Peter and the Shadow Thieves (37 page)

“Open what?” whispered Peter.

“The letter that…Ombra
thing
gave me,” whispered Mol y.

“I thought he said to give it to your—”

“Father, yes. But I don’t know where Father is, and there might be something in the letter that wil help. Tinker Bel ? Do you think you could give me a bit of light?”
I’m too tired.

“What did she say?” whispered Mol y.

“She said she’d be delighted,” said Peter, prodding Tink to her feet.

By Tink’s soft golden glow, Mol y broke the wax seal on the envelope and pul ed out a single sheet of paper bearing words written in compact, precise penmanship. Together, she and Peter read the message:

Lord Aster,

You are in possession of certain property unlawfully taken from the ship Never Land. I am in possession of your wife. I propose to make an exchange.

You are to send a representative to the center of Tower
Bridge at midnight. He will receive instructions for the exchange from my representative, who will be holding a
red lantern. My representative will be on the bridge each night at midnight for seven nights. If you do not respond within that time, or if you make any effort to dispose of the
property, you will not see your wife again. Likewise, if you or anyone, should attempt to rescue your wife, she will come to the gravest harm.

I trust that, as a man of reason, you will agree that your wife’s well-being is more important than your continued possession of property that rightfully belongs to others.

Most sincerely,

Lord Ombra

Mol y put the letter down and looked at Peter, despair fil ing her face.

“He’s going to kil her,” she whispered.

“No, no,” said Peter, draping his arm somewhat awkwardly over Mol y’s shoulders. “We’l find your father.”

“But how?” said Mol y. “This”—she held up the letter—“doesn’t tel us anything. I don’t know where to start.”

“You must know somebody who knows where he went,” said Peter. “Aren’t there other Starcatchers in London?”

“Yes, but Father has always shielded me from most of his Starcatcher activities. He said I wasn’t old enough yet to—” She stopped and sat up straight. “That’s it!”

“What?” said Peter.

“The Tower,” said Mol y.

“What tower?”

“The Tower of London.”

“What about it?”

“Before Father moved the starstuff,” Mol y said, “he said it was somewhere here in London—somewhere wel guarded. I think he meant the Tower.”

“Why?”

“Sometimes,” said Mol y, “when Father has business in the City, he takes me along. Three times this year, when he was done with his meetings, we stopped at the Tower. It was always at night, after visiting hours. A certain guard, a man with a thick white beard, would let Father pass, but Father always made me wait with the guard. If I asked why, Father would make some joke about not wanting me to get my head chopped off. He’d be inside for fifteen minutes—half an hour, at most—then he’d come out and we’d go home.” Peter thought for a moment, then said, “So you don’t
know
the starstuff was even in there.”

“No, I don’t,” agreed Mol y. “But it makes sense. It’s a wel -guarded place, and Father visited it, and he obviously was keeping the reason secret, even from me.”

“But even if the starstuff
was
there,” said Peter, “it’s not there now, is it?”

“No,” said Mol y. “But if I go in there, I might find somebody who knows where Father has gone.”

“Al right,” said Peter. “Let’s go.”

Mol y smiled, grateful that Peter had included himself. She looked at the window; the black of night was giving way to the gray of dawn.

“We’l have to wait until tonight,” she said. “The Tower is ful of visitors during the day. And we need to go when we’re certain to find the guard who let my father in.”

“Al right,” said Peter. “But what do we do today?”

“I suppose we’l have to stay here with George,” said Mol y.

“Oh,” said Peter.

They both looked at George, stil snoring on his cricket bat.

“He’s real y not such a bad sort,” said Mol y. “Once you get to know him.”

Peter said nothing.

You’re jealous!
said Tinker Bel .

“I am not,” said Peter.

“What did she say?” said Mol y.

“Nothing,” said Peter. Then, turning away from Mol y, he lay back down on the hard wooden floor and tried, with little hope of success, to fal asleep.

WATCHER

P
ETER AND MOLLY spent a long, restless day hiding in George’s room. After eating the scones that George had managed to spirit away from the breakfast table, they spent most of the time dozing and staring out the window at the gray London sky. They tried reading some of George’s books, but most of them were about astronomy, and quite technical; neither Peter nor Mol y found them particularly interesting. Tink spent the day under the bed, out of George’s sight; and though she was not happy about it, she was at least quiet.

The one moment of tension occurred when the housemaid came to tidy up George’s bedroom. George managed to turn her away with a story about not wanting her to disturb the baby bat that he had found and was nursing back to health. The housemaid found this quite believable, as the Darling house did, in fact, have a colony of bats in the attic, and the maid was terrified of them. She scurried away, muttering about the insanity of wanting to make a bat any healthier than it already was.

Other than that, the day was a slow, dul procession of uneventful hours. George tried several times to get Mol y to tel him more about her predicament, only to be rebuffed, to his irritation and Peter’s not-very-wel -concealed enjoyment. George was also quite miffed that, when night final y fel , Mol y borrowed two coats from him, and money for a taxi—then refused to let him accompany her and Peter, or even to tel him where they were going.

“But why not?” he said.

“I can’t explain,” said Mol y. “Not now. But you can’t go.”

“Then why is
he
going?” said George, pointing at Peter, who stared back with just enough of a smile to infuriate George.

“Because he…I’m sorry, but I can’t explain that either,” said Mol y. Seeing George’s angry look, she added, “Please, George, trust me. I’m ever so grateful for your help—we both are—but right now, I can’t tel you anything more.”

