Stealing Magic (2 page)

“Let me sleep.” Ruthie’s voice was muffled by her pillow.

“Sweetie, it’s already ten-thirty!” her mother answered. “It’s not healthy to sleep so late.”

“I need my sleep,” Ruthie grumbled back.

“I hope you’re not coming down with something,” her mother said worriedly. “Let’s see how you feel after you’ve had some breakfast.” She went back to the kitchen.

The tinny, irritating sound of Claire’s cell phone punctured what was left of the morning quiet. Claire ran into
the room and lunged for her phone. She said hello in a dreamy voice.

“Claire, can’t you talk somewhere else?” Ruthie groused.

“No, and you should get up anyway.”

Ruthie realized it was no use. The day had begun.

She shuffled into the bathroom and closed the door. She couldn’t hear her sister’s weirdly syrupy voice from in there. It was strange to think how her practical, serious sister turned into another person when she talked to her new boyfriend. Whom did it remind her of? She thought about how Sophie, the French girl they’d met outside a room from eighteenth-century France, had batted her eyelashes—at Jack, of all people! That picture in her head helped clear the sleep fog from her brain, and she smiled at herself in the mirror. The unease and anxiety she had felt in the middle of the night lessened a bit, but she couldn’t rid herself of it completely. She brushed her teeth and ran a comb through her hair.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.” Her dad kissed the top of her head as he passed her at the kitchen table. The smell of butter browning filled the air. They didn’t always have spectacular food at her house, not like at Jack’s, where his mother treated cooking like another form of art. But sometimes, on weekends or special occasions, her parents went all out. Ruthie’s dad’s breakfast specialty was pancakes. Her mother’s was crepes, and this morning she was cooking. She stood at the stove, still in her pajamas and bathrobe, expertly flipping the golden disks. A stack
of them already sat on a plate in the middle of the table. Ruthie took one, spooned some strawberry jam onto the delicate, lacy circle, rolled it up, and took her first bite. It melted in her mouth.

She had just taken another bite when her father said, “You must have been exhausted from last night—you never sleep this late.”

“I was up in the middle of the night,” Ruthie answered out of her crepe-filled mouth.

“Did you have a bad dream?” her mom asked.

Ruthie chewed the last bite and then swallowed. “Yeah, it was weird. It was something about being stuck in some kind of dark maze.” As she said that, it dawned on her: it wasn’t a maze at all. It was Jack’s bento box—the shiny black lacquer box from Japan with several compartments, which he’d used as a lunchbox and which they’d left, shrunk, in the Japanese room! But she couldn’t tell her parents that. “I felt kinda trapped.”

Her description of the dream was interrupted as Claire’s laugh rang through the apartment, all the way from behind the closed bedroom door. Ruthie and her dad gave each other the same knowing look.

“It appears Gabe is Mr. Charming,” her dad said.

“He seems nice enough,” her mom responded.

“I get kicked out of my room when he calls. Which is all the time now,” Ruthie complained.

“That doesn’t seem like fair treatment for a local celebrity, does it?” Her father handed her the morning
newspaper. “Look—the party was covered, complete with color pictures.”

Sure enough, on the first page of the Arts section, last night’s opening of Mr. Bell’s exhibition rated four photos, including one of Ruthie, Jack, Mrs. McVittie and Edmund Bell, all beaming.

“I can’t believe it’s such a big deal,” Ruthie marveled. As she filled, folded, and ate two more crepes, she inspected her image on the page: not the greatest photo of her, but not too bad. Mrs. McVittie stood next to her at almost the same height, clutching her small beaded handbag, which glistened in the photographer’s flash. In her morning grogginess, Ruthie had forgotten that her new treasure lay waiting in her top drawer. She shoved another crepe into her mouth in a hurry.

“It was so generous of Minerva to give you that beautiful handbag, Ruthie,” her mom said. “Where did you put it?”

“My top drawer.”

“I’ll get you some tissue paper to wrap it in,” her mother said. But Ruthie’s mind had already shifted to a mix of thoughts, her bad dream foremost among them. Looking at the newspaper photos triggered the unease that simmered just under the surface of what should have been a really good mood. She’d better call Jack.

