The Keepers

for Jodee,

without whom so much

would not have happened,

including this

The only way of discovering the limits of the possible
is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.

—ARTHUR C. CLARKE

Dedication

Epigraph

The Find

T
HE
S
IGN

T
HE
H
OUSE
OF
A
NSWERS

T
HE
I
NITIATE

F
ELLOW
P
ASSENGERS

M
R
. M
EISTER

T
HE
F
IND

T
HE
F
IFTH
K
EY

N
IGHT
E
XPERIMENTS

A
RRIVALS

W
HAT THE
U
NIVERSE
W
OULD
A
LLOW

The Girl Who Walked through Walls

T
HE
W
EIGHT OF
T
OMORROW

T
HE
G
IRL
W
HO
W
ALKED THROUGH
W
ALLS

I
N THE
B
OYS
' B
ATHROOM

T
HE
I
MPOSSIBLE

T
HE
V
ORA
S
PEAKS

T
HE
R
ESCUE

I
N THE
T
UNNELS

T
HE
H
OUSE
G
UEST

Beneath the Surface

T
HE
G
REAT
B
URROW

T
HE
B
OX AND THE
D
RAGONFLY

T
HE
W
ARDENS

C
ONFESSIONS

T
HE
M
ALKUND

G
OOD
I
NTENTIONS

T
HE
M
ESSAGE
S
ENDER

W
ATER AND
F
IRE

The Willed Path

B
Y THE
C
LOCK

N
EPTUNE

T
HE
S
TAFF AND THE
C
RUCIBLE

B
OTH
S
IDES OF THE
G
LASS

T
HE
N
EST

N
OT
Y
ET
L
OST BUT
F
OUND

P
ROMISES
M
ADE

D
ISTRACTIONS

T
HE
W
ILLED
P
ATH

Threads

C
HLOE
W
ITHOUT

C
APTURED

C
HLOE
W
ITHIN

C
ONVERGENCES

L
OGICAL
O
UTCOMES

A
ND
L
AST

Glossary

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

W
HEN
H
ORACE
F. A
NDREWS SPOTTED THE
H
ORACE
F. Andrews sign through the cloudy windows of the 77 eastbound bus, he blinked. Just a blink, nothing more. He was surprised to see his own name on a sign, of course—and his sizable curiosity was definitely roused—but still, he took the sighting in stride. He had always been a firm believer in coincidences. Given enough time, and enough stuff, it was only natural that the universe would churn out some odd happenings. In fact, the way Horace saw it, a universe in which strange coincidences did
not
occur would be a pretty suspicious place.

The Horace F. Andrews sign was tall and narrow, hanging from the side of a building back in an alleyway off Wexler Street. It featured a long column of faded yellow words on a weather-worn blue background, but it was his name, written
large at the bottom, that jumped out at him first, clear and unmistakable:

HORACE F.
ANDREWS

The bus rolled on. Just before the sign slipped out of sight, he caught a few of the yellow words in the long list above his name:
ARTIFACTS
.
MISERIES
.
MYSTERIES
.

Sparks of curiosity flared up inside Horace. He blinked—just once—and thought the situation through, tending those sparks like a brand-new fire. What were the odds of his seeing a sign with his exact name on it? Not terrible, he decided. Horace wasn't a very common name, but Andrews definitely was. And it was probably fairly common to have F as a middle initial—certainly better than one chance in twenty-six.

Of course, it was pure chance that he was even here in the first place. The 77 was his usual bus home from school, but this was not its usual route; normally the bus went straight down Belmont Avenue, but construction had forced the bus to detour down Wexler Street instead of driving right by. It was also pure chance that Horace had been looking out the windows at all. Ordinarily, he would have been sitting in the very back row, reading or working on a science problem for Mr.
Ludwig's class, building a bubble of concentration against the noise and confusion of the bus. But today the bus was extra crowded, packed with rowdy kids from school in the back and stone-faced adults in the front. Horace had to stand in the middle, at the top of the steps near the rear door, feeling large and awkward and hating his heavy backpack, and wondering just how much he, Horace Andrews, belonged here. All he could do was look out the window and hope the ride would be short.

But then the sign slid by, and a block or two later the bus slowed and jerked to a stop. The rear door opened, and a plump old lady in a purple dress began easing down the steps, clinging to the rail with both hands. Horace looked through the back windows, but the sign was out of sight. Was it for a store? Or maybe someone's office—presumably the office of Horace F. Andrews. The sign had looked very old; maybe the place didn't even exist anymore. But then there were those words—“Artifacts,” “Mysteries.” And what possible reason could any business have for putting “Miseries” on its sign?

Horace watched the old lady stretch out one chubby leg, reaching for the curb below. The other passengers rustled impatiently. A scrawny red-faced kid Horace recognized from social studies leaned over the stairwell and started chanting at the old lady:
“Go! Go! Go!”