The Charmed Children of Rookskill Castle (20 page)

Spies and Magic

“A
MELIE, WHAT DO
you mean, she's gone?” Kat thought she might be sick.

Amelie's eyes were bright with tears. “When I woke up. Isabelle's gone and I can't find her.”

“Like Colin,” Rob said.

The four of them stood grim-faced in the hallway in the dim morning light. It was snowing, and the wind rattled the panes.

“Right,” said Peter. “That's it, then. We've got to get out of here. I say we head for the train station at once.”

Kat nodded, grateful. But then, “But what about the spy? I've almost cracked the code.”

“The spy's the least of our worries,” said Peter. “How does
a girl like Isabelle disappear from a locked room in the middle of the night when Amelie is right there with her? First Jorry, then Colin, and now Isabelle. And we've seen what happened to Jorry.”

“Downstairs, now,” said Marie. Once again she appeared out of nowhere. “Breakfast.” She folded her arms and waited until they began to move.

Peter whispered to Kat, “We're getting out of here.”

Kat nodded, but she chewed her lip. She wanted to finish the algorithm. She wanted to catch the spy. For her country. Father would want her to make a difference, just as he was trying to make a difference.

If the children weren't uneasy enough, breakfast made them even queasier.

Neither Mr. MacLarren nor Miss Gumble was present.

The Lady wore a gown utterly inappropriate for daytime that made it look like she'd stepped from a medieval tapestry.

Mr. Storm, too, was changed, but not in his manner of dress. He was skinnier and darker-haired than ever, with caved-in cheeks and pallid skin.

They ate in silence. Kat kept stealing looks at Mr. Storm. One moment she could see the old Mr. Storm, and then he'd turn his head or take a bite, and it was as if he'd been replaced by someone entirely different.

And the Lady was dressed to the nines in that odd gown
and wearing a great, gem-studded belt that held her sporran.

The places where the others had sat—Colin and Isabelle and Jorry—hadn't been set. After a few minutes, that was enough for Kat to lay aside her fork and say without permission, “My Lady, what happened to Isabelle?”

“Isabelle?” The Lady's voice sounded like metal grinding on metal, and Kat flinched.

“Yes, my Lady. She wasn't in her room when we woke up.”

“Yes, I know.” The Lady heaved a melodramatic sigh. “The doctor took her away. Fortunately, it seems that she and Jorry will now be fine. They are in good hands.”

“So she was taken ill? In the middle of the night?”

The Lady sighed again, with more impatience. “We caught her out sleepwalking, with a raging fever. Marie must have forgotten their lock.”

Ame murmured something Kat couldn't hear.

Kat pressed on. “If that's so, then what about the rest of us? Shouldn't we see the doctor? Be checked for whatever it is?”

Mr. Storm sat up, suddenly interested. “The doctor? There's a doctor about?”

“My dear Mr. Storm,” said the Lady, “you needn't concern yourself.”

“But I do,” he mumbled. “I should like to have a word with a doctor. I'm not feeling myself lately.”

“Is it contagious?” Kat asked.

“What?” The Lady peered at her with sharp eyes.

“Is whatever they have—Jorry and Isabelle—is it contagious?”

“Not any longer,” she said. “They've been taken off.”

“And where are Mr. MacLarren and Miss Gumble?”

“They are indisposed. Perhaps a touch of this illness.” She smiled, a stiff smile that showed too many teeth. “You must stop worrying, Katherine. I can see that you are a born worrier. That's why your parents wanted you out of London, I'm sure of it. I imagine all those bombs were making you quite anxious.” She narrowed her eyes. “Speaking of parents, I'm terribly sorry about your father. Perhaps by some miracle, he'll survive.”

Kat's blood turned icy.

“I'm afraid the Nazis will not treat him kindly.”

“Nazis?” said Storm, rising out of his chair. “Where? I must speak with—”

The Lady put her hand on Mr. Storm's arm. “I'm sure you have some lessons for the children today, don't you, Mr. Storm? You will take the morning classes, since our other instructors are absent.”

Yes, where were MacLarren and Gumble?

Mr. Storm looked confused, but then said, “Why, yes. Good idea. Lessons. Hunting lessons. Maybe we should all go hunting. Hunting is an English sport, is it not? We could hunt Englishmen.” He began to laugh, that dreadful laugh that Kat
found so unnerving. And then, abruptly, he stopped.

Silence filled the hall. Then Peter said, “Excuse me? Did you say—”

The Lady leaned over, interrupting Peter. “I think you meant they should all hunt English history. In the classroom.”

“Oh. Yes. History. Classroom. Yes.” Then he said something else, even more cryptic: “But what about my mission?”

“Mission?” the Lady said through her teeth.

“Yes. Mission. Artifacts. Scope out. Search for. Send back . . .” He sat up, abruptly looking very Mr. Storm-like. “I had one, for a time.” He glared at Kat. “I'll get it back. Meanwhile, I must get to my short-wave.”

“His short-wave!” said Rob with a hiss. Peter, Kat, and Rob exchanged a look.

“The children need their lessons, Mr. Storm.” The Lady raised her voice. “Time for you to help these children forget their troubles.”

“Time for me to report in,” Storm said, looking even more like himself.

But only for an instant. He was shifting back and forth between his former self and his more recent self. Kat thought she was dreaming until she heard Peter whisper, “Do you see that?”

