“It’s too dangerous,” said Molly.
“You’re going,” retorted George. “He’s going.”
“But he…” Molly searched for words, then gave up. “George, it’s just too complicated.”
“Yes,” said George. “And that’s why you need all the help you can get. You wouldn’t even know to go to Salisbury if not for me.”
Molly had no answer for that.
“If you want me to buy the tickets,” said George, “you have to let me go with you.”
Molly hung her head, thinking.
“All right,” she said.
“Molly!” said Peter.
She looked at him. “He’s right,” she said. “I have to take whatever help I can.”
“But what about the…your family’s business?”
“Right now,” said Molly, her tone grim, “all I care about is getting my mother back. If George can help, then I want him to come with us.”
“All right,” said Peter, though it was clear he did not think it was. Molly and he exchanged a long look, but neither spoke.
“I’ll get dressed,” said George, breaking the silence. “We’ll take a cab to Waterloo Station.”
CHAPTER 87
THE GOLDEN WEATHER
VANE
AN HOUR INTO THE TRAIN ride from London to Salisbury, Peter announced that he wanted some fresh air and left his seat to stand in the open space between the clattering, jostling train carriages. Here, after making sure nobody was watching, he opened his coat and allowed Tinker Bell out. She perched on his shoulder, looking at the engine smoke billowing overhead, and wrinkled her nose.
Why do we have to stay on this loud, smelly thing? she asked. Why can’t we just fly?
“You know Molly and George can’t fly,” he said.
So? YOU can fly.
“But I’m with them,” he said.
But you’re not one of them.
“What do you mean?”
They live in this awful cold place. They’re stuck on the ground. You live on our island, and you can fly. You’re not like them. Tink put her tiny face close to Peter’s. You’re like me.
Peter looked at her, then stared out at the fields rushing past. He wondered: was Tink right? Had he become more fantastic creature than person? Was there any place in England for someone like him? Could he ever be Molly’s friend, the way George was her friend? If he never grew old, could he be the friend of any normal person?
Standing on the rumbling platform, Peter felt keenly aware of how out of place he was here, how far from home. And for the first time, he understood where his home really was.
“You’re right, Tink,” he said softly. “I am like you.”
At that same moment, back in the train carriage, George turned to Molly and asked, “How did you come to know Peter?”
“I met him on a ship,” Molly answered.
“Really? And how did you become friends?”
Molly thought back to the eventful voyage aboard the Never Land—her discovery that the ship carried a trunk filled with starstuff; her desperate decision to enlist Peter as an ally in her effort to get the precious trunk away from the Others; the attack on the ship by the infamous Black Stache; the storm at sea that marooned them on the mysterious Mollusk Island; the struggle there, pitting children and mermaids against murderous pirates, and the even-deadlier Slank, with hostile natives and a giant flying crocodile thrown in for good measure; and, above all, the courage and resourcefulness Peter had shown, risking his life to save Molly’s, and the starstuff.
These images and more ran through Molly’s mind. But all she said to George was: “I needed help. And Peter helped me.”
George nodded. “That’s very admirable,” he said. “But I’m still puzzled by your continued…association with him.”
“Why?”
“Well, he’s not exactly your sort of person, is he?”
“What do you mean?” said Molly.
“I mean,” said George. “The way he talks. His level of education. His…his breeding. Is he really a suitable companion for someone of your background? I mean, your family, your father—”
“My father,” interrupted Molly, “considers Peter to be one of the finest young men he has ever met.” She glared at George.
“I see,” he said.
“No,” said Molly, turning away. “You don’t.”
George, realizing he had badly misjudged the situation, spent several minutes trying to think of something diplomatic to say, but could come up with nothing before Peter returned. The three of them rode the rest of the way in silence.
Arriving, at last, in Salisbury, they descended from the carriage and stood on the platform as the train chugged away. The day was chilly, but for once the sky was clear; sunlight bathed the gentle hills of County Wiltshire. Molly, Peter, and George walked through the station, emerging onto a muddy, well-traveled road. Several coaches-for-hire stood waiting, their horses tied to posts, their drivers presumably just across the road, refreshing themselves at the Railway Tavern. In the distance the sky was pierced by the tall, sharp spike of the Salisbury cathedral.
“Now what?” said Peter.
“I imagine we could ask somebody if he has seen Molly’s father,” said George.
“Ask who?” said Peter.
“Well, someone must know,” said George, irritated. “Have you got a better idea?”
“Not yet,” said Peter, looking George straight in the eye. “But I will.”
The two boys glared at each other. Molly was paying no attention to them. She was staring at the cathedral tower.
“I’ve been here,” she said.
George and Peter looked at her.
“Father and Mother brought me here,” she said. “It was years ago—I was small. But I remember that cathedral.”
“What else do you remember?” said Peter.
Molly frowned, thinking back. “It was summer. We stayed at a large house. It was on a winding road, next to a river. There was a wooden bridge nearby. Father took me there and we would try to catch fish.” She paused, then her face lit up. “And I remember something else—Mister McGuinn was there!”
“Are you sure?” said Peter.
