The Blackhope Enigma (12 page)

I
t was the sound of groaning that woke Sunni. As she looked around, her spirits sank. She was at the foot of an ancient tree trunk, one of several that grew into the cavern, with roots covering the walls like veins. She tried to stretch, but the vines that were still wound around her arms and ankles would not let her. Her skin was red and raw beneath them.

Across from her, similarly restrained, was Dean, his head lolling onto his chest. He groaned again in his sleep.

The previous night, after Marin had secured them, he had sat down upon an intricately shaped chair and watched them, without a word, until the blue lantern light died and he became a fading specter in the gloom.

Now enough daylight filtered in through the lattice of brambles and vines covering the entrance for Sunni to see their prison. Around the dirt walls, branches formed structures almost like benches. In one alcove, Sunni noticed a sort of desk supported by a thick wooden trunk. On it were a few sheets of paper and scattered charcoal sticks, a bottle of ink, and some quill pens. A number of drawings had been hung above the desk, speared on a blackthorn branch.

Sunni’s eyes moved along the wall. The thronelike chair where Marin had been sitting was empty.

Next to it was a screen of twisted vines from which came a rustling sound. Someone was moving. Sunni quickly closed her eyes and feigned sleep. She heard a thump and then something that sounded like the opening and closing of a zipper. Opening her eyes to the tiniest slits, she could see Marin kneeling on the floor, moving the zipper on her backpack back and forth in wonder. At last he unzipped the bag and started pulling out her belongings, placing each one on the ground after he had examined it.

Sunni watched Marin empty her wallet, staring at her plastic library card and money, bill by bill, coin by coin. He turned her phone over and over, running his fingers across its shiny surface before putting it down. Part of her was outraged that he was touching her things. But an unfamiliar, shivery part deep inside her was entranced.
He’s looking at my stuff, and it feels like he’s looking at me
.

Marin studied everything, even her sparkly comb and a pot of pink lip gloss. He seemed to delight in her pencil case, laying out all the pencils and erasers, and turning the sharpener first one way and then the other in his hand.

He leafed through her sketchbook, pausing on one or two pages. But it was the second book in Sunni’s bag that made him gasp. He scrambled to his feet and turned it over to look at the binding, feeling its shiny jacket. When he sat down on his chair and carefully opened the book, Sunni caught a glimpse of its cover. She had completely forgotten she had it with her: Mr. Bell’s book,
The Mysterious World of Fausto Corvo
.

Marin spread the book open on his lap, transfixed by the photos of Corvo’s paintings.

Suddenly Dean stirred and swore as he tried to stretch out his legs. Marin snapped the book shut.

“Water,” croaked Dean.

“My questions first, then water,” Marin answered, getting up and walking over to Sunni.

“Who are you?” Sunni recoiled as he neared her.

“I have already told you. I am Marin. Now it is for you to tell me who you are.”

“I am Sunni Forrest, and he’s my stepbrother, Dean.”

Marin thrust Mr. Bell’s book in her face. “And how did you conjure this book?”

“Conjure? You m-mean, how did I make it? I didn’t make it. A printer did.”

“How could a printer put these paintings in a book?” Marin yanked the book open.

“They are just printed photos — um, copies, of the artwork.” Sunni racked her brain for the right way to explain it. “The caption on that one says the original painting is hanging in a house in Paris.”

“Impossible. Lies, as I would expect from a spy.”

“We are not spies,” Sunni insisted. “We came here by mistake.”

“If your presence was truly a mistake, you would not have a book of il Corvo’s work with you.”

“I only have that book because I wanted to learn more about his art. It’s borrowed from my teacher.”

“How can this painting be in the book and in Paris at the same time?”

“In my century special machines can make exact copies of paintings. And then the copies are printed smaller into books like this one.”

“So you say. But I suspect sorcery.” Marin opened the book again and scratched his thumbnail along the surface of the paper, as if he might somehow slice a membrane holding the painting inside the page. “This painting cannot be in Paris. It was made for a duke in Rome.”

