بخش 11

CHAPTER 20

THE SIGNAL

MOLLY WAITED UNTIL THE MAID had set the tea service down and left the sitting room of their splendid London home. When the maid was out of earshot, Molly moved closer to her mother and spoke in a whisper.

“Have you heard from Father?” she said.

Louise Aster poured a cup of tea and handed it to her daughter before answering.

“No, dear, not yet.”

“Is that bad, do you think?” whispered Molly. “Do you think he’s all right?”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” said her mother, pouring herself a cup. “He said it might be some time before he could get word to us.”

Molly, setting her teacup down, rose and walked to the window. The sitting room looked out on Kensington Palace Gardens, one of London’s finest streets, a broad boulevard lined on both sides with massive mansions. It was a typically gloomy London day, though for once it was not raining. A carriage rumbled past, clots of mud flying off the wheels, puffs of breath steaming from the horses’ nostrils, the top-hatted driver hunched down into his overcoat, trying to keep warm.

On the sidewalk in front of the Aster house, looking cold but vigilant, stood the massive, sturdy form of Mr. Hodge. Molly knew that Mr. Jarvis was watching the back of the house, with the dog, Hornblower. The third guard, Mr. Cadigan, was upstairs resting. Rain or no rain, there were always two of these men standing guard outside. Sometimes Molly took them tea and biscuits, for which they were quite grateful, especially Hornblower. Molly had tried several times to engage the men in conversation, hoping to get them to talk about who, or what, they were watching for, or guarding against. These efforts had been fruitless: the men were polite, but revealed nothing.

“Oh, Mother…I hate to say it, but I miss Mrs. Bumbrake at times like this. She’s something of a comfort, in spite of herself.”

“Don’t worry, dear. As soon as her sister is feeling better, she’ll be back. A fortnight at most.”

“I do hate this,” said Molly.

“I’d rather you not use that word, dear,” said her mother. “It’s entirely unacceptable.” She continued, “Now, what is it you dislike?”

“This feeling of…of waiting,” said Molly impatiently.

“Waiting for what?”

“For…for something bad to happen.”

“I’m sure nothing bad is going to happen.”

“Then why are there men guarding our house?” said Molly.

Louise hesitated before she answered, and Molly saw a flicker of emotion cross her usually placid face. But all she said was, “We’re perfectly safe, dear. Those men are here because your father wanted to make sure of that.”

Molly’s anger rose, and with it her voice. “Mother,” she said, “I’m not a child. I know what kind of people the Others are. I was on the ship with them, remember? I was captured by that awful man Slank. I’ve seen what they’ll do to get the starst—”

Molly stopped midword as her mother gave her an uncharacteristically sharp look, followed by a barely perceptible nod toward the doorway. Molly glanced in that direction and saw the maid standing there, just outside the room. She was the newest member of the household staff, a black-haired, rail-thin woman with a narrow face.

“Yes, Jenna?” asked Louise.

“Did you need anything else, ma’am?” said the maid.

“No, Jenna, thank you,” said Louise. “We’re fine.”

Jenna bowed and left. Louise rose from her chair and crossed to where Molly was standing. Her expression was still calm, but her cheeks had a pink tinge that Molly knew meant she was angry.

“Molly,” Louise said, her voice low but firm, “if you don’t wish to be treated like a child, you must not act like one. Yes, the Others are dangerous. Don’t you think I know that? But your father has done—is doing—all that he can to deal with the situation, and to protect us. For our part, we must be brave and do our best to maintain appearances. Above all, we must not discuss these matters—ever—in front of the staff.”

Molly, chastened, nodded. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she said. “It’s just that sometimes I—”

She was interrupted by the resonating bong of the big front-door chime. She and her mother exchanged a Who-could-that-be? look. Their question was answered a moment later when Jenna reappeared in the doorway and said, “It’s Master George, ma’am. To see Miss Molly.”

Molly blushed, drawing a small smile from her mother.

“Please show him in, Jenna,” said Louise.

In a moment, the lanky form of George Darling gangled into the room, all arms and legs and ears, a sandy-blond fourteen-year-old who would one day be a tall and handsome man, but who was still learning to operate his suddenly growing body.

“H…Hullo, Mrs. Aster,” he stammered to Louise.

“Hello, George,” she said.

“Hullo, Molly,” George said, his face, particularly his protruding ears, turning the shade of a ripe tomato.

“Hello, George,” said Molly.

“Molly, why don’t you entertain George?” said Louise. “I need to speak to Cook about dinner.” With a twinkle in her eyes, she left the room.

“So,” said George, not quite looking at Molly. “Hullo.”

“You said that already,” said Molly.

“Ah,” said George. “So I did.”

