The Daykeeper's Grimoire (3 page)

Mom lets go of my waist, turns me to face her, and says, “Your Dad and I have been busy on that code you made up. Did you just do that since you’ve been here?”

“Yep. What do you think?” I ask as I look over toward my bed. It’s hard to look your mom in the eyes and not tell the truth.

“It’s extraordinary, Caity. Neither of us had any luck without the key; now your Dad is trying it
with
the key. The whole thing is now in the computer; he’s created a program that’s working on decoding it.”

“Oh, letting the computer do your work, huh?” I say, trying to lighten the mood since Mom is taking this way too seriously.

“So how did you come up with that code?”

I shrug. “I don’t know, it was just something I was playing around with.”

This is not enough. She’s looking at me like there is more for me to explain.

“Why, what’s the big deal?” I ask.

“Well, your dad and I were wondering if you think maybe you’d like to try a boarding school, a world-class school that would challenge you in new ways.”

Suddenly it feels like work to keep my heart inside my chest. This is not what I expected. “What are you talking about?” I ask.

“The San Francisco Academy of Humanities is quite good, but you never produced anything of this caliber there,” she says, her eyes looking straight into me like only a mom’s can. “This code just shows an incredible aptitude for creativity, problem solving, and logic. Obviously you are a very, very bright girl. We always knew it, but this just blew us away.”

I pull back from her intensity and go sit on the edge of my bed. “No, Mom. I’m fine where I am, honestly.” I definitely don’t want to be shipped off somewhere and I definitely don’t want to have to live up to something I’m not, and believe me, I’m no genius! Clearly it’s time to apply some parental guilt.

“You really want to ship me farther off, totally
alone
?” I ask. “Isn’t it enough that you dragged me to the middle of nowhere, away from my entire life, for this bed and breakfast fantasy?”

“We’ve decided to go with ‘Inn’,” she replies.

I’ve thrown her so far off subject that even I don’t know where she landed.

“What?” I ask.

“After looking at hundreds of bed and breakfast websites, we’ve decided to be an Inn instead. I refuse to hang frilly
curtains and have lace bed skirts and striped wallpaper with cat borders. Inn sounds much more distinguished.”

“Did you guys make the decision to stay without
me
in on the conversation? You just decided to stay and then ship me off?”

Mom comes over and sits next to me and puts her hand on my knee in the universal “consolation” pose. Not a good sign. Decisions have been made.

“Nothing has been written in stone yet,” she says. “We’re thinking that if we get this set up as an Inn, we may be able to hire someone to run it. Then we’ll go back to the city, but still be able to keep this property in the family.”

“But I’m
not
going to boarding school,” I say.

“I know it’s hard for a girl as independent as you to hear this, but it’s really up to your dad and me.
We
decide what’s in your best interest.”

Mom never does this kind of parental domination. I feel like I’ve been slapped.

“Is this all just because of that code? It’s seriously not that big of a deal.”

“Yes, Caity, it is that big of a deal,” she says as she puts her arm around my shoulders. “Look, we just don’t want your brain to get squishy because you’re not challenged.”

“How about if I do some private study with you or Dad every night—in addition to any homework? You guys can teach me how to crack codes and stuff and—”

“I’ll discuss it with Dad,” she says, interrupting my spiel. As she gets up from my bed she adds, “But we are quite serious about this. Once we’ve made a decision about the Inn, we’ll be better able to plan for your academics.”

My head drops. She lifts my chin and looks at me with her head tilted. “To be honest, Caity, I didn’t know you’d feel so strongly about staying with us. I’m flattered.”

She kisses me on the cheek and turns to leave.

The next morning I start my computer to see if I have any new email. I see Justine is online so I IM her:

Caitym: Justine-u will not believe the boy I met yesterday. straight off CK billboard.

Justinem: ooo, pix?

Caitym: No, but will take covert one soon. he’s the grandson of r cook.

Justinem: r age?

Caitym: 1 year older, but out of reach. way 2 cute 2 like me.

Justinem: NO!

Caitym: howz David von Hotnik?

Justinem: kinda over him.

Caitym: ??? What about the thumb move?

Justinem: Watching him struggle w/basic chem is total turnoff

Caitym: understandable. Hey did u get my last email about that rubbing?

Justinem: was just going to email u—Gramps called me about it last nite, had 2 tell him it was frm u

Caitym: did he tell u what it says?

Justinem: no, just said this guy Tenzo is all in a froth about it.

Caitym: Y?

Justinem: Thinks it’s a “major discovery” or something. u have 2 tell me where u took it.

Caitym: did u already tell him where I live now?