“How do you know that?”

“It is none of your business.”

“Maybe someone bought it from the duke and took it to Paris,” Sunni said, beginning to realize there was no point trying to explain anything to him.

“Someone?” Marin burst out. “You mean your master, Soranzo, or some other dog?”

Soranzo
. The name hit Sunni like a blast of icy air.

“We don’t have any master!” Dean shouted. “We’re just children and we’re here by mistake. How many times do we have to tell you?”

Marin spun around. “Children can be excellent spies. You are not the first and you will not be the last enticed into stealing secrets.”

Sunni’s voice was shrill. “Well, we aren’t, and we don’t know anyone named Soranzo. We’re from the twenty-first century, and we’re not trying to steal anything. We’re just trying to go home. If you hadn’t captured us, we would have been on our way by now with Hugo Fox-Farratt.”

“Fox-Farratt,” sneered Marin. “He is another who pries into secrets that are none of his affair. Perhaps you came here to do his bidding, then.”

“No way,” said Dean. “We don’t even want to be in this stupid painting!”

Sunni held her head high. “If you let us go, we’ll find the way out and leave.”

“Impossible. I cannot release you. I do not know what you are capable of.” Marin laid Mr. Bell’s book open on the ground at Sunni’s feet. He walked over to the far wall and unhooked a pouch hanging from a branch. He gestured to Dean, then poured a stream of water into the boy’s mouth. Then he went over to Sunni and placed the animal skin to her lips. As she swallowed, trying to gulp down as much as she could, Marin fixed her eyes with his, as if he were trying to see inside her head. Despite her fear, she felt a flutter inside.

“You came into the painting to steal knowledge,” Marin said. “Or perhaps to take something else — for yourselves or for your master.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Dean shouted. “I said I don’t care how this stupid place got made and I want to go home.”

“Very well,” said Marin. He hung the skin back up and dragged his chair in front of Dean. From his worktable he selected a piece of charcoal and a creamy parchment. He picked up Sunni’s sketchbook again, settled himself in the chair, and rested the parchment on top of the sketchbook in his lap. Cocking his head to one side, he gazed at the grumpy boy through half-closed eyelids and mumbled a few unintelligible words.

“What are you doing?” Dean asked, looking anxious.

Ignoring him, Marin drew an oval shape on the parchment with the charcoal. Then he sketched in two eyes and the bridge of a nose with a horizontal line for a mouth.

Sunni watched over his shoulder, with an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach as her stepbrother’s portrait took shape.

As Marin leaned on her precious sketchbook, Sunni squeezed her eyes against tears. Inside was her favorite sketch, the one she had drawn of her dad dozing on the couch. The beach and sailing boats from their last family holiday in Cornwall were on another page. Farther along, there were caricatures of her friends Vic and Mandy, with silly thought bubbles over their heads. Only two days earlier, she had been in school with them, giggling at the cartoons. Now she fought hard not to cry at the predicament they were in.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Dean screwed his face up and stuck his tongue out at Marin. “I’m not posing unless you give us some food.”

“Do not move!” Marin instructed, but Dean froze his face in a hideous expression. “This boy is extremely vexing, but he cannot keep his face like that for long. So I will show you something while I wait for him to tire.”

He lay down the sketchbook, parchment, and charcoal, then took two drawings from the wall and held them in front of Sunni.

“Look closely.”

The first was of a man with a droopy mustache and a pointy hat. He had a white ruffle around his neck like the one Sir Innes wore in the painting. Then something happened. The eyes in the drawing moved, widening and then closing slightly. The head turned a little to the side.

Dumbfounded, Sunni studied the other drawing. This man wore a flatter cap and had a scar on his cheek. As she watched in horror, the man’s mouth opened into a scream. Marin paraded the sketches in front of Dean, who gasped when he saw the faces move.

