The Bone Quill (10 page)

Em crawled over to Zach, who was on his stomach on the floor, catching his breath. His heart was racing, and every nerve in his body was wired.

That was too close
,
Em
.
I felt the heat from that engine.

‘I told you my plan would work,’ said Matt.

‘We were lucky,’ replied Em, climbing off the collapsed table. ‘One second more and we’d all be …’
Are you okay, Zach?

Not sure. I feel like that soldier AND that train hit me.

Pulling up Zach’s T-shirt and hoodie, Em gently touched his back. She felt raw, pink welts criss-crossing his skin; a couple felt as though they were bleeding.

How bad is it, Em?

Bad. We can cover them up in the morning. But we all need showers first. If we go to bed smelling like this, we’ll never be able to hide what we’ve done from Jeannie.

‘I’m not okay either, by the way,’ said Matt. ‘Thanks for asking.’

Em stroked her brother’s cheek and rapidly bruising eye.
Poor baby.
I’ll get some ice.

Suddenly, the sitting-room lights burst on, blinding the three of them. Simon was looming over the crushed table, hands on his hips. He let loose a current of barbed energy at them.

‘You are so busted,’ he growled.

Em knew they were in trouble. But the moment she spotted her grandfather sitting on the couch she didn’t care. Scrambling up off the floor, she threw herself into Renard’s arms.

‘I’m so glad you’re home from the hospital!’ she said in delight.

‘And I could say the same about you,’ said Renard, squeezing Em tightly, ‘but my word, you smell awful.’

‘Why didn’t anyone tell us you were coming back tonight?’ Em asked.

‘Would it have mattered if we had?’ said Simon, angrily pulling Matt and Zach up from the floor.

‘Maybe,’ said Matt. ‘It would at least have given us something to look forward to other than what’s on the stupid menu for dinner.’

Jeannie had heard the thunderous commotion on her way up the stairs. She rushed into the room, ignored the broken furniture and swooped Em and the boys up in her embrace. Then she caught their stink and threw her hands in the air.

‘You all stink like you’ve been rolling in horse dung!’

Simon suddenly cried out and put his hands to his temples. Renard did the same. His tea cup, which had been balancing on a plate of crumbs, tipped on to the floor.

‘Where have you three
been
?’ Jeannie went on.

Em could tell that both Simon and Renard had just sensed a wave of extreme energy. The kind of energy Guardians feel when their Animare are animating. But before Em had time to think this through, Matt’s thoughts crashed into her head.

Don’t tell them we time-travelled
.

Em was getting really tired of her brother telling her what to do.

She sat down on the couch and looked at her grandfather. The words exploded from her. ‘We went into the Monet for fun, to be in London again for a few minutes. And then we discovered we were actually in London at the same time as Monet when he painted the scene, rather than just being in the painting. But Zach got separated from us when we were animating – we’re not sure how – and then he got arrested. Oh, and right before that a soldier on a horse whipped his back. It looks pretty bad.’

Jeannie was staring at the three of them in shock. Em charged on, trying to ignore the way Simon had dropped on to the comfy chair with his head between his legs like he was about to pass out. Her grandfather was as pale as porridge.

‘Then a child-catcher threw Zach into his wagon, but Zach managed to escape, which meant that Matt and I were able to find him.’

‘You animated into the nineteenth century through this painting?’ asked Renard.

‘Yes,’ said Matt reluctantly. He felt the jolt of alarm pass among the adults. ‘I think there must be something in the way our abilities react together.’

‘You think? You
think
?’ Simon shouted.

Simon seemed more angry about this than Matt thought it warranted.

I don’t get why he’s so upset, Em.

Well, we did almost get his son killed.

Zach can take care of himself. His dad needs to realize that.

Maybe, but we put him in danger.

Zach came along with us willingly. Remember?

‘Have you done this before?’ Simon asked. Renard appeared lost in his own thoughts. ‘The truth!’

‘No!’ said Em.

She felt the way she had when she and Matt had first arrived at the island, wanting to impress Renard and Simon. To show them that she, Matt and their special talents were worth caring about.

‘Wait a wee minute there, young man!’ said Jeannie suddenly, stepping in front of Matt and placing her hands on his chest as he was about to sit next to Em. ‘Don’t you dare sit yourself on that couch stinking like my grandfather’s auld bothie.’

‘But Em’s sitting,’ said Matt. Exhaustion was settling over his mind and his body with a weight he’d never felt before. He guessed that animating to another century had physical consequences.

‘Jeannie’s right,’ said Simon. ‘Showers and wounds cleaned.’ He took a quick look at his son’s back and flinched. ‘Get to your rooms, now.’

T
eenagers
and adults all gathered in the hallway of the children’s wing of the Abbey. The sitting room separated Em’s and Matt’s bedrooms. Zach’s was next to Matt’s, and the boys shared a bathroom. Em, as the only girl, had a bedroom with an en-suite bathroom.

‘Can you remember anything else about the night Mum disappeared, Grandpa?’ asked Em, walking Renard to the stairs. ‘Anything?’

