Greenglass House (21 page)

Dr. Gowervine glared at Mrs. Hereward for a moment, then folded his arms, cleared his throat, and turned to Milo's father. “Mr. Pine, if you feel it will help this situation, I'm perfectly glad to have you look through my room and my things.”

“Thanks,” Milo's dad replied sourly.

Meddy frowned. “I think we need to give the stolen things back now, before this gets any uglier.” She gave him a little push. “I'll do it. You go in there with everybody, then just say they aren't yours.”

“What?” Milo whispered.

“Trust me.
They're not mine.
That's all you have to say.”

“Okay, I guess.”

Milo got up from the loveseat and crossed, unnoticed, into the dining room. He held his breath. A moment later, a delicate chaos of metallic ringing pealed through the inn. Out of sight, Meddy must've been shaking the branch on the Christmas tree where, according to Pine family tradition, Milo had hung Mrs. Pine's entire collection of silver bells all together.

“What on earth?” Mrs. Caraway demanded.

“I have no idea,” Mrs. Pine answered. She and Milo's dad were already on their feet and heading back into the living room. “What's going on in there?” The rest of the guests followed, with Milo trailing last of all. When he arrived, Milo found everyone staring at the three presents that held the stolen items. They sat in a neat pile at the center of the rag rug.

Meddy tapped his shoulder and Milo whirled, opening his mouth to ask how she'd gotten out of the living room so quickly. She put one finger to her lips and whispered, “Shh.”

Other than that shush, the house was silent.

Mr. Pine and Mrs. Pine looked at each other with wide eyes. “Ben?” Milo's mom said almost inaudibly.

“I have no idea.” Mr. Pine squatted beside the three gifts and hesitantly picked up the nearest one. He looked around, then turned to his wife. “I don't recognize these. Do you?”

“No, they're not mine. Milo, honey, do you recognize these boxes?”

Just as Meddy'd instructed, he shook his head and said, “Nope. They're not mine.”

“I could've sworn I saw you carry something like these down. And it does look like your . . . wrapping technique.”

Milo made his way through the guests to look at the packages. He made a pretense of examining them closely, then went to the tree and unearthed the presents he'd wrapped for his parents. “These are mine,” he said. “Two for you and two for Dad.”

His parents looked at each other. “Well, someone thinks we ought to open them,” Mr. Pine said. “What do you think?”

Mrs. Pine straightened and faced the dining table again. “Does anyone recognize these boxes?” Meddy stood with her hands innocently folded into the sleeves of the Cloak of Golden Indiscernibility and said nothing. “All righty, then.” Milo's mom picked up the first box and tore off the wrapping. She lifted off the lid, pulled away some of the extra paper inside, and stared. “Holy cow.”

“You're kidding.” Mr. Pine reached into the box and lifted out the gold watch.

Mr. Vinge stiffened. “Good God. How on earth—” He stumbled across the room and reached for the watch. “I can't believe it.”

Now Mrs. Hereward and Georgie strode forward. Milo's dad picked up the two remaining boxes and handed one to each. Mrs. Hereward started right in, ripping the paper away. Milo saw Georgie glance at Clem with a questioning look. Clem gave the tiniest shrug and shook her head.

Before Georgie could begin unwrapping the package, Mrs. Hereward shoved the box she'd opened at her, grabbed the unopened one, and tore away the paper. Georgie fumbled the new box and dropped it. Wadded paper spilled out, and the perfume-stained notebook slid to the floor.

“Oh!” Mrs. Hereward flung away the box she'd grabbed and held up the embroidered ditty bag. Then she clasped it to her chest and dropped onto the sofa. A tear trailed down through the powder on her cheek. “I thought it was gone.”

Georgie looked from her notebook to Milo's parents, then at Milo. “And we don't know where these came from? This isn't the result of your investigation, Milo?”

“Your investigation?” Mrs. Pine gave him a sharp look. “What investigation?”

