The Keepers (3 page)

The containers themselves were neatly labeled, but the labels were bizarre.
WHATSITS
, one read, and another:
WORTHY OF CONSIDERATION
. Horace read quickly down the bins he could see.

Lost Bits

Mostly Incomplete

For the Weary

For the Wee

Truculent

Horace had no idea what truculent meant. He resisted peeking inside and kept reading.

Invisible (Defective)

Odd-Shaped

Even-Shaped

Ship-Shaped

Miscellaneous

Foul-Smelling

Unremarkable

Unsellable

Unaffordable

Unbinnable

Horace frowned at that one, a tall, blue metal container. A bin marked
UNBINNABLE
would have to be empty, wouldn't it? He hooked his finger over the edge of the bin, tugging.

A voice rang out: “Sign in, please.”

Horace yanked his hand away. A woman's voice, husky and sharp, coming from deep in the room. Horace squinted, but saw no one. “I . . . I'm sorry?” he called out.

“No need for apologies,” the voice said briskly. “Sign in please. At the podium.”

Horace looked around the room. Back near the tunnel of birds, he spotted a short wooden podium, atop which lay open a large and elegant-looking guest book. He moved in for a closer look.

The guest book looked new; no one else had signed it yet. It had the usual columns for name and address, but there were a few more columns as well:
AGE
,
REASON FOR VISIT
, and finally . . .
QUESTION
. Horace had no idea what that meant.

Next to the book, there was a long, gleaming white quill, and beside it a green bottle of dark ink. Horace had never before written using a quill, much less an inkwell. He turned to peer once again into the depths of the store, but before he could even open his mouth—

“Sign in please.”

The quill was almost as long as Horace's forearm, and surprisingly heavy. Gingerly, he dipped the sharp tip into the dark pool of ink.

Writing with the quill turned out to be more like scratching than writing. The quill rasped harshly across the paper, sending little chills up and down his arm. The ink surprised him, too—not black but a deep, glittering blue. He had to dip the quill repeatedly, but little by little, he filled out the top row:

The next two required a little more thought, but he filled them out as well:

He wrote “mistake” because he felt a little silly for having misread the House of Answers sign. But maybe “mistake” sounded a bit rude.

Now he came to the final column,
QUESTION
. He considered that, and then wrote:

“Right here, of course,” said a voice at his ear.

Horace spun around, dropping the quill. A woman stood there—small, but with stout shoulders and a thick, severe face. She wore an old-fashioned black dress that covered everything but her head and her hands. Her dark brown hair was drawn back tightly into a bun.

The woman bent and picked up the quill, examining it intently. She ran her fingers down it smoothly, straightening the barbs of the feather. She peered at the guest book and let out a long, low hum.

“Horace F. Andrews,” she said, not really asking.

“Yes.”

She squared up to him and sank her fists into her hips.
Her hazel eyes were as firm as packed dirt. She nodded solemnly. “You are in the right place.”

Horace couldn't pull his eyes away from hers. “I . . . I am?”

“Indeed you are, but you won't believe it until tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

“That's what I said. Tomorrow, when you return.”

Horace felt dizzy. “Oh.”

She frowned. “Shouldn't you be in school?”

“School's over. I'm out for the day.”

“Not a truant, then. What's your best subject?”

“I don't know . . . science, I guess?” Horace said cautiously. Science was absolutely his best subject—and Mr. Ludwig his favorite teacher—but not everybody was impressed by Horace's enthusiasm for it. He didn't mind that being into science made him seem nerdy to some people, but he resented having to defend something that so clearly shouldn't need defending.

“Science,” the woman said, her tone unreadable. “How practical.” She clapped her hands together. “Very well. Closing time. You'll come back tomorrow.” She began moving toward him, her arms spread like she meant to herd him to the exit.

Reluctantly, Horace began to back away. “But I haven't even looked around yet. What time do you close?”

“I tell you we're closing
now
, and you ask what time we close. Maybe you're just asking me what time it is?”