“Fine, then,” said George, plopping himself on his bed with a look that said it was not a bit fine. “What are
you
doing?” he said to Peter, who was on his hands and knees, reaching under the bed.

“Nothing,” said Peter, surreptitiously snagging Tink and tucking her into his shirt.

“We’l be back later,” said Mol y. She pushed George’s telescope aside and opened the window.

George sat silently, staring at the floor.

“Good-bye, then,” said Mol y, as she climbed out onto the tree limb, fol owed by Peter, who shut the window behind them.

“Is he looking out the window?” asked Mol y.

“No,” said Peter. “He’s stil moping on the bed.”

“Then please fly me down,” said Mol y.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and they slid off the branch, descending quickly but safely to the ground. With Mol y leading the way, they went back to Kensington Road, where they found a cab waiting by a low, green cabmen’s shelter. As they approached, Peter tucked Tinker Bel under his coat.

“To the Tower of London, please,” Mol y told the driver.

“Tower’s closed now,” he answered.

“I know,” said Mol y.

The driver shrugged, and Mol y and Peter climbed into the cab.

They rode in silence, listening to the clopping of hooves. The streets were largely empty, and the cabbie made good time into the City, then down toward the river and along Thames Street.

The cab stopped. “Here we are,” said Mol y, peering out the window. She and Peter got out of the cab. The massive stone outer wal of the Tower loomed ahead. The street was deserted and dark, except for a single gas lamp doing battle with the swirling river fog.

The driver looked around. “Are you sure you want to be left here?” he said.

“Yes,” said Mol y, paying him.

Shaking his head, the driver flicked the reins. In a moment the cab was swal owed by the night.

“This way,” said Mol y. She led Peter to the southwest corner of the Tower compound. There, a stone causeway spanned the broad grassy ditch that had once been the moat.

At the end of the causeway was an arch, flanked by two rectangular towers. Mol y, with Peter fol owing, crossed the causeway and entered the arch. It was lit—barely—by a lone hanging lantern. Their footsteps echoed from the cold stone wal s as they passed through, unchal enged.

“Where’s the guard?” Peter whispered.

“At the next gate,” Mol y answered.

Once through the arch, they found themselves on a second causeway. Ahead, Peter could make out another archway, this one flanked by cylindrical towers. It, too, was lit by a single lantern, and by its flickering light, Peter saw a man wearing the dark overcoat and distinctive flat-topped hat of the Yeoman Warders, or “Beefeaters,” who had guarded the Tower for centuries. He was a large man with a thick white beard. His right hand was curled around a stout wooden staff with a pointed metal tip.

As Mol y and Peter approached, the guard took the staff in both hands and, in a gruff voice, cal ed, “Who goes there?”

“It’s me, sir,” said Mol y, stepping closer. “Mol y Aster. Leonard Aster’s daughter. I’ve been here before.” The Warder studied her by the lantern light and nodded. “Yes, you have,” he said, his voice softening just a bit.

“I need to go inside,” she said.

The Warder frowned. “
You
want to go inside?” he said. “Where’s your father?”

“He’s away,” said Mol y. “He sent me here on an important errand.”

“And who’s this?” The Warder nodded toward Peter.

“He’s…a friend,” said Mol y. “He needs to go inside, too.”

The Warder shook his head.

“I’l let you in,” he said. “I know your father, and I know you. But I can’t let him in.”

“Please,” said Mol y.

“I’m sorry, miss. Orders is orders.”

“I know that,” said Mol y. “But this is urgent. Something terrible has happened.”

“What is it?” said the Warder.

“I…I can’t tel you,” said Mol y, remembering Ombra’s letter and the threat to harm her mother.

“Then I can’t let him in,” said the Warder.

Mol y thought for a moment. “Al right,” she said. “I’l go in alone.”

“But, Mol y—” Peter protested.

“It’s al right,” interrupted Mol y, giving Peter a look that was clearly intended to send a message, though he could not tel what the message was.

“I’l go inside,” she said, “and you can wait
outside,
back through there.” She gestured toward the first archway they had come through. She stared at Peter, as if waiting for him to grasp what she was getting at. But he stil didn’t see it.

Mol y rol ed her eyes. “Just don’t
fly away,
al right?”

Peter felt like such an idiot, he nearly smacked himself in the head.

“Ah,” he said, nodding. “I see.”

“Good,” said Mol y, turning back to the Warder. “I’m just trying to remember,” she said. “My father said I should go to the…the—”

“The White Tower?” said the Warder. That’s where he usual y goes.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mol y. “The White Tower. That’s the…the—”

“The tal one in the middle,” said the Warder.

“Exactly,” said Mol y, walking past the Warder, through the archway. She turned and, with a significant look, cal ed back to Peter: “I’l see you
soon,
then.”

“Right,” said Peter, turning and trotting back toward the first archway, getting an earful of mocking bel s from Tink.

I thought she was going to have to draw you a picture.

“Be quiet,” he said.

He trotted back through the first archway. He stopped and looked around, his eyes sweeping the causeway and the street beyond. Seeing nobody, he turned and launched himself upward and toward the looming wal of the Tower compound. In moments he vanished, shrouded by fog and darkness.

A moment later, a man in dark clothing emerged from the moat ditch. He’d been keeping low, hidden from view, yet with a good look at the causeway. The man stared for a moment in the direction toward which Peter’s flying form had just disappeared. Then, keeping to the shadows, he crept away from the old moat and began running toward the river.