’s the article. I read it in the article.”
“What article?” asked Jasper, catching her hand as her bracelet went to her mouth. “When did you read it? This morning?”
“On the boat,” said Lucy sucking in her breath as tears flowed down.
“An article on the boat?” Noah scratched his head. “There was no article on the boat.”
But Faye suddenly remembered. The newspaper from the kitchen in the boat. Lucy had read something in it, and made a huge racket when she did. What was on that page? Faye thought. What did it say? There was something about a tunnel and a wealthy woman, Something about a hydroscope . . . “Was it the hydroscope?” she asked.
“No, the real article!” cried Lucy.
“The real article?” Faye tried to remember what else was in the paper.
“What do you mean?” Jasper asked.
Lucy looked up. “You read it, too. All of you.”
Faye thought. There was something else. “There was a story about a lady—”
“Not the lady, not the hydroscope. It was about the man, the Italian man . . .” And Lucy broke off crying again.
“What Italian man?” asked Faye. She didn’t remember anything about an Italian man,
“The man they found in the tunnel,” Lucy managed between sobs.
Faye remembered the tunnel. She also remembered something was found in there. With Lucy’s photographic memory, Faye had no doubt she was right.
“What did it say?” asked Noah.
And Faye remembered. “He was dead, wasn’t he?”
Lucy buried her face in her brother’s coat.
“What else did it say Lucy?” Noah asked. “Why is it bothering you now?”
Lucy just shook her head. When it seemed Lucy could breathe more easily, Faye leaned over and wiped the tears from the younger girl’s face. Clearly, Lucy had put something together—something that might be very important. Faye took Lucy’s hand and looked her straight in the eyes.
“Lucy, take a deep breath and tell us what the article said,” said Faye. “We need to know.”
The Ravens of Solemano or The Order of the Mysterious Men in Black Page 28
