Greenglass House (24 page)

“It wasn't until after he had arrived at the house that the Eye discovered that he'd made a mistake and left the Otter a clue after all. He'd done a brilliant thing badly. When he'd made the false map, one of the steps he'd taken to be sure it would be convincing was to use the same paper as the real one, which turned out to be an antique stock he'd had to track down.

“Nothing stayed hidden from the Eye, not for long; it had taken him very little time to locate a box of the same old paper in an abandoned warehouse. What he hadn't known then—but what the Otter discovered once he had the fake map—was that the watermarked paper had been made specifically for the owners of the house, long, long ago. You see, when the decoy map itself had given the Otter no real information, he'd gone in search of information about the watermark, and despite all the Eye's efforts to throw his rival off his trail, it was the false map itself that led the Otter straight to Lansdegown House.

“The two thieves arrived only hours apart, and then, of course, it was a race to find the house's secret first. The thieves pretended not to know each other, and once they were introduced, they affected civility. But all the while, they were frantic, and watching each other in stealth and in silence.”

Georgie and Clem, of course. Blue and Red. Never mind that she was pretending the story was about two male thieves. Milo nodded, thinking
I
knew
they were only pretending to be strangers.

“Then the unthinkable happened.” Georgie paused for another long sip of her doctored coffee. “The unthinkable was this: the girl herself showed up at the house. She turned up—” Georgie's voice made an odd, harsh sound as she broke off. She took one more sip, grimacing. “She turned up because she knew the Otter was there.”

“How did she know?” Milo asked. “I thought she didn't know about the house. How'd she know they were looking for it?”

“She didn't. She didn't turn up there because she knew the thieves were looking there for a lost piece of her past. She turned up because she knew
they
were there. Specifically, she turned up because she knew the
Otter
was there. Not because she knew he was up to anything that had anything to do with her. Just because the Otter was
there.
” She looked dully at Milo. “You understand?”

He shook his head, and Georgie sighed. “All that time,” she said in a voice that fell to a whisper as she spoke, “while Otter and Eye had been falling in love, the person they loved had been falling in love too. But only with one of them, of course. And Eye wasn't the one he fell for.”

“You said
he,
” Milo said. Then he realized what he'd actually heard her say. This time, Georgie had said not
the Eye,
but
I.

As in,
and
I wasn't the one he fell for.

The coffee cup was shaking in her hands. Mrs. Hereward took it away gently. “You and Clem?” Milo asked, pretending he'd only just figured it out. “You're the thieves in the story, and you both liked the new guy, Owen?”

“Liked?” Georgie folded her hands in her lap and laughed shortly. “Yes, Milo.” She took a deep, jagged breath, untwined her fingers, and reached for the cup the old lady was holding. “And he chose Clem.”

There was a moment of quiet, then everyone jumped as a trumpeting noise cut through the room: Mrs. Hereward, blowing her nose. “I beg your pardon,” she said, blinking rapidly. “Carry on.” Was she
crying?

Before Milo could process the strangeness of that, Meddy leaned out from behind the tree. She punched him in the shoulder with an exasperated look. “Stay focused,” she whispered. “We need clues, Negret.”

He rubbed his shoulder and got into character. “So . . . when you told me the missing notebook had stuff in it about the house and someone who might be connected to it, that person was Owen?” Negret asked. Georgie nodded. “But you said the Eye—that
you
didn't make any notes because you were afraid they'd be stolen.”

“I didn't, until I was on my way here and I figured it was safe.”

“And why are you telling us all this now?” he asked. “After all the secrecy, all the hiding and sneaking and—”

“Because, Milo,
he chose Clem,
and not because of anything she did to steal his heart. She hadn't even gotten around to trying yet—I guess she didn't realize she'd already managed it
without
trying. He chose Clem, so it doesn't matter who finds the Lansdegown secret now.” She drank deeply. “I'm done looking. It wouldn't do any good anyway. Not when he nearly froze to death trying to get to her. Maybe it's better if she finds it.”