Meddy made a zipping motion across her lips with her fingers and shook her head. He paused. Negret could call upon the exploit that would allow him to tell a perfect lie, but Milo discovered he didn't want to try the Fabulist out on his parents. He took a deep breath. “I went searching for the missing things, Mom. And I found them. But then I was afraid somebody might think I took them, if I just brought them back myself. So . . . so I wrapped them up, and I guess I thought maybe this way I could give them back without doing it myself.” He glanced at Georgie, then at Mrs. Hereward, and then at Mr. Vinge. “I didn't take them, though. I swear.”

Mr. Pine put his arm around Milo. “I know you didn't, kiddo. Of course we believe you.”

“You . . . found them?” Mr. Vinge repeated, staring at his watch. “You just . . . But
how?
”

“I think we'd all like to know that,” Clem said. “How, and where.”

Milo glanced at his fellow adventurer. Meddy rolled her eyes and dropped her head into her palms.

“Can you tell us how you did it?” Mrs. Pine asked.

“Sure, I guess,” Milo replied. “Can I have some hot chocolate first?”

“Of course.” His mom squeezed his shoulder and headed back toward the kitchen. “Coffee and cake, folks? Help yourselves.”

“This is a bad idea,” Meddy grumbled, coming to stand next to him with her arms folded. “We should've stuck to the plan. Whatever,” she said quickly as Milo began to protest. “Just don't drag me into it. It'll ruin our campaign.” She reached into her pocket and took out the Eyes of True and Aching Clarity. “I'll watch everybody while you talk. See if I can pick up any clues.” And she stalked away, muttering about how bad things happened when people went rogue and took stupid chances that put the whole team at risk.

He ignored her, too busy wondering whether it would be easier to explain everything to the guests as the blackjack Negret. Milo was already twitching a little at the thought of so many people listening to him talk. So Negret it would be.

Mrs. Pine came back with a mug of cocoa and sat next to him on the hearth. “It was really brave of you to tell the truth there, buddy. And I hope you know that
we
know you didn't take anything. Your dad and I trust you completely.”

Outside the winds rose, whipping themselves up into a greater and greater frenzy. He leaned his head against her shoulder and said nothing as he watched the guests settle themselves in the living room with their desserts. Georgie gave him a wink as she dropped into one of the chairs. Mrs. Hereward passed by on her return to the sofa with a fresh cup of tea, and to his surprise, she squeezed his shoulder gently with her knotty hand.
Maybe they don't think I took them either,
he thought.

Mr. Vinge took his usual chair. He'd tucked his watch into an inside pocket, and now he regarded Negret over his coffee cup with a troubled expression in his eyes.

He might think I did it.

Clem sat next to Mrs. Hereward. Her face was cheerful, as usual. Dr. Gowervine stood near the door to the screened porch, looking uncomfortable.

When everyone else was seated, Mrs. Pine put an arm around Negret. “You ready?”

He nodded. “Yes.”

Negret skipped the parts about the conversations he and Sirin had had with Mrs. Hereward and Georgie and began with how he'd thought the open guest room might be a good place to check. He told about finding the watch in the soap cake, how the unglued wrapper had tipped him off, how he'd known there was something wrong with it the minute he'd picked it up, and how he'd resealed the soap and decided to hide the watch somewhere else.

“I don't understand,” Mr. Vinge protested. “Why didn't you just tell me you'd found it? Why didn't you give it back right away?”

“Because I figured if the thief knew I'd found one thing, he might move the other things,” Negret said. “And that's why I took the watch to the attic.”

As he told the next part about finding the bag, he said he'd noticed differences in the pile of sailcloth that led him to look there. It wasn't quite untrue, but he crossed the fingers of one hand in his pocket anyway, hoping no one would ask how one kid had been able to move a giant mass of heavy canvas sailcloth by himself. No one did. “Then I heard Clem and Georgie in the stairwell. I mean, I couldn't really hear anything you were saying,” he added hastily, “but I knew it was the two of you. And I could smell Georgie's perfume, from the bottle I broke that first day. And that helped me figure out where your notebook was.” He finished with the poinsettia, which, he realized with a guilty twinge, was probably at that very moment dying in his waste bin, where he'd left it. “And . . . well, I guess that's it.”

The room was quiet for a moment. “I am thoroughly impressed, Milo,” Mr. Pine said at last. “That was some pretty amazing observation. Thank you.”