George was a bit older than Molly, but they’d known each other since they were very small, as their families traveled in the same social circles. George’s home was in Ennismore Gardens, just across the park from Molly’s. As children they had played together for many happy hours. Now, however, they were entering the awkward stage between childhood and adulthood, and although they still enjoyed each other’s company, they were unsure how to, or whether to, express that enjoyment.

This had been particularly true in the months since Molly had returned from her eventful trip to sea. George had sensed a change in Molly; he had tried more than once to ask her about her experiences on the ship, only to have Molly quickly change the subject. So he had given up on that line of inquiry. But he continued to call on the Aster house regularly.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he said, “So, who’s the bruiser lurking out front? He gave me quite the hard look as I walked up.”

“That’s not a bruiser,” said Molly. “That’s Mister Hodge.”

“All right, then,” said George. “And who is Mister Hodge?”

“He’s a friend of my father’s.”

George studied her for a moment.

“Is your father here?” he said.

“No,” said Molly. “He’s…he’s away.”

“I see,” said George. “And your father’s…friend…he stands outside all day?”

“Yes,” said Molly. “He does.”

“I see,” he said.

Another uncomfortable silence, finally broken by George.

“Look, Molly,” he said. “Do you…I mean, are you…I mean…is there something wrong?”

“Wrong? Of course not,” said Molly. “What would be wrong? There’s nothing wrong.”

“Because if there is,” said George, “and if I could—”

“There’s nothing wrong,” said Molly.

More silence.

“All right,” said George. “I just thought that…I mean…Never mind.”

Molly appeared on the verge of saying something, but she merely nodded. This was followed by more silence and increasing discomfort on both sides.

“All right, then,” said George finally. “I suppose I should be going, then.”

Again Molly appeared on the verge of saying something; again she held her tongue.

“All right, then,” repeated George. “Good-bye, Molly.”

“Good-bye,” she said, and they parted, both of them feeling quite unhappy, neither of them sure why.

Jenna showed George to the door, and Molly went upstairs to her room, which was on the third floor at the front of the house, with a window looking out on the boulevard. Molly sat in the window seat and watched George trudge away, not looking back. He passed a larger person coming up the sidewalk toward the Aster house. Molly saw that it was a bobby—a Metropolitan police officer—wearing the blue uniform and distinctive domed helmet. She noted that it was not Constable Calvin, the stout, red-faced, heavily whiskered man who had walked this beat since before Molly was born, but a taller man, hawk-nosed, clean-shaven, whose uniform seemed too small for him, the frock-coat sleeves barely reaching his wrists.

As Molly watched, the bobby drew alongside the corner of the Aster property, where he passed Mr. Hodge, who was beginning his hourly circuit of the perimeter of the Aster grounds. Mr. Hodge nodded politely. The bobby did not respond, and in fact barely glanced at Mr. Hodge. Molly saw that this reaction, or lack of reaction, puzzled Mr. Hodge; he turned and watched the bobby’s back for a moment. Then he shrugged and turned right, heading around the side of the house.

And because he had gone around the side, Mr. Hodge did not see what the bobby did next, although Molly, watching from her bedroom, did see it.

The bobby stopped in front of the house and looked in all directions, as if checking to see that nobody was watching him. Then he looked toward the Aster house, peering intently; Molly figured he was looking toward the sitting room.

What is he looking at? wondered Molly.

What he was looking at, unseen by Molly, was a hand, held close to the sitting-room window. The hand belonged to Jenna, the maid. It was holding up three fingers.

One for each guard.

From her window, Molly thought she saw the bobby’s head give just the slightest hint of a nod, but she wasn’t sure. The bobby then turned and walked away in the same direction from which he had come.

I wonder what that was about, thought Molly. CHAPTER 21

THE SCUTTLEBUTT

PETER HAD NEVER FELT hungrier, or thirstier. He’d been awakened from his restless sleep by the ache of his empty belly. His lips were dry and cracked; his throat was parched.

The only good thing about the situation, as far as Peter could tell, was that since the incident with the young sailor that morning, no crewman had climbed near his hiding place. Peter had some experience at sea; he knew that as long as the wind held and the ship maintained its present course, the sailors would have no reason to do anything to the sail where he’d taken refuge. With any luck, he could be undisturbed here for days.

But he had to find food and water. Especially water. He had to find some soon. Unfortunately, he dared not venture out of his hiding place until darkness fell.

The afternoon hours passed slowly and uncomfortably; Peter felt increasingly cramped, hot, and sweaty in his tight canvas confinement. Finally, finally, the sky began to darken. At last the sun went down, and the welcome coolness of night enveloped the ship.

Peter wriggled his way toward the top of the sail. Tinker Bell poked her tiny head over the edge and looked down.

“What do you see, Tink?” Peter whispered.

Soft bells. Some men working. Some talking. Nobody looking this way.

“Is there a place where I can land down there, where they won’t see me?” whispered Peter.

A pause as Tink scanned the deck. Then: Yes. At the back. I’ll show you.

