He nodded. Anything to stop the pain.
At the Master’s signal the servant removed the candle from under Fargus’s hand. “And enough of this nodding and shaking. I think it is time you spoke.”
Fargus’s eyes rolled back in his head as he tried to ignore the pain and focus on what the Master was saying.
“What you lack is . . . motivation. I know! That smelly girl you came here with. Ida, I believe her name is. For every sentence you speak, you shall add one day to her life.”
Fargus struggled against his captors, but the servants tightened their grips and kept him firmly in place.
“Oh, but it’s so easy. And a good bargain, in my opinion. So let’s try again. Do you want your friend to live?”
Fargus leaned over as if he was going to be sick. His hand throbbed and he could feel the blisters forming already. He coughed and spit, trying to clear his throat. He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He tried again and produced a retching sound. On the third try, he felt the sound rising from his belly, riding up his throat and creeping over his tongue. “Yesssss.”
It didn’t quite sound like a word—it was more of a primitive shriek—but the Master clapped with pleasure. “Well done, boy! I had a feeling you would see it my way.” He clapped twice more and Mr. Seaworthy reappeared.
“Take the boy upstairs to one of the private rooms and give him a bath . . . maybe two. And find some salve for that hand.” He turned to Fargus. “I shall be calling for you soon, boy. And if you are considering escape, feel free, and if you manage to succeed, then you can live out the rest of your miserable life wondering what happened to your beloved family. Good day.”
The Master waved them away.
Mr. Seaworthy led Fargus out the door, putting a withered arm over Fargus’s shoulder as they walked down the hall. “Don’t worry, son. I’ve been with the Master for twenty years and now it just seems like any other job. You’ll get used to it.” Fargus looked down at his burned hand, feeling the terrible, sharp pain throbbing up his arm, and he highly doubted that would be true.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Ned stopped in front of a simple door, removed a key from around his neck, and proceeded to unlock a series of hidden and complicated locks. Josephine felt her heart beat faster.
Ned opened the door and revealed a small apartment. He ushered Josephine inside, and she was pleasantly surprised by the warm, inviting room that lay within.
The space was compact but filled to the brim. It was cluttered and yet suggested some kind of order. There were the essentials: two small beds and night tables, candles for reading, a few chairs, a stove, and a tiny kitchen with a sink and table. She also saw several chessboards, their pieces frozen in the middle of various games. There was a woodworking corner with knives, rulers, and shavings all over the floor, and there were gadgets in another corner: a microscope, a telescope, and something that Josephine didn’t recognize, a long brass tube with clocks attached to it.
But the most amazing thing to Josephine was the sheer number of books. They lined each wall and were stuffed into every available crevice. She scanned the titles: There were old books and new ones, true stories and fantasies. There were books on science and math and physics and philosophy. Josephine found her head spinning. All she wanted to do was sit in the armchair and read every last one of them.
Ned was busy taking off his dirty boots, so she approached a precariously high stack of leather-bound volumes and turned her head sideways so she could read the titles. She was intrigued by one called The Philosophy of Time Travel and reached out for it when a voice emerged from the kitchen, startling her.
“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you.”
Josephine snapped her head around to see a tall, lean man with the same large forehead and kind smile as Ned standing next to the kitchen table.
“The whole thing’s liable to go over, and if you’re lying under a pile of books, I won’t be able to ask your name.”
Josephine stepped away from the books. “I’m Josephine.”
The man limped toward Josephine and slowly squatted down to her height. Josephine thought the man looked much too young to be hobbling around. He had sandy brown hair and a huge Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down when he talked.
“Hello,” he said in a warm voice. “My name is Morgan. I’m Ned’s father.” He put his hand on Josephine’s shoulder. “Ned, why is she all wet?”
Ned became a bit sheepish. “She was all dopey from something Alma and Bruce gave her, so I . . . uh . . . threw her into the Cherry Spring.”
Morgan stood and snatched a blanket from one of the beds. He wrapped it around Josephine and offered her a seat on the bed. “This will keep you warm until I get the fire going.” An amused expression on his face, he chided his son, “You know, making her chew on a blue thistle would have had the same effect.” He looked at Josephine. “You will have to excuse Ned. He never had any patience for herbology.”
Ned scowled and sat in a chair opposite Josephine as Morgan began to pack kindling into the wood-burning stove. “So what brings you to Gulm?”
Josephine hesitated. She wanted to trust this man—Ned, too—but after what had happened with Alma and Bruce, she wasn’t sure how much she should reveal.
Morgan seemed to read her thoughts. “No matter. What’s important is that you’re safe now.” He expertly lit the fire and shut the iron door. “So where are the others?”
Ned answered before Josephine had the chance. “Alma and Bruce gave them to the Master!”
Josephine burst out, “You don’t know that! Ida and Fargus might have just run away! They might be out in the forest right now!”
Ned looked at Josephine as a doctor might look at a delusional patient. “Yeah, well, they were gone when I got there.”
“Hmm.” Morgan shook his head. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“Why is it so awful? Who is the Master? What will he do to them? Why won’t anyone answer my questions?!” Josephine was frantic and her face had turned hot and red. She was so frustrated, she began to cry.
Ned panicked, not sure how to deal with the emotions of a girl.
Morgan, having more experience, sat down next to her on the bed and put an arm around her shoulder. “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Josephine tried to stop crying, but despite her best efforts, the little choked sobs kept coming. She was crying for Ida and Fargus, for herself for being in this strange land, but soon she was mostly crying because she couldn’t remember the last time her own father had put an arm around her.
“Would you like some hot tea?” he offered.
She sniffled and shrugged.
Morgan stood and went to the stove. Josephine wiped her eyes, a little embarrassed, but felt much better now that she had let everything out.
Ned leaned forward in his seat, gaping at her. “You don’t know who the Master is?” This was a completely foreign idea to him, having known about the Master since the day he was born. “Unbelievable.”
