Greenglass House (2 page)

“Yeah. He probably knows it was a bad idea, but now he's stuck with them. He was forced to take the cargo on—no, tricked into it—and now if he can't move it, he's ruined. He's already trying to figure out how to convince people to switch from baskets to striped stockings for Easter.” Milo leaned over the pavilion railing and peered through the thickening snow falling amongst the birches and icing the pine branches, searching for the first glimpse of the car and its passenger. It was still out of view, but from the vibration of the rails, he knew it was being hauled up the steepest part of the slope now. “He's got meetings set up with people this week too. Magazine writers, some weird TV star, trying to see if he can make green and pink stripes a big fashion thing next year. And a sock-puppet company.”

He leaned over the railing again, just far enough out that a few flakes of snow managed to make it past the roof onto his eyelashes. There it was: the blue metal nose of the railcar with its silver racing stripes (painted a few years back by Milo and his father along with its name,
Whilforber Whirlwind,
on the sides). And then, a moment later, its passenger: a lanky man in a felt hat and a plain black coat. Milo could just make out a pair of oversized glasses with huge tortoiseshell rims on his nose.

He wilted. The stranger looked disappointingly like somebody's grandfather. Maybe even a bit like a schoolteacher.

“I don't know,” Mrs. Pine remarked, as if she'd read Milo's mind. “I could kind of believe that guy would take a chance on green and pink stripes.” She ruffled his hair. “Come on, kiddo. Put on your welcome face.”

“I hate the welcome face,” Milo mumbled. But he straightened up and tried to look cheerful as the
Whirlwind
made its final ascent to the pavilion.

Up close, the stranger looked even more boring. Plain hat, plain coat, plain face, plain blue suitcase tucked in the boot of the car. Beneath the glasses, though, his eyes were bright and sharp as they flicked from Mrs. Pine to Milo and back.

Milo felt himself stiffen. It always started this way, whenever the Pines met someone new. You could just about see that person's thoughts:
One of these things is not like the others.
This stranger was hiding it better than most, for sure; there was no change in his expression, but that didn't mean he wasn't thinking it too.
How did a Chinese kid wind up in Nagspeake with that lady for a mom? Obviously adopted.

The car came to a jerking stop at last, nearly sending the unexpecting passenger's face straight into the
Whilforber Whirlwind
's padded dashboard.

“Hi.” Milo's mother beamed as the man clambered out of the car and brushed the accumulated snow from his shoulders. “Welcome to Greenglass House. I'm Nora Pine. This is my son, Milo.”

“Thank you,” the stranger said, his voice just as boring as the rest of him. “My name's Vinge. De Cary Vinge.”

Well, Milo thought sourly, he had an interesting name, at least. “I'll get your suitcase for you, Mr. Vinge.”

“Oh, that's all right,” Mr. Vinge said quickly as Milo reached for it. “Let me carry that. It's quite heavy.” He grasped the handle and pulled. It must've been heavy; Mr. Vinge had to put a foot up on the side of the car and push off for leverage.

Which was when Milo's mother gave him a significant glance. Uncomprehending, Milo took another look at the stranger. Then he spotted it: one garishly striped sock, visible for just a moment before Mr. Vinge stumbled backwards with his suitcase. If anything, the orange and purple combination was even weirder than Milo's imaginary green and pink.

“Looks like maybe I owe you a brownie sundae,” Mrs. Pine whispered. Then, louder, “This way, Mr. Vinge. Let's get you in out of the snow.”

 

Milo's father was waiting when they reached the porch. “Hey there,” he said, reaching out to shake Mr. Vinge's hand and taking his suitcase with the other. “Ben Pine. Rough night for travel, huh?”

“Oh, it's not so bad,” Mr. Vinge replied as he stepped inside and shucked off his coat.

“You got in just in time,” Milo's dad went on. “Weather report says we might see seven or eight inches of snow tonight.”

De Cary Vinge smiled. It was a vague smile, a quick smile, but it was there for just a moment. Like he was pleased about getting snowed in, basically alone, in a remote lodge in a strange part of town. “You don't say.”

Milo thought the smile was weird, but then again, the guy did have a weird name and he was wearing weird socks. Maybe he was an oddball after all.