‘Nothing, Em,’ Renard replied. ‘I’m sorry.’

Behind them, Em could hear Simon still grilling the boys, while Jeannie dashed down to the kitchen to get the first-aid kit for Zach’s wounds. Em sighed, knowing the dressing-down would come her way sooner or later.

Her grandfather’s suite was in the south tower of the Abbey, which meant he had to go downstairs, across the foyer and along the hallway to reach his room. Renard lifted Em on to her toes on the edge of the stairs, giving her a fierce bear-hug.

‘We’ll discuss what you and your brother have done more fully in the morning.’ Looking deep into Em’s eyes, he added, ‘Please … please stay put until then. Promise me?’

‘I will,’ she said, kissing his forehead. She was aware that when she snuggled under the duvet on her bed, she would sleep like a log, exhausted and glad to be back in the twenty-first century.

Halfway down the stairs, Renard stopped, staring up at a still-life painting on the wall above him.

‘Is this a new piece?’ he asked.

‘Hasn’t it always been there?’ said Em.

One of the things that the twins had first noticed when they arrived at the Abbey was that every wall in every room was covered in paintings of every artistic style and historical period. If there wasn’t a window on a wall, there were paintings.

The still-life in question showed a primitive writing desk with carved legs and one narrow drawer. On the surface of the desk sat a brass candelabra with two burning candles of similar lengths, a skull with a gaping hole for a mouth and a pewter goblet tipped on its side on a piece of mirrored glass. Zach and Matt leaned over the upstairs banisters as Simon joined Renard on the stairs to look more closely at the painting.

‘Are ye all waiting for a parade out here?’ Jeannie asked, coming across the landing from the kitchen staircase with the first-aid kit. ‘Mr R, this is enough for one night. These weans should get cleaned up and be off to bed.’

‘Grandpa’s curious about this painting,’ said Matt. ‘Did you hang it here, Jeannie?’

Jeannie passed Simon the lotion for Zach’s back and handed an ice-pack to Matt for his eye, before glancing at the painting. ‘It looks like any number of still-lifes we have all over the Abbey.’

Simon looked at the date on the gilded frame. ‘This says 1848. Must have been one of your great-grandfather’s acquisitions, Renard.’

Jeannie took her reading glasses from her pocket, slipped them on and peered at the painting more carefully. ‘You know Mr R,’ she said after a moment, ‘even after a blow to yer head, when you’re right, you’re right.’

‘What?’ the twins asked in unison.

‘That’s one of the Abbey’s pewter goblets sitting on that old desk,’ said Jeannie, pointing at the goblet with the arm of her glasses before returning them to her pocket.

‘Maybe the painting was done here at the Abbey,’ said Em.

‘No, lass, that’s not what I meant. I bought six of those goblets in Glasgow last Christmas. How did one of them get into a still-life painted more than one hundred and sixty years ago?’

The Monastery of Era Mina

Middle Ages

T
he
Abbot sat alone in his study atop the west tower of the monastery. He had not slept since Solon took flight on the peryton over the island towards Skinner’s Bog, and his burdens weighed on him like a suit of armour. His worries about old Brother Renard had been overthrown by his fears for the island, and the dark secrets that seemed to be revealing themselves more with each passing day.

He tapped the first page of the unfinished
Book of Beasts
with his fingers. He had removed it from the scriptorium, in a bid to help him think more clearly about the problem before him.

The illuminations shone in the gloom. It was Brother Renard’s finest and most profound work, the Abbot had to admit: a sacred legacy for the Order of Era Mina and a gift for all of mankind – the corralling of the beasts of an uncivilized time in one mystical place.

But the bestiary had to be completed. An unfinished manuscript would leave the world in peril. Incomplete, the manuscript could be used to reverse all of Brother Renard’s vital work. The Abbot worried that the Order of Era Mina – that Brother Renard himself – would not survive long enough to see this mission fulfilled.
The Book of Beasts
had to be finished, and then buried deep inside the island with its secrets sealed for ever. It was inestimably important.

The Abbot leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his tired eyes. His skin was leathery, even to his own touch.

I’m getting old
, he thought,
and still with so much left to accomplish
.

That evening after Vespers, the Abbot had intervened as the monks, some of them still struggling with their injuries from the bloody Viking attack, had protested loudly about the imprudence of not giving the Viking chief what he had wanted. They couldn’t endure another attack like this one, should he choose to return with fresh demands. They simply didn’t have the numbers.

‘With all due respect, Father,’ Brother Cornelius had said, ‘we should have given the relic to the Norsemen. It means nothing without the book, and both mean nothing without the islands.’

The Abbot’s voice had boomed out across the chapel, echoing in the side chapels filled with statues, bouncing off the stone floor.

‘My brothers in faith and imagination, we
cannot
return the bone quill to the Norsemen. It is the only remaining relic from the creation of our islands. Our martyred forefathers, who gave their lives to retrieve and protect it, are owed our steadfastness. Even in the face of terrible danger.