“But it’s fun,” she said, turning the box at different angles to reflect a sunbeam.
“Look, I don’t know how you got that open,” he said, “but truth is, it could be dangerous. Very dangerous. Please, Kaylie, give it to me now.”
“Oh, fine,” she said, wriggling out of the chair. She gave the puzzle box to Archer.
Kaylie had managed to open the Karakurian Chamber, but it was so intricate that Archer wasn’t certain what he was looking at. Three of the sides had unfolded into platforms, each with multiple gears and components.
“What did you mean, Kaylie?” Archer asked. “What did you mean when you said . . . ‘beyond the obvious’?”
His sister shrugged. “It’s a toy.”
Her hand moved to some lever on the side of it that Archer hadn’t even seen.
There came the tinkling of bells, a very pretty birdsong trill, and one of the platforms began to transform. The skeletons frozen in their dance came to life, each one raised on a tiny wire and spinning round and round. Then, one after the other, each skeleton leaped up and disappeared as though falling into a hole in the platform.
Archer leaned forward as Kaylie reached out and depressed another latch. The ship with nine sails emerged from another platform. It was all metal, that was certain, but the sails undulated and shimmered as if filling with trade winds for a voyage.
“This is incredible,” Archer whispered.
“See, I told ya it’s a toy,” Kaylie said. “Where’d you get it?”
“Wait,” Archer said. “Wait. Can you close it?”
Kaylie’s fingers danced over and around it like flesh-tone spiders. There were more chimes and tinkling sounds, pieces of silver slid this way and that, and things collapsed into each other. In a few moments, the Karakurian Chamber returned to its initial form.
“Kaylie,” he said, “this is a very rare artifact, and . . . it doesn’t really belong to me. And like I said, it might even be dangerous.”
“Don’t be silly,” Kaylie said. “What could be dangerous about it?”
Archer shook his head. “Please, Kaylie, just promise me that you won’t touch it again.”
Kaylie hesitated a moment, but nodded. She tilted her head sideways. “Oops! Time for me to go to school. Bye, Archer! Enjoy playing hooky!”
The violent cyclone gave Kara Windchil a splendid view of the Dreamscape. It was constantly changing: alpine one minute, desert the next, and so on in every imaginable environment. That was one thing Kara hadn’t quite figured out. How can you protect your creations when there are billions of other people dreaming their stupid random nonsense all night long?
This was one of a few important remaining questions. Questions to be dealt with later. For Kara, for now, it was time to play. To play like she had never played before. Once the vortex deposited her safely upon the Dreamscape surface, Kara did a cartwheel. Then she flew.
There was nothing on earth like flying. Watching the multicolored surface fall away, soaring ever higher, and gliding among the mountaintops or even up to the great old clock. Kara couldn’t help but giggle as she dropped to stand upon the great tower. Her time was all before her. Nearly eleven full hours. She’d never felt so happy or so free before. She yelled, “Now—at last—I finally know the rules!”
Kara stood at the very edge of the clock tower and raised her arms. The boiling clouds above, the massive churning banks that spawned so many tornadic vortices, responded to Kara’s call. And so did the lightning. Great sparking blades of electrical light shot down to the Dreamscape. “Yes!” Kara exulted. “Exactly like that!”
Kara closed her eyes and leaped from the tower. Not to fly. She plummeted instead, soaked in the acceleration. Then, she altered the Dreamscape into an open sea beneath her. Eyes wide open now, she pulled up and set herself to running across the water. The whitecaps felt cool on her toes, and the spray chilled her face, but she did not sink. She ran and grinned, the rain pelting her face, pelting every inch of her. Lightning flashed and thunder clapped overhead, and Kara laughed aloud. “I know the rules!” she cried out and punctuated her words with another fierce lightning strike.
Something came to her in that moment, something her parents had drilled into her ever since she was little: rules equal freedom. To enter a Lucid Dream without knowing the rules meant constant fear and worry. It meant never knowing what you could and could not do. It meant a complete diminishing of the entire experience. And Kara Windchil would not have anyone or anything diminish her experience.
