Greenglass House (29 page)

“After . . . after everything, though,” Clem stammered, her voice cracking. “After everything you and I . . . This is what we were both . . . Why didn't
you
—”

“Because look at the two of you!” Georgie's voice broke as she lost control of her own tears. “There was no reason for me to try and beat you to it anymore.”

Clem got to her feet and stumbled across the room, and before Georgie could do more than stand up, Clem threw her arms around her and hugged hard. “Thank you, Blue,” she whispered. Georgie stood frozen for a heartbeat, then she put her arms around Clem and hugged her back.

For his part, Owen looked as if he couldn't decide which to lose his cool over: the new information about his ancestry or the strange behavior on the part of the two girls. He didn't seem to have a clue that they had been competing for his heart all along.

Meanwhile, Milo sat stock-still on the floor, just barely keeping the tears at bay as his heart galloped painfully.
Bluecrowne.
He forced his white-knuckled fingers to set his plate down on the coffee table and reached into his pocket. His fingers found the leather key ring, and for the umpteenth time he ran his fingers over the characters on the disc. He took it out, turned it over, and looked with a lump in his throat at the image on the other side.

He pictured Negret's father, Chinese like his son, who had handed these keys down as they had been handed down to him. Meddy's game had for the first time given him an excuse to imagine a birth parent into his life without feeling like he was being disloyal to his mom and dad, and Milo discovered that he had very rapidly grown to treasure these keys and their pretend history.
It's real history for me,
Negret's voice said in his mind.

Yes,
Milo replied silently, sadly.
But for Owen, it's more than real. It's true.

He wiped his eyes, forced his face into something like cheer, and got to his feet. He crossed the room full of surprised silence and tugged on his father's sleeve. He showed him the ring of keys. He whispered a question.

Mr. Pine glanced at his wife and chuckled. “I think Milo's working on cleaning out the attic.” To Milo he said, “Sure, kiddo. Why not?”

Milo cleared his throat. “Excuse me, everybody, excuse me.” His voice shook a little, but hopefully not enough for anyone to hear. Thirteen pairs of eyes turned to him. He turned to Owen. “Mr. . . . Owen, I found this the other day. I kept it because I thought it was neat, but I think you should have it.” He held out the key ring.

Owen took it and examined the disc that hung among the keys. Milo watched him run his fingers over the Chinese characters, then turn it over to find the engraved crown with its spots of blue enamel.
Bluecrowne.

“I . . . I don't know what to say.” He looked at Milo with an expression full of emotion. Milo recognized that emotion immediately, even though he didn't have a word for it. “I would treasure it,” he said quietly. “May I really have it?”

Milo nodded solemnly. “I asked Mom and Dad first.”

The young man curled his fingers around the keys. “Thank you, Milo. You don't know what this means to me.”

“I do, I think,” Milo admitted. “I was adopted too.”

Then he sat down on the floor again and picked up his plate from the coffee table, ignoring the eyes he could still feel on him. Negret had lost his only memento of his father. But when things were passed to you, you were supposed to pass them on to someone else eventually too. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps when the old blackjack had given the keys to Negret, he had said something like,
I am giving these to you and someday you will give them to someone else. Maybe that person will be your own son, but maybe not. It could even be a stranger. You'll know the right person when you find him.

And so both Milo and Negret made peace with letting go of the blackjack's keys. Milo discovered to his surprise that only the slightest ache remained. He took a deep breath and released it slowly and turned his attention back to his pancakes.

A few bites later, Georgie sat down beside him and elbowed him gently in the side. Her eyes were red, but she looked almost happy. “You did good,” she whispered. “Thank you for that, and for what you said to Mrs. H.”

“Even though it doesn't make him like you best?” Milo whispered back.

“Sure.” She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Even though. You've given a truly important gift to someone I love.”

Milo elbowed her back. “I think you did good, too.”

It wasn't precisely what he'd been thinking of when he'd read about
orphan magic,
but it was still kind of magical, and he, Milo, who had once been an orphan, had done it.

“Thanks.” Georgie clapped her hands on her knees and stood up. “Mrs. Pine? Can I talk to you?”

