Molly Moon Stops the World (29 page)

“Well, not anymore, Roger,” said Molly.

Molly thought of Forest. He was going to have two basket cases on his hands this winter. Roger, like Primo, would need to stay here with Forest until he had
recovered. And the decision that everyone must stay in L.A. became clear.

Except for Molly. Molly had to leave. For Molly knew that soon Primo Cell would learn that she was his daughter, and she really wasn’t ready for that yet. She wanted to live with the idea of having a father before she introduced herself to him properly. Besides, she had something much more important to do.

Much later that night, as everyone else arrived at Primo Cell’s gray stone mansion, thrilled that this was to be their new home, Molly, Petula, and Rocky stood on the tarmac of Los Angeles airport. A private jet, a black-and-golden symbol painted on its tail fin, awaited its single passenger.

“I’ll miss you,” said Molly.

“I’ll miss you,” said Rocky. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come?”

“No, Rocky. This is something I need to figure out. It won’t be any fun for you. You need a vacation. And Billy Bob Bimble seems to be very interested in doing some music with you. You’ve got to go for it. I’ll be back soon.”

“As long as you think you’ll be all right, Molly. But if you need me for anything, at any time, even in the middle of the night, call me.”

“I will.”

The two friends hugged, and then Molly gave a whistle. “Come on, Petula.”

Rocky watched his best friend climb the plane’s steps. The engines started, Molly waved once more, and then she was gone.

F
lying home in Primo Cell’s luxurious private jet was fabulous. Its main cabin was laid out like a sitting room, with cream-colored carpets, small tables, and green leather armchairs.

The flight attendant was very welcoming, and soon Molly was belted up, with a grenadine in her hand and Petula beside her. The engines roared and Los Angeles, lit up with a billion bulbs and a million wannabe stars, slipped away beneath them.

Molly spent most of the eleven-hour flight asleep in a comfortable full-sized bed. She touched down feeling wide-awake.

At the airport a car was waiting for her, and soon she was sitting in the back of a spacious Mercedes, rolling down country roads.

It was a fifty-minute journey to Cornelius Logan’s house.

Cornelius hadn’t lived all these years in a humble cottage like his sister. He’d had access to as much money as he’d wanted—money made by Primo Cell. So, fond of luxury and excess, Cornelius had bought himself an astonishingly grand house in the country.

Briersville Park had a four-mile-long drive. Once Molly had hypnotized the gatekeeper, the car purred smoothly along it. She and Petula stared out of the window at the herd of llamas grazing under old oak trees. Then the llama paddocks came to an end, and now the parkland was full of dark-green bushes. They were all topiary hedges. And each one was of a different creature. A horse hedge, an elephant bush, a cat, a mouse, a monkey. Here and there, Molly saw people in yellow suits on ladders with shears in their hands, clipping the leafy sculptures. Molly felt sure that every one of the bush animals stood for a person Cornelius Logan had hypnotized.

Eventually, the car turned a wide bend, and before them was the house. White, stately, and splendid, it had four tall columns supporting its palatial porch and steps leading down to a circular gravel drive. Topiary animals stood on the lawns in front of it, looking as if they wanted to walk in. A giant magpie bush, shaped to look as if it was
flying, grew in the center of the circle of gravel.

Molly picked up Petula and stopped the world.

She climbed out of the car and up the broad steps. She walked straight past the frozen butler at the front door and into the hall. Animal heads—of bison, tigers, leopards, antelope, and deer—stared down from the walls. Petula growled at them. A display of antique shears reminded Molly of exactly where they were.

She looked at the map that Cornelius had drawn her and went up the main stairs. Here the walls were covered with clocks. At the top stood a maid, still as a statue. Molly started to run. She ran down a corridor lined with tables. On each one sat a tiny bonsai tree in a pot. She picked her way up another flight of stairs.

Now they were at the top of the house. These rooms were the servants’ quarters. Molly squeezed Petula for comfort and started down the long passage.

At the end there was a motionless guard sitting by a red door.

For a moment, Molly caught her breath. Then slowly she lifted the latch.

Inside, Lucy Logan stood motionless, still as the window that she was staring out of. She was dressed
in a white dressing gown, and she looked thin and tired. But she was, at last, the real Lucy Logan—the Lucy with the sky-blue eyes.

Molly stepped toward her. As she did, her eyes fell on a piece of paper on the windowsill. On the paper were handwritten words, a verse. Molly couldn’t help reading them. They went:

They sounded like the words of an old-fashioned song.

Molly paused, suddenly aware that an uncertain future was before her. She wondered how old-fashioned Lucy Logan would be. She hoped they would like each other.

In fact, now that she was about to wake her mother,
Molly wasn’t really sure that she wanted one. It was one thing knowing who her mother was, and quite another actually having one. Would Molly suddenly find herself being told to do things? She didn’t like this idea at all. She was used to being her own boss. For a few seconds, Molly’s eyes lingered on the song as she pondered her predicament. Well, she thought, she would have to make her feelings very, very clear to Lucy Logan as soon as she could. That was all.