“Both were spies,” Marin said, skewering the sketches again on the thorns.

“H-how can they move?” Dean asked.

“They can still move once I have caught them inside the page,” answered Marin. “Though it cannot be comfortable to live in such a small, flat space.” He sat down on the chair once more and took up his sketch of Dean.

“Inside,” Sunni repeated, appalled. “You mean those men are trapped
inside
your portraits?”

“Yes. It is most convenient to be able to imprison an enemy in a drawing.” Marin drew a few strokes of hair on the sketch of Dean. “Quite portable. My bag is full of them.” He nudged a leather satchel slung over the chair so it started to swing back and forth.

“Wait a minute!” blurted Dean. “Is that why you’re drawing me? To trap me, too?”

“It is a good solution. There are too many spies here already.”

“You can’t do that!” White-faced, Dean struggled against his restraints. “We don’t know anything, and we are
not
spies!”

“That remains to be seen. I have no doubt that you know very little, but I am not so sure about her.” Marin blew charcoal dust off the paper. “So, I will make your portrait first in the hope that she will reveal what she knows before I finish. Otherwise you will vanish into this paper.”

Marin smudged a line with his fingertip, and Dean shrank back, terrified.

“I don’t know anything either!” Sunni shrieked. “But how can I prove it to you?”

“How to prove you are not a minion of Soranzo or Fox-Farratt? I will ponder that.”

“You have to give us a chance. It’s not fair to trap Dean in a drawing because
I
don’t know the answer to your questions.”

“Life is far from fair,” said Marin. “This I know only too well. But I value justice nonetheless. If you will not save the boy by telling me what you know, I will do the fair thing and draw you into a paper trap as well.”

Angus knocked on the palace doors and winked at Blaise.

After a moment a man’s voice asked from behind the door, “Who is it?”

“Good day to you. We are searching for our friends. Sunni Forrest and . . .” He trailed off, appealing silently to Blaise for help.

“Dean,” Blaise called. “I’m Blaise Doran and this is Angus Bellini.”

The door slid open. A man and a boy stood behind it. The man’s face showed exhaustion, as if he had not slept for days. “Good heavens,” he said without enthusiasm. “More newcomers.”

“More?” repeated Angus. “And you are?”

“Hugo Fox-Farratt,” the man answered wearily. “This is Inko.”

He gave Angus and Blaise a searching look before he finally stepped aside to let them in.

“We’re looking for two children, a boy and a girl named Sunni and Dean,” Angus repeated. “Have they been here?”

Inko looked uncomfortable, shifting his weight from side to side.

“They were here, but they left during the night.”

“Where did they go?” Blaise was crestfallen.

“I do not know,” said Hugo, his face grave. “I gave them hospitality and showed them around. I thought they would stay, but they must have been determined to leave.” He ushered them into the Sun Chamber. “Do sit down. Inko, food and drink, please.”

Blaise slid onto a stool and looked around the room. He caught sight of the sun mural and noticed that Angus was looking at it, too.

“Interesting mural,” said Angus. “I believe that’s Sol, the sun, with some of his animals. What are all the little paintings above him?”

“I have no idea,” Hugo said brusquely.

Angus took a moment before speaking again. “So, we find ourselves caught up in the strangest of events. How did you come to be here, Fox-Farratt? I don’t think Fausto Corvo drew you into the painting, judging by your clothes.”

The man sighed deeply before answering. “I came through the Blackhope labyrinth. As you must have, I imagine, a century and a half after me.”

“Yes, yes, but
why
did you come?” asked Angus, seemingly unfazed by the fact that Fox-Farratt had just admitted to being somewhere in the region of two hundred years old. Blaise was open-mouthed.

“I cannot see how my history has anything to do with
your
journey,” said Hugo, thin-lipped. There was silence.

Blaise shifted awkwardly on the low stool. “Have you looked for Sunni and Dean at all?”