“Who’s Mister McGuinn?” said George.
“He’s…that is, he was an…an associate of my father’s,” said Molly. “And I’m sure he was there. And I remember something else: I think the house may have had a weather vane, a golden weather vane.” She looked at Peter. “With a star on the top.”
“That’s it,” said Peter softly.
“That’s what?” said George.
“That’s where Father must be,” said Molly. “That’s why he came to Salisbury. We need to find that house.”
“Do you have any recollection of how you got there?” said Peter.
“No,” said Molly. “But I’m sure we took the train to Salisbury. I remember that cathedral. We started out from here.”
“Then so will we,” said George. Without another word, he strode across the road and into the Railway Tavern.
“What’s he doing?” said Peter.
“I don’t know,” said Molly.
In a minute George emerged from the tavern accompanied by a coach driver, a slight man with the face of a ferret.
“This is Mister Peavey,” said George, when they reached Molly and Peter. “He says he’s very familiar with this area.”
“Lived here all me life,” said Peavey. “I knows every inch of Wiltshire.” He grinned, revealing six teeth, widely spaced. “Every inch.”
“Then perhaps you can help us,” said Molly. “We’re looking for a house, quite a large house, on a winding road, next to a river.”
“Lots of those around here, missy,” said Peavey. “Lots of those.”
“It’s near a bridge,” said Molly.
“Could be any number of houses,” said Peavey. “Any number.”
“And it has a…a golden weather vane,” said Molly. “Shaped like
a star.”
Peavey hesitated before he answered. “Well, now,” he said. “That narrows it down a mite, don’t it?”
“So you know the house?” said Molly eagerly.
“Maybe I do,” said Peavey. He stroked his chin. “Of course, maybe I don’t.”
“Look here,” Peter said angrily. “If you know where—”
“Allow me,” interrupted George, putting his hand on Peter’s arm, to Peter’s great annoyance. “I believe what Mister Peavey is saying is that his memory might need some assistance.”
“A smart young lad, this one,” Peavey said.
George pressed something into Peavey’s hand. Peter heard the clink of coins.
Peavey grinned. “Now that you mentions it,” he said, “I believe I might know the very house you’re looking for. Take you there in an hour, I can.”
“Excellent,” said George, winking at Molly, who grinned back at him in a way that made Peter’s stomach clench. George opened the door to the coach and gallantly helped Molly climb inside.
“Thank you, George,” she said. “That was clever of you.”
“Not at all,” said George, climbing in after her. “It’s just a question of knowing how to get things done.” He said this without glancing back at Peter, but he figured Peter’s expression would be quite unhappy.
He was quite correct.
Close to an hour later, with sunset nearing, the coach came to a stop in front of an enormous country house. Its driveway was guarded by a massive iron gate, on which was a sign that read: SE MONA.
George hopped to the ground and helped Molly out of the coach. Peter followed.
“Well?” George asked.
Molly studied the house, then shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don’t think this is it.” Her eyes swept upward. “Wait a minute!” She turned angrily to Peavey and said, “That’s the moon, not a star!”
Peter and George looked up. Sure enough: the weather vane was crescent shaped.
“Same thing,” said Peavey. “One a them planets.”
“It’s not the same,” said Molly.
“Well, missy,” said Peavey, “that there’s the best I can do.”
Peter was looking at the sign. “Maybe the…the Semonas can help us find the house.”
“The who?” said George, with a condescending smile.
Peavey cackled. “Se Mona ain’t the name of the people who lives here,” he said. “That there is the name of the house. It’s Old English, it is. Quite a few of the big houses round here has got Old English names.”
“Se Mona,” said George. “Means ‘the moon.’”
“You speak Old English?” said Molly.
“Well, not fluently,” said George, trying without success to sound modest. “But I’ve studied it enough to get by. The house you stayed at with your father—do you recall if it had a name?”
Molly frowned. “It might’ve,” she said. “But I don’t remember what it was.”
“What’s the Old English word for star?” said Peter.
“I believe it’s steorra,” said George.
Peter looked at Peavey. “Is there a house named Steorra?”
“Never heard of one,” said Peavey.
“What about ‘light’?” said Molly.
George asked Peavey: “Are any of the houses named Leoht?”
“Not so as I know.”
“What about ‘return’?” said Peter, with a glance at Molly.
George shut his eyes, deep in thought. When he opened them, he said to the driver, “Is there a house by the name of…Gecierran?”
At the sound of the name, Peavey flinched.
“You know the name?” said George.
“Yes, I know it,” said Peavey. “But I don’t know that I’d want to go there, if I was you.”
“Why not?” said George.
Peavey hesitated, then said, “There’s talk that strange things happen there. For years and years. People stay away from there.”
“What kinds of strange things?” said George. “Ghosts?” He smirked at Peter and Molly. “Witchcraft?”
“Yes,” Peavey said, in a quiet voice that erased George’s smirk.
Molly and Peter exchanged a look.
“We want to go there,” said Molly.
Peavey nodded slowly. “All right, then,” he said. “But it’ll cost extra.”
