بخش 37

CHAPTER 72

THE WARDER AND THE WATCHER

PETER AND MOLLY spent a long, restless day hiding in George’s room. After eating the scones that George had managed to spirit away from the breakfast table, they spent most of the time dozing and staring out the window at the gray London sky. They tried reading some of George’s books, but most of them were about astronomy, and quite technical; neither Peter nor Molly found them particularly interesting. Tink spent the day under the bed, out of George’s sight; and though she was not happy about it, she was at least quiet.

The one moment of tension occurred when the housemaid came to tidy up George’s bedroom. George managed to turn her away with a story about not wanting her to disturb the baby bat that he had found and was nursing back to health. The housemaid found this quite believable, as the Darling house did, in fact, have a colony of bats in the attic, and the maid was terrified of them. She scurried away, muttering about the insanity of wanting to make a bat any healthier than it already was.

Other than that, the day was a slow, dull procession of uneventful hours. George tried several times to get Molly to tell him more about her predicament, only to be rebuffed, to his irritation and Peter’s not-very-well-concealed enjoyment. George was also quite miffed that, when night finally fell, Molly borrowed two coats from him, and money for a taxi—then refused to let him accompany her and Peter, or even to tell him where they were going.

“But why not?” he said.

“I can’t explain,” said Molly. “Not now. But you can’t go.”

“Then why is he going?” said George, pointing at Peter, who stared back with just enough of a smile to infuriate George.

“Because he…I’m sorry, but I can’t explain that either,” said Molly. Seeing George’s angry look, she added, “Please, George, trust me. I’m ever so grateful for your help—we both are—but right now, I can’t tell you anything more.”

“Fine, then,” said George, plopping himself on his bed with a look that said it was not a bit fine. “What are you doing?” he said to Peter, who was on his hands and knees, reaching under the bed.

“Nothing,” said Peter, surreptitiously snagging Tink and tucking her into his shirt.

“We’ll be back later,” said Molly. She pushed George’s telescope aside and opened the window.

George sat silently, staring at the floor.

“Good-bye, then,” said Molly, as she climbed out onto the tree limb, followed by Peter, who shut the window behind them.

“Is he looking out the window?” asked Molly.

“No,” said Peter. “He’s still moping on the bed.”

“Then please fly me down,” said Molly.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and they slid off the branch, descending quickly but safely to the ground. With Molly leading the way, they went back to Kensington Road, where they found a cab waiting by a low, green cabmen’s shelter. As they approached, Peter tucked Tinker Bell under his coat.

“To the Tower of London, please,” Molly told the driver.

“Tower’s closed now,” he answered.

“I know,” said Molly.

The driver shrugged, and Molly and Peter climbed into the cab.

They rode in silence, listening to the clopping of hooves. The streets were largely empty, and the cabbie made good time into the City, then down toward the river and along Thames Street.

The cab stopped. “Here we are,” said Molly, peering out the window. She and Peter got out of the cab. The massive stone outer wall of the Tower loomed ahead. The street was deserted and dark, except for a single gas lamp doing battle with the swirling river fog.

The driver looked around. “Are you sure you want to be left here?” he said.

“Yes,” said Molly, paying him.

Shaking his head, the driver flicked the reins. In a moment the cab was swallowed by the night.

“This way,” said Molly. She led Peter to the southwest corner of the Tower compound. There, a stone causeway spanned the broad grassy ditch that had once been the moat. At the end of the causeway was an arch, flanked by two rectangular towers. Molly, with Peter following, crossed the causeway and entered the arch. It was lit—barely—by a lone hanging lantern. Their footsteps echoed from the cold stone walls as they passed through, unchallenged.

“Where’s the guard?” Peter whispered.

“At the next gate,” Molly answered.

Once through the arch, they found themselves on a second causeway. Ahead, Peter could make out another archway, this one flanked by cylindrical towers. It, too, was lit by a single lantern, and by its flickering light, Peter saw a man wearing the dark overcoat and distinctive flat-topped hat of the Yeoman Warders, or “Beefeaters,” who had guarded the Tower for centuries. He was a large man with a thick white beard. His right hand was curled around a stout wooden staff with a pointed metal tip.

As Molly and Peter approached, the guard took the staff in both hands and, in a gruff voice, called, “Who goes there?”

“It’s me, sir,” said Molly, stepping closer. “Molly Aster. Leonard Aster’s daughter. I’ve been here before.”

The Warder studied her by the lantern light and nodded. “Yes, you have,” he said, his voice softening just a bit.

“I need to go inside,” she said.

The Warder frowned. “You want to go inside?” he said. “Where’s your father?”

“He’s away,” said Molly. “He sent me here on an important errand.”

“And who’s this?” The Warder nodded toward Peter.

“He’s…a friend,” said Molly. “He needs to go inside, too.”

The Warder shook his head.

“I’ll let you in,” he said. “I know your father, and I know you. But I can’t let him in.”

“Please,” said Molly.

“I’m sorry, miss. Orders is orders.”

“I know that,” said Molly. “But this is urgent. Something terrible has happened.”

“What is it?” said the Warder.

“I…I can’t tell you,” said Molly, remembering Ombra’s letter and the threat to harm her mother.

“Then I can’t let him in,” said the Warder.

Molly thought for a moment. “All right,” she said. “I’ll go in alone.”

“But, Molly—” Peter protested.

“It’s all right,” interrupted Molly, giving Peter a look that was clearly intended to send a message, though he could not tell what the message was.

“I’ll go inside,” she said, “and you can wait outside, back through there.” She gestured toward the first archway they had come through. She stared at Peter, as if waiting for him to grasp what she was getting at. But he still didn’t see it.

Molly rolled her eyes. “Just don’t fly away, all right?”