Molly was just about ready now. Then another fear reared its head.

If Molly was now Lucy Logan and Primo Cell’s daughter, would she have to change her name? The thought that she might have to become Molly Cell or Molly Logan was extremely unsavory. Molly could already feel herself digging in her heels to refuse.

But worse than that was the notion that Molly might be made to be someone else in
other
ways. She didn’t want to become a person her new parents might like her to be. She wanted to always be herself, Molly Moon.

Molly sat down on a chair. She looked at her mother’s slippered feet and then at the sneakers on her own. In an instant she realized that it made no difference who her parents were. They were themselves and
she was herself, if she chose to be. What had she been thinking? That she might be brainwashed by her new parents? Of course she wouldn’t be. Her mind was a free place, wasn’t it?

It was then, in the silence of the turret room, that Molly made a secret oath. She promised that
whatever
happened, she would always make up her own mind about things. However the dice fell, she would always be true to her Molly Moon self.

Her changing self. Molly looked out the window at an autumn leaf that hung in the air, and she considered how much she’d changed since she’d last seen Lucy Logan. Nearly a year had passed, and in that time she’d almost been blown away. There had been brilliant moments, but some dreadful ones, too.

As Molly held the world still, she felt scared by the future—worried by its uncertainty. She was nervous of letting it come. Who knew what other nasty surprises her life held in store for her?

But life was always unpredictable, she realized. That was what made it exciting. No one ever knew what was around the corner. Of course there might be bad situations, but life was so full of interesting things and beauty and clever people and lovely animals and funny friends that there really was nothing to fear. Life was
there to be lived, not to be held captive like a genie in a bottle.

Outside the window, the sky was irresistibly blue.

Molly felt her spirit inside like a fiery bird longing to fly. She was ready for both sunlight and rainstorms. So, seizing the moment, Molly popped the cork and bravely unleashed time.

I
n the Hollywood Hills, a girl sat cross-legged on the ground in a scruffy chicken yard. She was wearing purple pajamas and dark sunglasses. Beside her hand, a chicken pecked the ground for grain, and in front of her sat a tall old hippie. His eyes were big and swirling behind his bottle-glass spectacles. His hair was long and gray.

“More tofu turnip, Davina?”

“Yes, please. And Forest, can we eat it standing on our heads again?”

“Sure thing. That would be my cosmic pleasure.”

Molly Moon's Incredible Book of Hypnotism

Molly Moon, Micky Minus, and the Mind Machine

Molly Moon's Hypnotic Time Travel Adventure

Molly Moon and the Morphing Mystery

Molly Moon and the Monster Music

Dear Readers,

Thank you for reading my book from start to finish, or even for just starting it before you skipped right to the end to see what happened, or spilled your milk or Shirley Temple on it, or dropped it in the bath.

Here are a few extras about Molly, her friends, and her world, including a sneak preview of her next adventure,
Molly Moon’s Hypnotic Time Travel Adventure.
There’s even a little bit about me.

Warmest wishes to you out there, whoever you are.

I hope you have a great time doing whatever you do today and that you are happy.

Love,

Georgia Byng

Full name:
Georgia Byng

Hometown:
Winchester, England. Now I live in a house full of art in London

Children:
Fifteen-year-old daughter, Tiger; four-year-old son, Lucas

Favorite food:
Chocolate. Particularly Green and Black’s Butterscotch.

Least favorite food:
Praline chocolate (chocolate flavored with hazelnuts). This makes me want to be sick. Oh, and pickled newts. They are diabolical. Don’t ever try one.

Favorite colors:
Green and white, but not together.

Hobbies:
Traveling to faraway places. I also love being with my family and friends, and laughing as much as possible.

Life goals:
To travel all over the world, learn to fly a plane, learn to play the guitar or the piano, have a herd of miniature horses, get a house by the sea somewhere, make lots of new friends, maybe become a ninja, and have lots of new ideas and write many more books.

What is a typical writing day like for you?

Well, I like to sit here in my writing podule, which is a room looking out over the garden of our house toward an apple tree that is now white with blossom. I often wear pajamas when I’m working. The wonderful thing about being grown-up is that you can wear whatever you like. I could wear a scuba-diving outfit while I worked if I wanted. Which reminds me: I met this headmistress once who made the children at her school wear the correct uniform. If they came in with the wrong clothes on, she’d make them,
for a whole day,
wear a silly tie or a silly hat or a silly skirt from a box full of disgusting outfits that she’d collected. Children so dreaded her punishment clothes that they soon always wore the right uniform. What do you think of that? Clever, eh? I might actually put that lady in a book in the future.

How do you come up with your stories?

I love coming across people with mad ideas and strange habits because they work brilliantly in books. Yesterday I saw a woman with hair that went down to her knees and that got me thinking about how she must get tangled in it sometimes when she’s asleep. I can imagine the headline right now. “Lady Dies in Bed Strangled by Her Own Hair.” That’s what’s great about writing. Everything that you do or see or hear or taste or touch or feel or find out
or love or hate might be useful in a story, whether it’s for a character or for a plot or anything.