“I put some coffee and hot chocolate on,” Mr. Pine said as he led Mr. Vinge through the dining room to the stairs. “Let me show you to your room, then we'll be glad to send something up or you can warm yourself by the fire down here.”

“How long do you think you'll be staying?” Mrs. Pine called after him.

Mr. Vinge paused, one foot on the bottom step. “I suppose that depends. Do you need to know right now?”

“Nope. You're our only guest at the moment.”

Mr. Vinge nodded. “Then I guess I'll let you know.”

Milo followed his father and their guest up the staircase. The inn had five main floors. The living room, dining room, and kitchen—all of them big, open rooms that flowed from one to the next—were on the first floor. The Pines' living space was on the second; the guest rooms took up the third, fourth, and fifth floors. The staircase that connected them was wide, with carved banisters on both sides. On each floor there was a landing and a turn so that the stair doubled back on itself, and each landing had a huge stained-glass window.

Mr. Pine led Mr. Vinge to the third floor, where the doors to the four guest rooms stood open. “Your pick, Mr. Vinge. Any preference?”

Their guest wandered down the hall, peering into each room as he passed. He paused at the end where the door to the old dumbwaiter was, then turned back to Milo and his father. Except Milo had the impression that Mr. Vinge wasn't exactly looking at them, but
past
them. Milo turned and saw only the stained-glass window and the snowy night beyond, tinged in shades of pale, pale greens: celery and celadon and tones like old bottle glass.

“This one will be fine,” Mr. Vinge said after a moment, nodding at the room to his left.

“Sounds good.” Mr. Pine set the blue suitcase just inside the door. “Want us to send up a hot drink?”

Before Mr. Vinge could answer, the brittle peal of the railway bell rang out again.

Milo stared at his father, shocked. “Another one?” he demanded before he could stop himself. Then he clapped his hands over his mouth, sure that had to have sounded horribly rude.

“I'm so sorry,” Mr. Pine was already saying to the guest, shooting dagger-eyes at Milo. But Mr. Vinge didn't appear to have noticed Milo's faux pas. He looked just as shocked as Milo felt.

“Is that . . . is that the bell I rang?” he asked in a strange voice.

“It sure is,” Milo's father said. “Sounds like we have another guest.” He turned to head back downstairs, flicking Milo on his left ear as he went. Not hard enough to be painful, but just enough to let him know that even if Mr. Vinge had missed Milo's rudeness, his father hadn't. “Shall we send up coffee or hot chocolate, something to snack on?”

Mr. Vinge frowned, then shook his head. “No, thanks. I'll come down in a few minutes. I confess, I'm curious to see who else is traveling tonight.”

Milo's father took the stairs two at a time and caught his wife just as she was about to go back out into the snow. “We've got it, we've got it,” he said.

At any other time, Milo might've felt annoyed at being volunteered—never mind that if one guest threatened to spoil his vacation, two spoiled it for sure. But now, the sheer improbability of two separate guests showing up at this time of year made him more curious than upset.

Not only that, De Cary Vinge had been shocked when that bell rang. On one hand, he was
right
to be shocked that another guest was on the way. On the other hand, how could he possibly have known the inn was usually deserted at this time of year? Unless, Milo thought as he pulled on his boots, Mr. Vinge was here
because
he figured he'd have the place to himself.

That was the moment Milo first started thinking maybe there was something odd going on. But then his father opened the door and a knife stroke of windy night cut into the foyer. Milo zipped up his coat and stumbled out into the cold after his dad, trying to walk so that his steps matched the footprints Mr. Pine left in the accumulating snow.

They had to send the
Whilforber Whirlwind
back down the hill, Milo's mother having reasonably assumed it had made its last upward trip for a while. “What do you figure?” Mr. Pine asked as they watched the blue car disappear over the slope. “I gotta tell you—and don't tell your mom—I was really looking forward to a few weeks off. I'm not complaining, I'm just saying. I thought I was off-duty for a while.”

“I know!” Milo exploded. “I already did my homework and everything!”

“What's the deal with Mr. Vinge? I didn't get around to asking what he does or what brought him here. Did you?”