Tink fluttered out of the sail and hovered. Peter, moving stiffly, poked his head up from the canvas and looked around. The moon was not yet up; the rigging was dark. Peter realized that he probably would not be spotted even if somebody on deck did happen to look up. He crawled out on the yard and looked to where Tink was pointing: a darkened area of the deck toward the stern, on the port side, alongside the raised poop deck where the helmsman stood at the wheel. Peter saw that, if he crouched, he could not be seen from the helm. But he would have to be alert for anybody coming back along the port rail.

“Okay,” he whispered to Tink. “Let’s go.”

In an instant, Tink, who could fly faster than Peter could see, darted down to the deck. Peter swooped right behind her, enjoying the swoosh of the cool air on his face. He crouched on the deck next to Tink, listening for a shout that would mean somebody had seen him.

Nothing.

“All right,” he said. “Now I need to find water.”

Soft bells from Tink. I know where the water is.

“You do?” whispered Peter. “Where?”

A barrel, in the middle of the ship. The sailors get water from it with a big spoon.

“The scuttlebutt!” whispered Peter. He remembered the term from his time aboard the ill-fated scow Never Land. The crew often gathered by the scuttlebutt—a water barrel with a wooden ladle—to slake their thirst and trade gossip.

“Can I get to it?” whispered Peter. “Will I be seen?”

Tink flitted forward, keeping close to the deck, then flitted back with the bad news.

There are two men nearby.

“How near?”

This near. In less than a second, Tink flew fifteen feet aft-ward along the rail, then back. If the men were only that far from the scuttlebutt, they would surely see Peter.

“Oh,” said Peter, despondent. His throat felt more parched than ever. Since Tink had mentioned the scuttlebutt, he’d almost tasted the water.

Wait here, said Tink. She flitted forward again, returning about a minute later, looking frustrated.

“What happened?” said Peter.

The spoon, she said. I can’t lift it. It’s tied to the barrel, anyway.

Despite his discomfort, Peter had to smile, touched by Tink’s effort to carry the big ladle back to him.

“It’s all right, Tink,” he said. “Thanks for trying.”

Tink shook her head. I’ll find something smaller, she said.

Peter looked around, but saw nothing that could be used to carry water. Small objects were not left lying about on a ship’s deck, as they inevitably were blown overboard.

“Tink,” Peter whispered, “I don’t think—”

But Tink was gone again…this time over the side of the ship. Peter wondered what she could possibly be up to, but he had no choice other than to wait, which he did for several minutes, before Tink reappeared, dripping wet, proudly holding…a shell.

“Where’d you get that?” whispered Peter, not believing that Tink—even Tink—could have swum down to the seafloor.

From the side of the ship, she said.

Peter examined the shell. Sure enough, it was a barnacle shell. But how…

“How did you get it free from the ship?” he said. Barnacles were notoriously hard to remove from a hull; they clung with astonishing strength, as any sailor would agree after spending a few unhappy hours trying to scrape them off.

I talked to it, said Tink.

“You talked to it?” Peter whispered. He was about to express skepticism, but he realized that if anybody could talk a barnacle into letting go of a ship, it was Tink.

Wait here, she said. Clasping the shell, she zipped forward.

A few moments later she was coming back, flying cautiously, holding the shell in front of her, frowning in concentration as she struggled to avoid spilling a drop. She reached Peter and handed him the shell. He brought it eagerly to his lips. It was only an ounce, maybe less, and it smelled of barnacle, but it was the sweetest thing Peter had ever tasted. He swished it around in his parched mouth and swallowed, then licked the shell.

“Thanks, Tink,” he whispered.

I’ll get more, she said, taking the shell.

“What about the sailors?” Peter said.

They’re looking the other way.

“Be careful,” said Peter, but she was already gone.

Tink made a dozen more trips, two dozen, slaking Peter’s thirst an ounce at a time. Each time, her route to the scuttlebutt took her over a certain spot on the deck. Each time she passed over that spot, she felt an odd sensation. At first she disregarded it, but it became more pronounced with each trip, until she found herself swerving around the spot. But still she sensed it, a distinctly unpleasant feeling.

A chill.

She didn’t mention it to Peter; she wasn’t sure what it was, and she didn’t want to appear afraid. So she avoided the spot as best she could, bringing Peter his water until finally he insisted that she stop before somebody saw her.

“That was wonderful, Tink,” he whispered. “Thanks again.”

You’re welcome.

“Now let’s find some food,” said Peter. “I’m starving.”

Directly beneath the spot on the deck that had troubled Tink was the small, tomb-dark inner cabin where Lord Ombra spent most of his time on the ship. Ombra was there now. Each time Tink had passed overhead, he too had sensed something.

He rose, glided to the door, and opened it. The gloom in the passageway told him night had fully fallen. It would be dark on the deck.

Ombra would go hunting.