“Thanks for the crepes, Mom.” Ruthie pushed back from the table.

In her room, Ruthie dug in her backpack to find her phone. With her sister gabbing on hers and hogging their
room, Ruthie decided to claim the bathroom. She could call Jack from there; she didn’t want anyone to hear the conversation.

Ruthie pushed the speed-dial number for Jack. It rang and rang. Finally, on the ninth ring, he picked up.

“Hey, Ruthie,” he said in a sleepy but cheery voice. “What time is it?”

“It’s just after eleven.”

“Cool. That was a great party last night.”

“Yeah—we’re in the paper this morning.”

“Very cool. I’ll see if we got it yet.”

“Wait, Jack. Before you do that, I have to tell you something. I had a nightmare last night. I think it was about your bento box.”

“How could the bento box be scary?”

“Easy—if it’s giant-sized, and you’re trapped in it, which I was. And then all these pieces of paper with your handwriting on them were scattered everywhere, only I couldn’t read most of them except one part that said
Get me out
.”

Jack was silent on the other end.

“What do you think it means?” she finally prompted him.

“I don’t know,” he said, which Ruthie thought was an unsatisfactory response. “What do
you
think it means?”

“I think I’m worried that we left it in the Japanese room. Maybe it was too risky. Do you think leaving it there with the letter in it was a bad idea?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it that way. But now that you mention it, yeah, I guess it could cause trouble, like if the wrong kind of person finds it.”

“When we left it, I was only thinking that people like us might find it—you know, other kids. But anyone could find it.”

The line was quiet for a few seconds as the two of them came to terms with this new dilemma. Jack broke the silence. “What are you doing today?”

“I don’t know yet,” Ruthie answered.

“I’m coming over,” Jack said.

When Ruthie, now dressed, reentered the kitchen, her dad was putting on his coat.

“I invited Mrs. McVittie over for brunch. I’m going to get her and walk her here. Want to keep me company?” he asked.

“I’ll wait here—Jack’s coming over.”

“And Gabe is coming to get me,” Claire said. She was looking at the paper, drinking coffee. She had just started that habit. Ruthie thought it seemed strange, as if her sister was trying to look older. “Hey, did anyone see this article?” Claire asked. “There’s an art thief on the loose!”

Claire read aloud from the first paragraph.

“I wonder if Mrs. McVittie knows about this,” Ruthie said.

“All I know is we’ll need more crepes!” Ruthie’s mom said. “Here, Ruthie, you flip a few while I get dressed.”

Her mother made flipping the crepes look easy! She had taught Ruthie how to do it, but Ruthie wasn’t so good at it yet. She stood there watching the light yellow batter turn golden around the edges while little air holes formed and popped. Timing was everything. If she waited too long, the crepe would burn; if she flipped too soon, it would stick to the pan and she’d end up with a crumpled mess. She gave the pan a little shake, and the crepe slid a bit—time to flip. She held the pan with two hands and gave a slight outward and upward thrust. Like an Olympic gymnast, the disk lifted, turned over and landed perfectly in the pan.

“Not bad,” Claire said from behind her coffee cup.

“Thank you, thank you.” Ruthie took a bow. As soon as a crepe was done she slid it onto the plate. She was happy to have this task; she could give it all of her attention while she waited for Jack to arrive. She successfully made a dozen more crepes.

When the door buzzer sounded, the two sisters ran to
push the intercom button, saying hello in unison. Gabe’s voice answered back.

Ruthie groaned.

“What are you so antsy about?” Claire asked, buzzing him in. “Don’t be annoying while Gabe’s here, okay?”

Ruthie didn’t answer as she went back to the stove. She had more important things on her mind, like what was taking Jack so long. She drizzled the last of the batter into the crepe pan and watched the color slowly darken, not noticing her own tapping foot.

“Hey, Ruthie.” Gabe walked into the kitchen. “How’s it going?”