“Live now, live fast!” she shouted at the waves even as she leaped through them.
Kara leaped off the surface of her sea and flew once more, this time taking a more direct path. She blasted through mist and low-hanging clouds, speeding north where she wanted . . . snow. Yes, I would like snow.
The sky became a mantle of slate gray, and the air filled with ten trillion dizzying eddies of wind-whirled snowflakes.
Whoa, Kara thought, blinking sleep and snow from her eyes, that took a lot out of me. But Kara knew her destination was coming up soon. She navigated the mountains north and west of Shadowkeep, looking for the white fortress built high upon a cleft. The stronghold was a massive barrel-shaped vault hewn from the natural stone but was often hard to spot due to its pale color and the frequent snowfall. Yet Kara found it with little trouble. As if drawn to it magnetically, she sailed in one of the long rectangular windows and seated herself at the table within.
“This will never work,” she said. The sole reply was her echo. Kara pounded a fist on the table. A crackling fire roared to life within the corner hearth. Torches sprang up even as tapestries rolled down the chamber walls. Music chimed throughout the hall, music from the strangest ensemble ever formed: lute, harpsichord, electric guitar, bass, synthesizers, brass, and percussion—all played by multicolored monkeys. The table, now overlaid with a brilliant white silk cloth, adorned itself with a feast fit for a king, queen, and quite a few other members of a court. Kara sighed contentedly and sampled a little bit of everything: roast duck, a dollop of braised potatoes, a piece of chocolate layer cake that was more than a foot tall.
“Yummm.” It had been an exhausting effort to create it all, but it had been worth it. Kara entertained herself for hours, always carefully noting the exact time. She sat by the fire and sipped from a pewter goblet. It was quiet contentment at its finest.
Not long after, Kara felt she had regained all of her strength, that is to say, her mental energy. She was considering another swift flight across the Dreamscape when the great clock began its warning. Only it did not ring out eight bells as it was supposed to. It rang out six.
Sixtolls.
When Kara stood up from the table, she wore a dazzling white ballroom gown. “I won’t be running home,” she said, taking to the air. “I am going dancing.”
“And after six rounds,” Dr. Pallazzo announced to the class, “our two parolees are virtually tied.”
Parolees, Archer thought. Very funny. Ordinarily, he might have been resentful of the teacher’s quip, but not today. Today, Archer was too busy feeling pretty extraordinary. He was holding his own against the GIFT kid himself: the brilliant, the high and mighty Rigby Thames.
On top of that, Kara Windchil looked as though she’d gotten a pretty healthy dose of what-goes-around-comes-around. She looked positively awful. Her normally silky-straight black hair was tousled, and her makeup was smeared. She looked bleary-eyed and sniffled a lot, like she had a cold.
“The next question will be from Mr. Thames’s category: Atomic and Electronic Structure. This will be the deciding question. Are you ready?”
Rigby nodded. Archer nodded also. Thanks to Kaylie’s expert instruction, he didn’t even hesitate. The Chemistry class went silent.
“Electrons gather around the nucleus in quantum orbitals following four very basic rules. We call these rules . . .”
Archer’s thoughts rolled away. Kaylie showed me this on the chart paper. She had written
it in pink crayon at the top of the third page. Elbow Principle? No, no. But similar—Archer slammed his hand down on the desk.
“Mr. Keaton?” Dr. Pallazzo shifted his gaze. Even Rigby looked impressed.
“It’s the Aufbau Principle,” Archer said.
“Yes, yes,” Dr. Pallazzo confirmed. “That is correct, and now, as per the full question, you must state the four basic rules of the Aufbau Principle.”
There wasn’t a hand large enough in the universe to deliver the kind of facepalm Archer felt like he deserved. I didn’t listen to the whole question!
“Mr. Keaton?”
“Uhm . . .”
“Aww, really?” Rigby said. “You’re messin’ with me now, right? Dodgy sandbagger.”
Archer wasn’t messing with anyone. He didn’t remember the four rules. It had something to do with electrons filling up orbitals, and two of the rules were pretty much the same. But it didn’t matter. He released an enormous breath and said, “I can’t remember the rules.”