She looked down at her nearly empty cup, handed it to Negret, clapped her hands on her knees, and got unsteadily to her feet. She made an awkward little bow to the rest of the room—Negret and Sirin, Mrs. Hereward, Mr. Vinge, Dr. Gowervine, Lizzie, and Fenster and Mrs. Pine, who'd come back from distributing lanterns throughout the house toward the end of the story. “The end,” she said softly. And with that, Georgie Moselle disappeared up the stairs.

“How sad for her,” Mrs. Hereward said after a long, silent moment. “Poor lamb. Poor little blue lamb.”

Fenster nodded. “I don't like seeing people sad. Somebody ought to make her a cake or something.” Everyone turned to look at him. “Don't you think?” he asked. “Everybody feels better when there's cake. Darn it, I can probably do it myself.”

“You can bake?” Sirin and Mrs. Hereward asked in unison.

“Well, not so's I could make a living off it,” Fenster retorted, turning a little pink. “But I can measure flour and that, and I bet there's a cookery book someplace hereabouts. You have a cookery book, Nora?”

Mrs. Pine nodded with a little smile. “You bet, Fenster.”

The old lady snorted. Then her face softened. “Why don't I give you a hand, Mr. Fenster? We'll bake one for her in the morning. We might even manage some blue icing.”

“We probably can, at that, ma'am! I believe I have a blue pen someplace I can get open. First thing in the morning, then?” He made a sharp little salute. “Guess I'll head out and see how the generator's coming along.”

Mrs. Hereward smiled politely until Fenster was out the door. “Milo, dear boy, you don't think Mr. Fenster was suggesting we'd use blue ink to color the frosting, do you?”

He winced. “Maybe.” He glanced down at the bag she'd been clutching ever since it had been returned. “Mrs. Hereward? Do you think you might be willing to talk to Georgie about Lansdegown and what you know about the house?”

She hesitated. “I'm not sure. It doesn't sound like she wants to know any more, Milo. It might just be more hurtful.”

“You could tell Owen,” he suggested. “He must be the descendant of that first family somehow, if that's his middle name.” He could hear his own voice rising and tried not to look as desperate as he felt. He shoved his hand in his pocket and clutched the keys, thinking of the imaginary old blackjack he had already grown so fond of. What a terrible injustice it would be if someone had information about Owen's past and didn't give it to him. It didn't matter to Milo that the young man was a perfect stranger. He had the chance to learn something about his heritage, and if Milo had anything to say about it, that chance was not going to be wasted.

“I'll think about it.” Mrs. Hereward looked down at the symbols stitched into the door of the house for a moment, then turned the bag around, as if to say that the matter was closed.

Milo nodded and stood. Then he glanced at the bag again. “What about the gate? Was there a gate like that on the grounds back then?”

She frowned. “You know, I don't really know anything about the gate.”

 

He found Meddy later in the high-backed loveseat that faced the front window on the living room side. She sat with her back against one of the armrests, staring at the shadows cast by the flickering candelabra on the dining table, and she looked up as Milo sat down next to her. “Who's that new guy, again? Not Owen, but the other one?”

“Fenster Plum. He's a . . . a
regular.
Cross your fingers he doesn't give himself away.”

“I think I know him from somewhere,” Meddy murmured. She sounded troubled.

“You might've seen him around the Harbors. He's been, well,
around
for ages.”

“He's the one your mom told the story about, right? The one who saw Doc Holystone's and his kid's ghosts?”

“Hey, Milo.” Mrs. Pine leaned down between them. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, everything's fine.”

“Good. I'm going to run out and check on your dad and Brandon and Fenster. They're taking forever. You going to be okay for a bit?”

“Sure.”

“Come get me if you need anything, or just knock on Mrs. Caraway's door. She went to bed, but wake her if there's an emergency.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“You were saying, about Fenster,” Meddy prompted when they were alone again.

“Oh, right.” Milo lowered his voice. “Yeah, Fenster was the guy in Mom's story. She said he recognized Doc Holystone from the Wanted posters, but the truth is, Fenster
sailed
with him. It's a shame we can't ask him for a story. He tells really good ones.”

