Ned and Morgan looked up in surprise.
“Sure,” Ned said, and pointed to the door. He and Josephine walked out to the alley, out of earshot of the apartment.
“I know your father has put you in a difficult position, but I have to be honest. I don’t really think we’re going to be able to find one of Brokhun’s Cracks anyway. No offense to your father, but I think his theories and his claganmeter are pretty far-fetched.”
Ned smiled. “No offense taken. Everyone in town thinks he’s crazy.”
“Do you?”
“He’s not crazy. But he may be a little . . . optimistic about the claganmeter.”
Josephine nodded in understanding.
“Even if we find the wormhole,” Ned added, “I can’t go with you. I won’t leave him.”
“I know that, and you know that, but . . .” Josephine paused. “He doesn’t need to know that.” She was shocked at her own audacity, but she would do whatever it took to rescue Ida and Fargus.
Ned smiled conspiratorially. “Okay. Let’s go back inside.”
When they went back in, Morgan was carefully folding Josephine’s letter and placing it into an envelope.
“Dad, I’m going with Josephine,” Ned announced.
Morgan looked up. “And you agree to leave Gulm with her?”
“Yes.” Ned looked away from his father, afraid he might see the lie.
Morgan looked sad but resigned. “Then we must act quickly. First, you should take Josephine’s letter to the marketplace and give it to Samuel Fromma. Tell him it must reach the Master immediately. Now, he won’t be too keen to go to the manor, so you’d better give him this.” Morgan reached into his pocket and retrieved a shiny new coin. Ned took the letter and the coin and then hugged his father, surprising Morgan with the intensity of his emotions.
“Thank you, Father. I won’t let you down, I promise.”
Morgan choked up and hugged him back, fierce and loving. “Neddy, you could no more let me down than you could change the color of your eyes.” He squeezed tightly and then released him. “Get going. And in the meantime I’m going to teach this little lady a few tricks that might come in handy.”
“Uh-oh.” Ned grinned. “Look out, Josephine. He might just turn you into a warrior.” And with that he put on his cap and was out the door.
THIRTY-TWO
Ida slept on and off in her dark prison. She had no idea what day it was. All she knew was blackness. She longed to straighten her legs and arms. She thought of food: sweet lamb chops and roast potatoes and lemon fritters. She could almost taste them. As soon as she had the memory of lemon upon her tongue, she leaned forward and began to bite the ropes around her wrists. She had been gnawing at them little by little. But she could never stand it for more than a few minutes, as the threads absorbed what little moisture she had in her throat.
As she nibbled at the cords, she felt a vibration in her feet. She stopped and concentrated on the energy that crept up her legs. Suddenly a shock ran through her body, making her thrash like a dying fish. It stopped just as suddenly as it had started and Ida struggled to catch her breath. She didn’t know what had happened, but she wasn’t sure if she could last much longer.
THIRTY-THREE
Mr. Seaworthy shuffled down the hall with a trembling silver tray full of hot tea, fresh cakes, and a letter that had just arrived for the Master. He tried not to look down at the overfull teapot, knowing that peeking was the quickest path to spilling. The Master was in good spirits today, and Mr. Seaworthy dared not ruin his mood by serving him soggy cakes. Fifteen years before, he had served him soggy cakes and the Master had had him thrown into the moat. Mr. Seaworthy sank to the bottom like a stone and just lay there, calmly waiting to drown. He stayed that way for nearly five minutes, until the Master decided he could, possibly, eat scones instead of the soggy cakes. One of the other servants was ordered to jump into the murky waters and pull Mr. Seaworthy out, and the crooked old man emerged as stoic as ever. This was what had earned him the nickname “Seaworthy.” Before the incident his name had been Buttermeyer.
He arrived at the Master’s bedchamber and entered without knocking.
“Ah, Seaworthy, it’s about time. I’m famished.” The Master lay in his enormous bed, wearing silk pajamas and a nightcap, and he happily reached for a cake as soon as Mr. Seaworthy showed him the tray. As he shoved it into his mouth, he opened the letter with sticky fingers.
Mr. Seaworthy walked to the other side of the bed to put down the tray. This took longer that one might have expected, since the bed took up most of the room. Its giant canopy frame was made of mahogany and the sheets of fine silk. Mr. Seaworthy had thought on more than one occasion that the entire staff could have fitted comfortably in the Master’s bed. One might have thought that the Master would have rejected such a large piece of furniture since it only served to emphasize his diminutive size, but Mr. Seaworthy suspected that while lying in the bed the Master felt as if he were the captain of an enormous ship.
“Seaworthy! This is incredible; it’s the most fabulous stroke of luck!”
“Yes, sir,” Mr. Seaworthy agreed, having no idea what the Master was talking about.
“That girl, the one those horrible farmers told me about, she wants to see me. Here I thought I was going to have to craft some elaborate scheme to capture her, and instead she is practically surrendering to me! The poor ninny!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Lovely cakes. Tell the cook he is using too much vanilla.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is a fine day, Seaworthy, a fine day. I am finally going to learn the secret to Brokhun’s Cracks. And all of my plans will come to fruition!” Mr. Seaworthy began sweeping up the crumbs that had landed on the Master’s sheets with a tiny whisk broom he carried in his coat pocket. “I want to wear something special today. Something dignified and royal that says, ‘I will claw your eyes out for fun.’”
“I know the suit you mean, sir.” Mr. Seaworthy shuffled toward the deep closet and began searching for the perfect ensemble. As he picked out a pair of wee trousers, he considered how much he had aged in the time he had been in the Master’s service and how little the Master had changed.
He daydreamed of the day when the Master would rise and ring the breakfast bell and no one would answer. And when the servants were finally sent to find Mr. Seaworthy, they would knock down his door only to find him in bed, no longer breathing, holding a picture of his sweet daughter, Petunia Buttermeyer, whose safety Mr. Seaworthy had insured by his boundless servitude to the Master.
THIRTY-FOUR
Josephine struggled for breath while Morgan spurred her on. “Kick me! Go on. Do it again!”
The two of them stood wide apart in the empty alleyway next to Morgan and Ned’s apartment, and once again, Josephine took a running start and attempted to leap in the air and kick Morgan in the chest. But when her heel made contact with him, it was with his hip, not his chest, and the force with which she delivered the blow was as insubstantial as a feather landing on his cheek. She huffed in frustration.
“Now, don’t give up. It’s about practice. You can’t think about your foot kicking me—you have to make your whole body do the kicking, and your foot just happens to make the first contact. Do you understand?”
Josephine nodded, although she wasn’t sure she understood him completely.