Justinem: Gramps already knew, mom had told him back when your parents first decided to go. anyway, g-pa might email u

Caitym: *freaking out!*

Justinem: What’s the big deal? r u mad?

Caitym: No, no—totally not mad, I’m the 1 who asked for help

Justinem: it sucks here without u

Caitym: tell me about it. my only friend is a monkey. omg, that looks so pathetic when it is typed out.

Justinem: god I would LOVE a monkey of my own. anyone who says they wouldn’t is lying.

Caitym: ha! tru. Hey gotta run, sleep well my friend. xo

Justinem: xo right back

God, I miss Justine. I look at the little framed photograph on my desk of the two of us all dressed up to go to the Winter Dance at Cruelties. Justine is looking very elegant in her floor-length red velvet sheath dress with her spotless skin and long, super-shiny black hair that is so much her trademark, you always expect to see a little ™ dangling from it. She is smiling with both her mouth and her big brown eyes. I am next to her in a dress I regret, a green silk number that sort of poofs out at the bottom the same way my curly hair does. When my hair is wet it’s almost to the middle of my back, but when it dries it curls up to my shoulders, despite all the goop I put on it to make it more relaxed. I’d played soccer outside that day and the winter sun had drawn out my freckles but hadn’t tanned my skin. Justine can look like a grown woman in the right clothes, but even when I am older, my freckles will probably still make me look like a child.

I put down the photo and snap from my past life to this new, stranger one when I see an email from Dr. Stephen Middleford, Justine’s grandfather.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Ancient text

Dear Caitrina,

This is Justine’s grandfather, Stephen. Justine sent me a very interesting rubbing of an ancient artifact that has a few of us here at Princeton quite excited. Dear girl, could you please share with me the story of how and where you came upon this? You are quite astute to recognize its importance and to take a rubbing. Well done!

Best, Stephen Middleford

I feel sick. Both my stomach and my head hurt like after watching one of those IMAX flying movies. I should’ve stuck to having my parents try to crack this thing, now I have to make up something for him. Based on the time difference, I have a few hours before I need to email back. I should go see what Dad thinks about the code first.

When I get to the kitchen, Dad is sitting at the table in the same clothes he was wearing yesterday, looking rumpled. “What’s up, Dad?” I ask.

He looks up from his coffee and shakes his head.

“Well, my little cipher, I’ve been up all night working on cracking your code.”

“Oh yeah? Any luck?” I ask, trying to seem nonchalant.

“How did you come up with that? Did you crib that from a World War I code book or something?”

I avoid answering by asking, “Have you translated a word yet?”

“A single word? Do you know who I am? I’ll have the whole thing done this morning! Got the software program I created working on a new angle.”

“Really?” I say, realizing that I don’t want him to know what the whole thing says before
I
do, I just wanted some words to piece together.

“Unfortunately I can’t stay awake another minute. I’m going to bed. Mom was up all night with me, so we’ll both be napping for a few hours.”

Other kids may find it weird that their parents pull all-nighters, but it’s nothing new to me. Standard computer-nerd behavior—if it’s not coding it’s gaming.

He pats my head and walks out of the kitchen. When I’m sure he’s gone, I eat my oatmeal as quickly so I can get to the library. When I leave the kitchen, Mr. Papers looks at me like I’m abandoning him, but I don’t want him to see this.

I have to do something drastic.

Dad has a whole wall of computers and servers glowing and humming. It looks totally out of place in this old-style library, with all the dark wood, musty books, and oil paintings. I find the screen that has lines and lines and lines of symbols quickly scrolling. The screen next to it has what I’m looking for: a few random words. This has to be the code being cracked.

I go back into the hallway and stand right outside the door to the library. From here I can still see the screen that’s scrolling, and this way if anyone comes by I can just say I was heading up to my room. I stand watching from outside the doorway for nearly half an hour, with my entire body tense. This is the closest thing to Pilates I’ve done in weeks.

Finally the scrolling screen stops, so I figure it’s done. I run in, print out the words, and quickly shove the paper in my pocket. I am totally shaking but force myself to remain calm. I hit the escape key on the machine that was decoding, make a note of the program’s name (littlegenius.exe, ugh!), close it down, and go to the directory to find it.

Then I delete it. I delete the whole decoding program that Dad wrote from scratch. Then I empty the trash to cover my tracks.

I immediately feel like I’m going to throw up. This is the worst, most devious thing I’ve ever done. I’ll rot in hell, that’s for sure.

Now I have to make it all look legitimate. I go to the little shed where Mr. Papers used to live, where all the fuse boxes are. I find the one marked “Kitchen/Dining/Library” and switch it off. I hear a little pop and wonder for a moment if that is my brain exploding.