Milo's mom, who had been circling the living room with the coffeepot, nodded and joined Georgie over near the tree. “I think I'll get under way today,” the blue-haired girl said quietly. “The ferryman who brought me over gave me a card and told me to call if I needed him again.”

Mrs. Pine shook her head. “The phone lines were strung right up with the power lines. They'll be down until the city sends a lineman out for repairs.”

Georgie sighed. “I thought as much. I don't suppose there's any other way to call a launch, is there?”

“We have a flag we can raise.” Mrs. Pine made an apologetic face. “Of course, there's no knowing how long it will take anyone to answer. I wouldn't like to hoist the emergency colors unless it's an actual emergency.”

“No, of course not.” Georgie scratched her head. “But yeah, would you send up a flag for me?”

“Sure, Georgie, if that's what you want.”

“Thank you. I'm . . . I'm sorry to put you to the trouble. How will I know if someone's coming? How long do you think it'll take?”

“In this weather?” Mrs. Pine considered. “They'll likely have shut down the ferry dock, so it'll depend on how long it takes somebody to see the signal who's also willing to make the trip. Could be five minutes, or there could be no answer at all until the weather starts to settle down. If the dock's still open, they'll hoist a reply, not that we'll see it if the snow starts up again. If it's closed, but if someone out there wants the work and doesn't mind the weather, he or she'll just turn up and ring the bell. In any case, whoever shows up will charge you an arm and a leg, you know.”

Georgie gave a careless wave. “That doesn't matter. No offense, but I'm almost willing to risk hypothermia and hike out of here. Almost,” she added when a wave of concern crossed Mrs. Pine's face.

“Okay, Georgie.” Mrs. Pine squeezed her shoulder. “I'll ask Ben to send up the flag right away.”

Things were calm for a while after that. Milo finished his breakfast, and when he carried his plate into the kitchen his mother swept him up into a giant hug. When she let go, Milo saw with surprise that her eyes were a little red, as if she'd been crying too.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing, Milo.” She squeezed him again. “Just proud.”

He returned to the living room, still awash with feelings. As he crossed to the tree in search of Meddy, Owen spoke up from the hearth. “Hey, Milo, you got a minute?”

“Sure.” Milo sat beside him. Owen held up his hand. In his palm was a carved, bone-colored figure about the length of the young man's thumb; a serpentine creature with clawed feet and a ferocious, fanged face.

“A dragon?”

Owen nodded. “As a kid I was obsessed with them because of all the dragons in Chinese mythology. I collected . . . oh, probably hundreds of dragons. Paintings, books, stuffed animals. And tons of little guys like this one.” He held out the figurine and Milo took it gingerly. It was heavier than it looked. “That was my favorite,” Owen continued as Milo turned the dragon over in his fingers. “I found it at a flea market when I was ten. Turned out to be real ivory and an antique, but mainly I just really liked his little face. So when I outgrew stuffed animals and didn't have room anymore for every picture of a dragon that's ever been drawn, I kept that guy and carried him everywhere.” He hesitated. “This probably isn't going to sound as weird to you as it might to someone else, but . . . well, that was kind of my way of connecting to my heritage. A way of carrying it in my pocket even when I wasn't sure how I felt about it, or sure of my place in it. Does that make sense?”

Milo nodded, staring hard at the dragon and trying to keep his emotions in order.

“I even made up stories about it,” Owen said with a little laugh. “Sometimes about the dragon and its adventures, and sometimes about the figure itself and where it had come from. Even now I pretty much never go anywhere without it. But listen, Milo, it never occurred to me that in a million years I would ever have something that's
actually
linked to my ancestry that I could carry around in my pocket instead. And now that I have that, thanks to you, I'm thinking maybe it's time to pass my dragon on.” Together they looked down at the creature. “I'd like to give him to you. If nothing else, maybe he'll bring you luck.”

Milo opened his mouth to say
thank you
and discovered he couldn't speak. The two of them sat there for a long moment. Milo went on staring down at the dragon so that he could pretend he wasn't crying. Owen sat quietly beside him, looking at the dragon too. He didn't ask if Milo was okay, or if he needed a tissue, or if he wanted to be left alone for a little. He just stayed there and kept Milo company.