Milo shook his head. “He's got some pretty crazy socks on, that's all I know.”

His father nodded seriously. That was one of the many great things about Milo's dad: he always took whatever you said seriously. Milo didn't have to explain why it seemed meaningful that a guy who appeared to be so boring and normal wore such bizarre socks. His dad would get it.

The engine that drove the cable jerked to a halt: the
Whirlwind
had reached the bottom of the slope. A moment later, the bell rang again to signal that the passenger was aboard and ready to begin the trip upward. Mr. Pine disappeared into the shed for a moment to throw the lever.

Milo and his father leaned on the railing side by side in silence, staring through the trees and waiting for the first flash of blue. That was another great thing about Milo's dad: you could hang out with him and say nothing and still feel like you'd spent time together. Milo's mom wasn't good at that. Oh, she always had interesting things to say, and they had fun conversations every time they talked. But his dad was good at quiet.

The snow fell, trying to blanket trees and ground and night with silence while the winch and the cable and the rails and the car made their familiar mechanical noises, as if they were having a conversation while they brought up the new guest. And then, at last, there was the
Whilforber Whirlwind,
and inside it, hunched under a vivid blue umbrella topped with snow, was a lady.

As the railcar passed under one of the old iron lampposts, the light falling through the umbrella seemed to turn her hair blue too. She looked pretty young to Milo, or younger than his parents, anyway. She smiled and waved as the
Whirlwind
approached, and Milo found himself smiling and waving back.

The car came to a lurching stop, and the lady swung her umbrella over to one side, knocking off the snow and closing it up. Her hair stayed blue: a darker shade than the metallic cobalt of the railcar, but blue nonetheless.

“Hi,” she said, her voice bright. “Sorry to drag you out into the snow.”

“No problem,” Mr. Pine said, offering a hand to help her out. “It's what we're here for. I'm Ben Pine and this is my son, Milo.”

“Georgiana Moselle. Georgie,” the blue-haired girl said. “Thanks.”

“Can I carry your bag for you?” Milo asked.

She nodded, pleased, and pointed to a carpetbag in the boot of the car. “Sure thing. Thanks, Milo.”

Milo hauled it out and started back through the trees to the inn. Before Mr. Pine followed, he paused to send the railcar back down the hill, muttering, “Just in case.”

Inside, there were hot drinks waiting; Milo could smell cider simmering on the stove the second he opened the door. Mr. Vinge was waiting, too. As Mrs. Pine came to the foyer and introduced herself, he peered around the side of one of the big chairs in the living room, gave Georgie a curious look, then disappeared back into the depths of the chair.

“Let's get you a room first. Then there's coffee, tea, hot chocolate, and cider,” Mrs. Pine said as their second guest stepped out of her green rubber boots. “Ben, what room did you put Mr. Vinge in?”

Georgie stopped dead in the act of pulling up her woolen socks and gave Mrs. Pine the oddest look Milo had ever seen. It was as if her face was divided in half: the bottom part was all innocent smile, but the top half was wide-eyed in unmistakable disbelief.

“You have another guest?”

Mr. Vinge leaned around his chair again, smiling blandly behind his oversized glasses. “De Cary Vinge. Just arrived myself.”

“Georgie Moselle,” said the young lady with the blue hair. The odd expression flickered on her face, like she really didn't want it there anymore but knew it would look weird if she stopped smiling right now. Neither she nor Mr. Vinge made any effort to shake hands. They just stared at each other as if each was trying to figure out something about the other.

Milo glanced over to see if his parents had noticed this bit of awkwardness, but somehow they seemed to have missed it. “Mr. Vinge is in Three E,” Mr. Pine said to his wife, busy with his own coat and boots. “You don't mind showing Miss Moselle up?”

“Glad to. Milo, you want to bring that bag?”

“Sure.” Milo watched the two guests continue to size each other up. Then Georgie turned away abruptly and followed Mrs. Pine toward the stairs. Milo trailed after.

“Third floor okay?” his mom asked. “Hardly seems worth it to make you hike up any higher, not when there's only the two of you.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Georgie said brightly. “How often does a girl get a whole floor to herself? Might be fun.”