Georgie nodded and began to clap. Clem joined in, and Mrs. Hereward. “Allow me to refill your mug, Milo,” Georgie said.

He smiled. For a moment he forgot entirely that Sirin was going to watch for clues, and he ignored the strained look that passed between his parents, who certainly had not forgotten that there was still a thief in their midst. He sat there with his hot chocolate and enjoyed the fact that, for the first time all day, the feeling in the house was companionable rather than suspicious.

It couldn't last, though. For one thing, the thief
was
still out there. For another, there was still the list of clues and questions they'd made earlier, and now that all the stolen things had been given back, it occurred to him that maybe this was a good time to cross one of those items off.

Georgie and Mr. Vinge had gone upstairs to put away their recovered items, but Mrs. Hereward was still on the couch with the bag in her lap, running her fingers fondly over the stitching. Negret got up from the hearth and went to sit next to her. “Mrs. Hereward? Do you think I could ask you a question about that?”

She smiled. “It's the very least I can do, isn't it? What would you like to know?”

The side of the bag with the gate and its single golden lantern was facing up. “On the other side, on the door of the house, I noticed some symbols that look like Chinese writing.”

Mrs. Hereward turned the bag over. “These.”

“Yes. Could I ask you what they mean? If you know?”

She hesitated a moment, then smiled again. She glanced around—Dr. Gowervine had gone back out on the porch to smoke, and everyone else was in the kitchen getting more cake and refilling their mugs. She lowered her voice and said, “It's the original name of the house, Milo. Of
this
house. I don't know how to pronounce it properly, but in my family . . .” She looked around again to be sure they were still alone. “In my family it was always said
Lansdegown.
”

His jaw dropped. “Just like Georgie's camera!”

Mrs. Hereward nodded with a half smile. “Indeed. I have been wondering how I might ask her where she came up with that name. I don't suppose she told you?”

Milo shook his head. “She seemed to think I might know what it meant. Like I might remember that I know if I think hard enough about it. Like maybe then I could tell her.”

“Interesting,” Mrs. Hereward murmured. “For the moment, I would be grateful if you didn't mention what I just told you to Georgie, Milo.”

“Are you going to tell her?”

The old lady frowned. “I'm not certain yet. Let me think on it for a while.”

Just then, a rending crack shook the night.

The wind and the frozen branches had been creating a clamor for hours, but this noise was different. It was
deafening.
“What was that?” Mrs. Hereward shrieked. “Good God, the house is coming down around our ears!”

“Would you
kindly
lower your
voice,
woman!” snarled Dr. Gowervine, stomping back inside from the porch.

Mrs. Pine rushed in from the kitchen. “It's not the house,” she said soothingly.

Meanwhile, Milo's father hurriedly began pulling on his coat and boots in the foyer. It wasn't the house, but
something
had made that noise. He caught Milo watching him and grinned. “Just going to have a look,” he said. “Sounded like a big branch. I want to make sure it didn't fall on anything. Want to come along?”

“Can I come too?” Georgie Moselle trotted over and reached for her coat. “I love winter at night.”

Mr. Pine hesitated. “I don't know, Georgie. It's freezing out there.”

“That's all right, Mr. Pine. I don't mind the cold.” She swung her coat around her shoulders and zipped it up. “Lead on.”

Plainly, his father didn't want Georgie coming with them. But instead of arguing he just shrugged, and the three of them trooped out into the night.

Milo hadn't gone three steps when he nearly landed on his backside. The porch was a slick of ice. “Whoa, there!” Mr. Pine caught his flailing arm and almost lost his own footing in the process.

“You sure the two of you can manage?” Georgie laughed. “And you were worried about me.”

Clinging to the railings and inching along carefully, they made it off the porch without too much slipping and sliding. When Milo stepped down onto the snow, the surface crackled under his boot like the crust of sugar when you bit into a frosted cookie. His foot sank until only an inch of his green rubber boot showed above the white. Away from the shelter of the porch, the wind burned his cheeks, and the creaking of the trees sounded like a thunderstorm caught in a whiny mood.

“Milo, how about you and Georgie check the pavilion?” Mr. Pine suggested. “Watch the ice and stay away from the stairs. I'll check the woodshed and the outbuildings on the uphill side.”