Peter felt like such an idiot, he nearly smacked himself in the head.

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I see.”

“Good,” said Molly, turning back to the Warder. “I’m just trying to remember,” she said. “My father said I should go to the…the—”

“The White Tower?” said the Warder. That’s where he usually goes.”

“Yes, of course,” said Molly. “The White Tower. That’s the…the—”

“The tall one in the middle,” said the Warder.

“Exactly,” said Molly, walking past the Warder, through the archway. She turned and, with a significant look, called back to Peter: “I’ll see you soon, then.”

“Right,” said Peter, turning and trotting back toward the first archway, getting an earful of mocking bells from Tink.

I thought she was going to have to draw you a picture.

“Be quiet,” he said.

He trotted back through the first archway. He stopped and looked around, his eyes sweeping the causeway and the street beyond. Seeing nobody, he turned and launched himself upward and toward the looming wall of the Tower compound. In moments he vanished, shrouded by fog and darkness.

A moment later, a man in dark clothing emerged from the moat ditch. He’d been keeping low, hidden from view, yet with a good look at the causeway. The man stared for a moment in the direction toward which Peter’s flying form had just disappeared. Then, keeping to the shadows, he crept away from the old moat and began running toward the river. CHAPTER 73

THE MESSENGER

NEREZZA SAT AT THE writing table in his dim cabin aboard Le Fantome, his brain still echoing with the scream that, a minute earlier, had risen through his ship.

It was a woman’s scream, piercing and short, as if something had suddenly cut it off. It came from below, from the locked hold where Louise Aster was being kept prisoner. A few minutes earlier, Lord Ombra, accompanied by a terrified sailor carrying a lantern, had gone down there. Then came the scream. Now the ship was silent, as every man aboard waited—like Nerezza—for the next awful sound from below.

But there was nothing more. After several silent minutes, the door to Nerezza’s stateroom creaked, causing him to jerk involuntarily. He felt the now-familiar chill as the dark form of Ombra slithered into the room.

“Yes, my lord?” said Nerezza, trying to keep his voice from betraying his annoyance at the fact that Ombra did not knock.

Ombra glided wordlessly forward, until he was directly in front of where Nerezza sat. There was a movement of his dark form, a subtle shifting of shape, and from somewhere, Ombra produced a burlap sack. He held it up for a moment, then dropped it on the table. Nerezza recoiled: the sack was moving—bulges forming and subsiding, traveling from end to end, as if some living thing, or things, were trying to escape.

Ombra emitted a low wheezing rattle that, Nerezza realized, was probably as close as Ombra came to laughing.

“They will not harm you,” groaned Ombra. “They just want to go…home. The addition of Lady Aster has made it a little crowded in there. She does not enjoy being confined.”

As if to demonstrate Ombra’s point, the sack seemed to lunge toward Nerezza. He jerked away, nearly falling backward off his chair.

Ombra groaned, “As for the other Lady Aster—or, I should say, what is left of Lady Aster, in the hold—she is quite docile now, and will make no attempt to escape. But she is to remain under watch and be kept well fed. She must appear in good condition when the time comes to reunite her with her husband.”

“Yes, Lord Ombra. I’ll give the orders.” Nerezza hoped this might be the end of it, and that Ombra would leave his cabin and take the sack with him.

But instead, Ombra cocked his hood oddly and said, “Wait! What’s that?” The hood swiveled silently on the broad, dark shoulders. “I believe we have a visitor.”

Nerezza had heard nothing, but in a moment a crewman appeared in the doorway and knocked.

“What is it?” said Nerezza.

“Begging your pardon, Cap’n. A messenger. For the…For him,” said the crewman, indicating Ombra. “Says it’s urgent.”

“Very well. Send him in,” said Nerezza.

The crewman hurried up the companionway stairs. There was shouting and the sound of more footsteps.

Ombra explained: “Gerch and Hampton stationed men at various locations in the city that Lord Aster has been known to frequent. These men were ordered to watch for the boy and the girl, who are no doubt looking for Lord Aster themselves. I believe our visitor to be one of these men.”

A moment later, a small, pale, nervous man entered the cabin, panting hard. Ignoring Nerezza, he approached Ombra, his expression fearful.

“My lord,” the man said. “I saw…I—” he stuttered to a stop, staring at the faceless void beneath Ombra’s hood.

“What is it?” groaned Ombra, his wheezing voice serving only to make the man more agitated.

“I…” The man stopped again, frozen.

Ombra glided forward until the edge of his cloak touched, then covered, the shadow cast by the messenger in the cabin’s flickering lantern light. The man’s face went slack; a moment later his fearful expression returned as Ombra pulled away.

“He’s seen them,” said Ombra. “The boy and the girl.”

“Where?” said Nerezza.

“At the Tower,” said Ombra, moving swiftly to the doorway.

“Are you…Is he sure it was them?” said Nerezza.

“Yes,” said Ombra, now oozing up the companionway. “The boy flew over the wall.”

“Shall I call for a carriage?” said Nerezza, following the dark form up the ladder.

“No,” said Ombra. “The Tower is close by. Bring ten men. And Mister Slank.”

On deck, Ombra stood impatiently by the gangplank while Nerezza shouted commands. Within two minutes he had assembled a party of ten tough, trusted men. Slank was the last to arrive on deck; the moment he did, Ombra turned and glided down the gangway, followed by the others. At the bottom Ombra turned left, going west along the quay; the men had to trot to keep up with his swiftly flowing form.

“What is it?” Slank huffed, catching up to Nerezza.

“They’re at the Tower,” said Nerezza.

“Both of them?” said Slank. “The boy, too?”

“The boy, too.”

“Good,” said Slank, patting his belt to make sure he had his knife.