I take the long way back to the castle so no one will see me. When I walk into the dark kitchen, Mrs. Findlay is standing by the sink looking out the window.

“Caity, have you seen Thomas?” she asks.

“No, I haven’t,” I say casually. “Why do you have all the lights off?”

“Seems we’ve had a power outage. I need to find Thomas.”

“I’ll go look,” I say, grabbing Mr. Papers and heading outside.

I see Thomas pull up in the Land Rover and I wave at him with both hands, air-traffic-controller style. He hops out of the car and says, “What’s the matter, lass?”

“Something happened to the electricity,” I say. “There’s no power on the first floor and I don’t want to wake Dad because he’s been up all night.”

“I reckon it’s just a fuse. Nothing to worry about.” He points to the shed and says, “Let me show you where the fuse box is in case this happens again.”

“Fuse box?” I say.

“Oh, you big city girls wouldn’t know about that now would you?”

I just shrug.

Thomas leads me to the shed and shows me the fuse box. I ask all sorts of dumb questions to make it seem like I’ve never seen one before. I’m scared about how all this lying is coming so easily to me and wonder at what stage it’s labeled “pathological” because I might not be too far off.

My hand is on the piece of paper in my pocket and I can’t stop playing with it and wondering if Dad was really able to decode those symbols into something readable. If so, what could it possibly say?

When Thomas finishes his fuse box lesson, I casually walk away until I am out of his sight and then I run as fast as I can into the castle and up the stairs. Mr. Papers is jumping banisters to keep up.

At my desk, I lay the paper out flat to read it. There is no punctuation, just a string of words. I say them out loud as I read them to see if it makes any sense, “glory great the in usher will Caitrina.” I stop at my name.

How could my name be in this thing carved on the wall? Maybe it was some kind of mistake. I read on, “named one but story the begin would who Fergus me tis table eastern far a round me to told fable prescient the in writ is as.” Makes no sense, it’s just a jumble of words.

I look at the part with my name again: “Glory great the in usher will Caitrina.” I turn it upside down—that’s what I do with word jumbles and it always works, the letters always seem to sort themselves out better that way. Then it becomes clear: it’s backwards!

Caitrina will usher in the great glory
.

That’s it! It’s just been input backwards, from the outside in instead of the inside out. I write the whole thing out the other direction and break it where it rhymes:

As is writ in the prescient fable

Told to me ’round a far Eastern table

’Tis me, Fergus who would begin the story

But one named Caitrina will usher in the glory

I find it hard to catch my breath, like when you stick your head out of a moving car window. How could this be? Is it a joke? I look all around the room trying to see if I’m on a hidden camera show or something. I reread it at least ten times to make sense of it.

Before this, the biggest shock of my life was being voted to high-level student government at school. The Academy of Humanities does not allow campaigning, so they spring the vote on you at an unscheduled assembly. They explain the qualities the person needs for each position and you just do a write-in; Justine and I were beyond surprised that I was voted not just Student Senator, but Speaker of the House! I mean, I didn’t even nominate
myself
. Who knew the whole school thought I was “independent, fair, and someone people would listen to”?

And now my name comes up again, here in this poem.

Well, now I
have
to decode the rest. But after deleting Dad’s program, I’m not sure what I can do to get him to decode the others. Maybe I blew it too early. God, I’m just not thinking ahead at all!

I need to get out of this room but I don’t want to be downstairs when Dad realizes the blown fuse crashed his program. I’m jittery and don’t know what to do with myself, so I pick up my sketchbook and start drawing because that always calms me and makes me lose track of time; sometimes I’ll sketch for three hours and not even know that any time has passed. I decide to draw the entire carved panel over the secret door.

Mrs. Findlay’s voice jolts me out of my sketching coma when she announces afternoon tea on the intercom. I hope that Dad is already downstairs, has discovered the “power outage,” and has cooled off.

I pat my shoulder and Mr. Papers jumps on. He tugs at my ear lobe a little and squawks.

“We’ll play after tea. You gotta stay cool, my friend.”

Stopping outside the kitchen door, I crane my neck to listen to Mom and Dad talking.

“Just be grateful that you didn’t lose any real work, Angus.”

“But I was so close!” he says, slapping his hands on the table. “I had it, I know I did—we’re talking a matter of
moments
…”

“Tell me the angle and we can work on it together,” Mom says.

I shuffle my feet as I walk in so they’ll hear me. Dad is slumped over a cup of coffee and Mom has her hand on his back. They both look up. “What’s the matter?” I ask.

“We had a power outage this morning and your dad lost everything he was working on.”

“Oh, no!” I say with horror. “I knew the power went off, but I totally forgot about the computers. Are you going to get in trouble at work?”