“I know what time it is. You close at three forty-three?”

She glanced at an enormous watch on her wrist and raised an eyebrow. “Goodness!” she said, sounding startled. “Closing is neither here nor there. Tomorrow we'll be open all day, and you'll come back. You'll look around all you like.”

“But what is this place? Who are—”

Suddenly the woman lunged forward, grasping Horace's shoulders hard. She leaned closer and sniffed deeply—once, twice, three times. Her frown deepened. She stared at him hard. “You are Horace F. Andrews of Chicago. Twelve years old, here by virtue of accident and intrigue.” Her breath was planty, herbal. Horace wondered if she would ever blink. “I am Mrs. Hapsteade, Keeper of the Vora.” She poured that earthy gaze into him for another long, heavy moment and then released him. “Now we've been introduced. Are you comforted?”

Horace could not answer. He rubbed his shoulder. He tried not to let his face reveal the sea of uncertainty and frustration and queasy wonder that stormed inside him now. Keeper of the what?

The woman—Mrs. Hapsteade—sighed. “I see. So it is. But your comfort isn't my concern. Here, take this.” She took Horace's wrist and dropped something into his hand—a large black marble. It was warm from her touch. “Keep this leestone with you at all times. And if you see the man who smells like brimstone again, walk away at once—but do not run.”

Horace's skin went cold. “What did you say?”

“Do not look at the man, nor allow yourself to be seen. Do not listen to the man, nor allow yourself to be heard. Above all, if the man should come to your house, do not allow him to be invited inside. Keep the leestone with you. Return here tomorrow. All will be well. Do you understand these things I've said?”

Brimstone. The thin man. “Who is he?”

“He's a hunter.”

“Is he hunting me?”

“In a way. He hunts an object you don't yet possess.”

“How can that be? What object?”

“I don't know. You must return tomorrow. No doubt you're frightened and confused, but I don't apologize for that. The leestone will keep you safe. Tell no one. Go now—we are closed.”

Horace backed away, gripping the leestone so hard his fingers ached. He gave Mrs. Hapsteade one last look, and then he turned and hurried toward the tunnel of birds, scooping up his backpack on the way. The birds rustled and fussed as he passed, breaking into little flurries of voice. He was almost to the steps leading back to the blue door when Mrs. Hapsteade called out. Her words reached through the birdsong like an outstretched hand, gentle and warm.

“Remember, Horace F. Andrews, fear is the stone we push. May yours be light.”

W
HEN HE GOT HOME
, H
ORACE DISCOVERED TO HIS DISMAY
that he had lost his house key again. Usually he was a very organized person—compulsively organized—but he was cursed when it came to house keys; this would be the second one this week. Inside the house, Loki the cat pawed at the front window, mewing mutely. Horace waited on the porch for his mom to come home, feeling more helpless than he usually did when he was locked out. What if the thin man had followed him? What if he was watching Horace right now, just waiting for the right moment to . . . to what? Horace pressed his back against the door and fished the leestone out of his pocket. In the sunlight, it now looked more purple than black. How was this strange marble supposed to protect him? Okay, it was not
just
a marble—that was for sure. Horace collected marbles, so he knew something about it. It was extremely large, twice as
big as a shooter, and far too light for its size. Weirdly, it still felt as warm as it had when Mrs. Hapsteade first placed it in his hand. He squeezed the leestone, thinking.

When his mother arrived and found him outside the front door, she didn't ask Horace about his key. Instead she said only: “Your locksmithing career isn't working out, I see.”

“No, I guess not.”

“Well, you're young. There's still time.”

They went inside. They were surprised to find Horace's father standing in the hallway by the writing nook, a bowl of cereal in one hand and an upright spoon in the other, like a wand.

“Hey, you,” Horace's mother said. “You're home early.”

“Slow day,” he replied. He pointed the spoon at Horace. “And you're home late. Have you been out on the porch all this time?”