“Fine.” Ruthie moved the pan out and up in perfect form—almost. This time she tossed the crepe too high, making it turn not once but one and a half times, and it landed folded over on itself in the pan. Her cheeks burned as she turned to the sink. Fortunately, her mom came into the kitchen at that moment.

“Good morning, Gabe,” she said.

“Hi, Mrs. Stewart,” he answered.

“Good job, Ruthie! Looks like I can retire as head crepe maker around here,” she said, admiring the full stack of fresh crepes on the table, not noticing the one going into the garbage disposal at that very moment.

Finally the door buzzer sounded again, and Ruthie bounded for it. She slammed the intercom button.

“Hey, it’s me.” Jack’s voice came through the speaker.
Ruthie buzzed him in before he finished the short sentence.

“What took you so long?” Ruthie demanded when he appeared in the doorway.

“I just got up, remember?” Jack looked at her as though she were slightly crazed and then noticed the telltale smell of fresh crepes. He walked right into the kitchen smiling at everyone.

“Good morning, Jack,” Ruthie’s mom said. “Pull up a chair.”

“Wait. First come see what Mrs. McVittie gave me last night.” Ruthie yanked him out of the kitchen and into her room. She closed the door.

“I’m really freaked out,” Ruthie began. “It’s like my dream was some kind of premonition. I feel like it was telling me to do something important, but I don’t know what!”

Jack remained calm, as usual. “What did you want to show me?”

“Oh, right.” She turned to her bureau and opened the top drawer. There among the socks lay the beaded handbag, gleaming brightly in contrast with the mostly dull socks.

“Isn’t it beautiful?”

Jack was underwhelmed. “It’s a purse,” he said flatly.

“It’s an antique. Mrs. McVittie said it belonged to her sister. Last night when we were walking home, I thought I felt it warming up in my hand.”

Jack took the small bag in his own hands for a closer inspection. “Did it only happen once?” He handed it back to her. “What about now? Do you feel anything?”

She held it carefully and tried to sense the temperature. Was it warming in her hand? Was it glowing too brightly in the indoor lighting of her bedroom? She shook her head. “No, nothing. I probably imagined it.”

From out in the apartment the two of them heard everyone welcoming Mrs. McVittie.

“Let’s go to the museum today,” Jack suggested. “At least to take a look at the Japanese room and my bento box.”

“Okay,” Ruthie agreed. “But we’d better go out and say hello.”

Ruthie gave Mrs. McVittie a hug as soon as she saw her. The kitchen was too small for all the people who squeezed around the table. Ordinarily Ruthie would have enjoyed a Sunday morning like this, but now she just wanted to rush to the museum and check on the bento box!

The crepes had been devoured and the newspaper had been passed around the table several times before Jack saw the article about the art thief. “Mrs. McVittie, have you read this?” he asked. “It says some pretty important art collections have been hit.”

“Yes, I’ve read the reports. Fascinating.”

“Why fascinating?” Ruthie asked.

“Because art thieves are not your run-of-the-mill burglars,” she answered.

“What do you mean?” Ruthie asked.

“They’re very particular about what they steal. Everyone knows what a television costs, but how about a Ming Dynasty vase? And not everyone knows how to distinguish a real one from a fake. Art thieves either have expertise or are working for someone who does.”

“Are you worried?” Jack inquired.

“No. It’s only the high-profile collectors who’ve been burgled. People know me as a book dealer, and my shop has a security system. Don’t worry about me!”

As brunch came to an end, Ruthie popped up out of her chair. “Jack and I are going to the Art Institute and then to his house.”

“You know, I still haven’t seen the Thorne Rooms,” Ruthie’s mom said. “Remember, Ruthie, you promised to go through them with me one day. How about today?”

Ruthie, horrified by the idea, tried to keep a poker face. She was casting about for some excuse when Mrs. McVittie spoke up. “I’d like to join you as well, if I may. Dan, what about you? Why don’t you come along?”

“I’ve got to grade papers,” Mr. Stewart said with a shake of his head. “But you all go without me. You’ll have fun!”

That was not the word Ruthie would have chosen.