Finally Milo wiped his eyes with his sleeve and nodded. He hiccupped once. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Owen nodded once. “Bye, little guy,” he said to the dragon. Then he got to his feet and left the living room.

When at last he thought he could look up without everything he was feeling rushing across his face, Milo took a deep breath and wiped his eyes again. His mother wandered in and pretended to straighten the throw blanket on the sofa. She gave him a quick, fake-casual glance and raised her eyebrows.
All okay?

Milo nodded and smiled.

Then came the sound of feet barreling down the stairs. “What on earth is wrong with you people?” Dr. Gowervine bellowed.

“Oh, no,” Mrs. Pine muttered.

“Here we go,” Milo whispered, sliding the ivory dragon into his pocket. “Here it comes.”

“What's wrong, Dr. Gowervine?” Mrs. Pine said with only a touch of exhaustion in her voice as she hurried out of the living room. Milo followed.

“What do you
think
is wrong?” he snarled. “I've been robbed!”

Milo's father had only just come in from sending the signal flag up the pole behind the house and de-icing the bell in case someone actually came in response. He put a hand to his wind-burned face. “You're kidding. This can't be happening.”

“I am not kidding!”
Dr. Gowervine was starting to sound hysterical.

“Okay, okay. He didn't mean that.” Mrs. Pine took the professor's arm. “I'm coming up with you. Let's have a look.”

Grumbling, Dr. Gowervine allowed himself to be led back upstairs. Meddy swooped over to Milo and grabbed his arm. “Let's go, Negret.”

He ran back to the sofa to put on his escaladeur shoes, then they took the first set of stairs slowly so they could talk without Mrs. Pine and Dr. Gowervine overhearing them. “This messes everything up,” Sirin muttered. “I was sure it was him.”

“I thought so too,” Negret said. “I thought maybe he figured the bag and the notebook might have clues to where the vidimus thing he's looking for is hidden, since they're all connected to the house. I just couldn't figure out the watch.”

“Maybe it was a decoy,” Sirin suggested as they turned the corner on the second-floor landing. “You know, the watch was stolen to throw us off track and to keep us from figuring out what he was really after.”

“Except now he's off the hook, 'cause he was robbed too. Unless . . . yeah! Unless that's another decoy. So nobody'll suspect him?”

“Not bad, Negret. Not bad.” They reached the third floor. It sounded as if having Mrs. Pine search his room with him wasn't calming Dr. Gowervine down much.

“When was the last time you saw it?” Mrs. Pine asked with superhuman calm.

“I don't know when the last time was—I know I checked on it when everyone else had things stolen, and it was fine. But since then . . .”

“And what does the bag look like?”

Dr. Gowervine exhaled hard enough that Negret and Sirin heard it all the way out in the hall. “It's a large satchel, brown leather with red contrast stitching, brass hardware with my initials engraved on it. It's lined with plaid satin, mostly red.”

“Now he's just being fussy,” Sirin muttered. “Don't you think ‘brown satchel' would've done the job?”

“Shh.”

“Can you tell me what was in it?” Milo's mother asked.

“It was that damned story!” Dr. Gowervine exploded. “I knew I shouldn't have said anything about it! I
knew
it! But that harpy convinced me to tell one to take that girl's mind off some . . . some stupid
boy
trouble, and it was all I could think of. I knew I should've just kept my mouth shut.”

“Dr. Gowervine,” Mrs. Pine said with the kind of patience that only moms seem capable of, “what was in the satchel?”

There was a pause. “My work,” Dr. Gowervine said quietly. “All of it. Everything I had on Lowell Skellansen. The entirety of my research was in that bag.”

The conversation inside the room trailed off as the actual searching got under way. Negret nodded toward the stairs, and he and Sirin tiptoed down to the second floor. In the bedroom, he took the spiral pad from under the pillow, opened it to Dr. Gowervine's page, and wrote,
Missing after breakfast: brown leather bag with all of Dr. G's stuff about stained-glass guy.
“How do you spell
Skellansen
?”