“I see it,” said Rob loudly. “I see this is all unnatural and . . . and . . . un-English.”

“Mr. Storm,” the Lady repeated. “It's time for lessons.” Her
voice pricked the air like a thousand needles. The Lady's hand tightened on Storm's arm until her knuckles stood up, sharp, her eyes fixed on Kat.

Mr. Storm shook his head, once again not looking himself. “Lessons. Yes.”

Kat sat still as the others trailed out. Ame was last, pausing before Kat. Ame said, “Father's in danger, isn't he?”

“Yes, I'm afraid so.”

“But he'll be all right. Won't he, Kat?”

Kat hugged her sister hard. “I'm sure he will,” she said, like a prayer, over Amelie's shoulder.

Kat remained behind alone, staring into space. There was no helping her brother and sister and the other children if she couldn't keep calm.

Mr. Storm wasn't any more Welsh than the rest of them. Mr. Storm was a bloody German spy. The Lady was harboring him, even if she was making a bodge job of it. And he was ridiculous if he was a spy; why, there was no way the Nazis would win this war with spies like Storm. That was Kat's only comfort.

She waited a long time before leaving the dining hall. Then she went into the kitchen to find Cook. Maybe Cook would know where MacLarren and Gumble had gone.

Cook was not there. The food was there, the kitchen had been used, but there was no sign of Cook.

Kat and Peter whispered to each other as Storm prepared his lesson.

With this confession of Storm's, Peter agreed they should stay in the castle long enough to find the other teachers or Cook or Hugo—some adult who could turn Storm in to the authorities.

“Besides,” Kat said, “we can't just abandon Isabelle and Jorry and Colin. We need to find out where they are and what's happening to them.”

Peter nodded. “You're right. But I have to admit I'm scared.”

So am I,
Kat thought.

During the entire rambling history lesson—which seemed to drag on and go nowhere—Kat worked on the algorithm. Storm certainly wouldn't have noticed her not paying attention, even if he wasn't out of his mind.

The others couldn't take their eyes off of Storm, and occasionally Kat, too, watched him, fascinated. It was like watching water: he shifted and changed with each step he took, from light hair to dark, from heavyset to thin, from a bulldozer build to hunched shoulders, morphing in and out and back again. She shook her head and went back to work.

And suddenly, the solution. Brilliant, simple, clear. Kat let out an involuntary shout. Everyone turned in her direction.

“Miss Bateson?” Storm asked, and licked his lips. “You, ah, have something . . .”

“No, sir, sorry, sir.” She covered the math with a blank sheet of paper.

He strode to her desk, looking more like the old Storm, and without hesitation plucked the papers off her desk before she could react.

He stared at the algorithm for a long time, flickering back and forth between old Storm and new Storm. Kat's heart pounded in her ears. What if he deciphered what she was doing? “There's something familiar . . .” he began. “I've seen this . . .”

“It's just a math problem I've been working out,” Kat said, keeping her voice steady. “Homework.” What if he should take it away?

He began to walk back toward his desk, and it was all she could do not to rip the pages out of his hand.

“I think . . .” He shook his head, and then he was the new Storm, thin, dark, and bent. “Keep your math work to math class, Miss Bateson,” he said, and he turned and dropped the papers back onto her desk.

Kat released her breath.

Directly after the class was done, Kat said to Peter, “Stay with the other two, won't you? I've got to try to find MacLarren. I've got the solution. We can use the encryption machine.”

Peter nodded, giving her a quick smile.

“Promise me you won't leave them alone,” Kat said. “Ame and Rob.”

“Cross my heart.”

Kat raced to the library. MacLarren wasn't there.

She snuck through the halls to the hidden room in the stairwell, but he wasn't there, either.

Nor was he in the small parlor on the first floor, nor in the dining hall.

She even ventured to stand behind a column and peer as far down the second-story hallway as she dared, fearing the Lady, or worse, and having no idea which rooms belonged to Gumble and MacLarren. Kat's only hope was to find Cook and ask for her guidance.

Kat went back to the ground floor, tiptoeing from dark corner to dark corner. She was in one of the narrow passages leading to the kitchen when she heard muffled voices.

She slipped into the shadows and waited, listening.

It wasn't the Lady; it wasn't Storm. It sounded like Miss Gumble and someone whose voice came from a distance.

Kat edged down the darkened passage toward the voices.

“Drat.” It was Gumble. “Let me try this one, an oldie but a goodie.
Open sesame
.
” Silence. “No good. How about,
The art of healing
starts with an open mind
.”

Kat heard mumbling from somewhere. Was it MacLarren? What in the world was Gumble doing?

“Wait,” said Gumble. “Something from Miss Emily Dickinson.
Not knowing
when the dawn will come I open every door.
”

Kat heard a
snap
, and then, “Well, finally!” It was MacLarren. “I thought ye'd never get me out of there.”

“Whatever is going on here, the work is of the highest level,” said Gumble. “Extraordinary. I've never seen anything quite like it.”

“I wouldn't have believed it meself, if it hadn't happened to me,” said MacLarren.

“What did happen to you?” asked Kat as she stepped from the shadows.

“Good Lord, lassie! I nearly jumped out of my skin!”

Gumble and MacLarren stared at Kat as if they would bore holes right through her.

“Just how much did you hear, Miss Bateson?” Gumble asked.

“Enough to know what it sounded like,” she answered.

“Which is?” Gumble asked.