“We’ll pay,” said George.
“Get in, then,” said Peavey. “It’s a half hour away.”
But it was sooner than that when the roofline of the grand house came into view. On the highest peak, clearly visible in the last rays of the setting sun, was a weather vane.
And atop it, gleaming gold, was a five-pointed star.
CHAPTER 88
A GOOD FRIEND OF HIS
THE POUNDING ON the carriage roof startled Slank awake. He opened his eyes to see Nerezza parting the curtain. Ombra leaned past Nerezza to see out the carriage window, Nerezza pressing himself back into the seat to avoid contact with the dark form. Lady Aster stared unflinchingly ahead.
Ombra studied the scene out the window. The sun had set; a full moon was just rising in the clear evening sky, still low on the horizon but bright enough to illuminate the countryside. The carriage, after a full day of travel, had reached its destination—a dirt track on a small rise overlooking a patchwork of fields that ran for miles. Fifty yards away, at the end of the track, sat a stone cottage, chimney smoking, and a few tumbledown outbuildings of weathered wood.
“No neighbors,” Nerezza said. “And a good view. As you requested, my lord.”
Ombra made a noise that sounded like agreement. “Mister Slank,” he groaned. “Take Gerch and look around.”
“Yes, my lord.”
Slank climbed out; he and Gerch headed off toward the cottage. A few minutes later they returned.
“The outbuildings are empty,” Slank reported. “There’s two people in the cottage—an old woman knitting, and an old man splitting kindling in the kitchen.”
Ombra slid out of the carriage. “Stay with her,” he said, indicating Lady Aster. He glided swiftly down the dirt track to the cottage. He paused at the door, where he seemed to melt and spread, losing height and shape until he was nothing but a pool of darkness, which quickly disappeared under the doorsill.
The pool reappeared inside the cottage, where an old woman sat knitting by the dim light of a candle and a dying fire. A low doorway behind her led to the kitchen, from which chopping sounds could be heard.
Feeling a sudden chill, the old woman raised her head, looking first at the window, then the door, but not seeing the dark shape oozing across the floor. She returned to her knitting, but only for a moment, as she saw some motion from the corner of her eye.
“John, is that—” she said, but those were her only words before Ombra, now back to full height and form, covered her shadow.
The knitting stopped. The woman slumped forward, a ball of yarn tumbling from her lap to the floor.
The chopping sound from the other room stopped. “Bea?” said a man’s voice. “Did you say something? Bea?”
Silence. Then the sound of shuffling steps. The old man appeared in the low doorway, his right hand holding an ax. He looked at his wife’s slumped form, then saw the dark shape standing next to her.
“Who the devil are you?” he said.
“Not the devil,” groaned Ombra, gliding forward. “But a good friend of his.”
The man raised the ax, gripping it with both hands.
“Stay back,” he said.
Ombra kept coming.
“I warn you,” said the man.
Ombra kept coming.
The man swung the ax, a swift overhand stroke cleaving the dark shape cleanly top to bottom, the ax head burying itself in the floor. The cloaked form split into two detached halves, which, as the man watched in horror, quickly flowed together into their original form and resumed coming at him. The man was too stunned to move as Ombra reached his sha
dow and sucked it away.
“You will take your wife to the barn,” Ombra groaned. “You will remain there until I say otherwise.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The man helped the woman from her chair. Ombra opened the door, and they walked out. The woman was still holding a strand of yarn; the other end was attached to the yarn ball, which tumbled behind the couple, dancing in the dry leaves as they walked to the barn.
Ombra faced the men waiting by the carriages and gestured for them to approach. As they did, Ombra looked out over the fields, swiveling his hooded head until he saw what he was looking for. It was more than a mile away, but clearly visible by the light of the rising moon.
The site of the Return.
As Ombra stood looking at it, a half dozen black shapes glided out of the night and fluttered to rest on the roof of the cottage.
Caw! Caw!
Ombra turned to the ravens, then slowly raised his arm, pointing toward the Return site. Immediately the ravens took wing again. Ombra watched their swift passage across the fields. He did not know when the Return would be—in his struggle with the soul of McGuinn, he had not managed to get that information—but this was where it would be. Sooner or later, the Starcatchers would have to bring their precious starstuff to this place.
And when they did, Ombra, and the ravens, would be waiting.
CHAPTER 89
NO CHOICE
“HERE WE ARE,” called Peavey as he pulled the reins, bringing the carriage to a stop. “Gecierran.”
Peter, Molly, and George climbed down from the coach. Night was newly fallen; a fat moon was rising in the cold, clear sky. They stood on a lonely stretch of the road that followed the meandering path of the Avon river, a few miles from the village of Upper Woodford. On one side of the road was a stand of trees; along the other ran a high stone wall broken by an iron gate. Through the gate, by the moonlight, they could see a driveway lined with evergreens leading to a massive mansion sitting between road and river, dark and unwelcoming.
“I’m off, then,” said Peavey, as George handed him the fare.
“Maybe you should wait,” said George. “In case there’s nobody here, or it’s the wrong house.”
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