“Hmm.” Meddy looked at the flickering light on the table again for a moment, then pulled the glasses down over her eyes and turned to face him. “Back to business, Negret,” she declared with a sharp look. “We have some new clues to sort through. For one thing, I think it's clear that Georgie was describing the map you found, so Clem must've been the one who took it.”

He grinned, then shook his head. “No. If Clem's as good as Georgie says, then Clem wouldn't have made the mistakes the thief made, like not leaving my things the way I left them.”

“Then who do you think it was?”

“I think . . . it was Georgie,” Negret said slowly. “I think Georgie left it for me to find, back on the landing—”

“I thought you said someone had probably dropped it.”

“I
did,
because that's what I thought
then.
But not now.” He scratched his head, remembering Georgie's tale and how she'd described the Eye. “Now I think she left it for me. She dropped it on purpose. She
wanted
me to find it.”

“But why?”

“Because . . . because she must've thought—or hoped—I would understand it. Maybe she was hoping I would know right away what it was a map of, and that I would follow it and lead her to . . .” Here he was at a bit of a loss, he realized. “To whatever it is she thinks is here. Something about Lansdegown.”

“But what if Clem had found it instead?” the scholiast asked. “The map, I mean. Or if you'd mentioned it to her?”

“Clem wasn't here yet. But that's why Georgie stole it back, I bet! Once Clem turned up, she figured she couldn't have an important clue just lying around with me anymore.”

“Shh.” Sirin elbowed him. A moment later Georgie appeared on the stairs and shuffled tiredly into the living room. She collected her abandoned coffee cup, refilled it in the kitchen, then headed for the stairs again.

Mrs. Hereward made a loud coughing noise and looked pointedly from Mr. Vinge to Dr. Gowervine, who'd come back in from his smoke and now sat with his feet up on the hearth.

Mr. Vinge ignored her, but Dr. Gowervine spoke up. “Say, Miss Moselle? Since you started it off, how about I tell the next story tonight?”

Georgie paused. Her eyes were red. “I don't know if I feel like staying up.” She ran a hand distractedly through her hair. “I thought maybe I'd head out tomorrow. I should pack.”

“Oh, come and listen with us,” Mrs. Hereward cajoled, bustling over to the blue-haired girl. “Come take your mind off it for a bit, dear.”

Georgie sighed and allowed herself to be led over to the chair nearest the tree. She curled her feet up underneath her, and for a moment she looked much younger than she'd seemed before. Negret couldn't help but feel sorry for her, she looked so miserable. Still, he was glad the storytelling wasn't over for the night. He turned and sat on his knees with his elbows on the back of the loveseat to listen.

Dr. Gowervine cleared his throat. “Well, I'm just a humble professor, and not much of a storyteller,” he said, “so I hope you'll be patient with me.” He looked thoughtfully at the arched window that topped the front door. Now and then a flicker from one of the candles reached it and illuminated one or another of the colored bits that made up the panel. “But in my work I do occasionally come across an interesting anecdote or two, and what I'm about to tell you is one of them. I suppose at least it's an appropriate story for where we are. It has quite a bit to do with stained glass.

“There was once a man who made windows,” he began after a pause. “He was an artist with glass, but he was not a nice man. Or rather, he was not always nice. And he knew things. In fact, secrets were a sort of side business for him, the way secrets often are for people in Nagspeake. Or perhaps stained glass was the side business. Either way, he traded in both, and he was tremendously good at it.

“He worked out of a shop in the Printer's Quarter, making beautiful pictures with glass and metals and metal salts and occasionally taking charge of some morsel of secrecy, some crumb of mystery that someone wanted hidden away or brought to light or traded for another obscure and hidden thing.”

He paused again as the front door opened and Mrs. Pine came inside along with a piercing swirl of frigid air.

“Sorry, folks,” she said as she shucked her outdoor things. “They're still working. It's candles for us for a bit longer.”

“Dr. Gowervine's telling a story,” Mrs. Hereward announced.