“No way,” Rigby said.
“The rest of the question goes to you, Mr. Thames,” Dr. Pallazzo said. “Answer correctly, and the contest is yours.”
Rigby gave the sly sideways grin and slowly recited all four rules from the Aufbau Principle. Half of the class sighed. The other half cheered.
Archer hung his head and went back to his seat.
After the bell rang and the Chemistry class emptied into the hallway, Archer headed for Gym as quickly as he could. He almost made it when Rigby sidled up. “You’ve surprised me twice, Keaton,” he said.
“That’s me,” Archer said. “Full of surprises.”
“First with Guzzy and his pals, then in the Chem battle today. You’re quite the understated bloke. So, uh, anyway, about our bet . . . you don’t have to do the pets. They’re nasty and, well, really I think I owe you.”
“No, I agreed to it,” Archer said. “I’ll follow through. Something I’ve learned the hard way lately. So, when do I start?”
“Tell you what,” Rigby said. “Just start tomorrow after school, through Friday, if it’s okay with your folks. Let three days be it.”
“Okay, thanks. I’ll let ya know.”
“Need directions to my place?”
“The old Scoville Manor? Looks like something from The Addams Family?”
Rigby laughed. “Yeah, that’s it.”
“I know it. Pretty scary place . . . to live in, I mean.”
“It’s scary, all right,” Rigby said. “Just wait until you see all the beasts you need to clean and feed. That’s when you’ll really be afraid.”
“I’m pretty good with animals, so I’ll make do, but . . . I wanted to ask you something.”
“Sure,” Rigby said. “Shoot.”
Archer looked around. He and Rigby were like tall stones in a stream. Other students were everywhere. The hall traffic was especially congested. There was no way he could talk to Rigby about . . . about how he’d done the knife and flowers trick.
“Y’know,” Archer said, “it can wait. I’ll just talk to you at your house tomorrow.”
Rigby squinted at him. “You’re right cool, but a little weird too.”
“You have no idea,” Archer mumbled.
EIGHTEEN
SCOVILLE MANOR
SCOVILLE MANOR WAS A SHORT BIKE RIDE AWAY FROM Archer’s home. To say that it sat on a hill was quite an understatement. It dominated the hill. It consumed the hill. Even the scraggly, dark trees in its yard refused to grow as tall as the old building’s main spire.
Archer parked his bike at the bottom of the hill. He snapped his fingers twice. “They’re creepy and they’re kooky. They’re absolutely spooky . . .”
No, he thought. The Addams Family would be afraid to live here.
The Victorian mansion looked as if the builders got carried away and forgot where the structure was supposed to end. All dark wood siding, irregularly shaped windows, and dragon-scale shingles—Scoville Manor was a sight to behold. There were three stories, two broad gabled roofs, two tall brick chimneys, some kind of attic sub-roof, and a widow’s walk. Oh, and the spire had a dark, wrought-iron weather vane in the shape of a galloping horse.
Archer trotted up the hill via a set of wide stone stairs. Then six more traditional wooden steps to the front porch. As he expected, they creaked with every step. He pushed the doorbell and heard a melodic chime that reminded of him of something, though he couldn’t quite remember what it was. Besides, the moment the bell sounded, there was an explosion of barks, yaps, and chittering.
“Leapin’ loogies!” Archer exclaimed, taking a step back from the door. “He’s got a zoo in there.” The front door swung open, groaning on its hinges at a consistent, slow speed. And there was no one standing there.
“O-kay,” Archer muttered, stepping backward almost to the point of teetering on the porch’s edge.
There came a shriek, a blur of motion, and a tremendous thud. It was all Archer could do to keep from falling backward down the stairs. There stood Rigby just inside, grinning.
“Got ya!” he shouted. “You should’ve seen the look on your face. Sheesh, Keaton, you’re quite the jumpy one.”
Archer laughed at himself. “Yeah, well, next time you plan on doing that, give me a heads-up so I can bring an extra pair of boxers.”
Rigby smirked. “Come on in,” he said, leading Archer between a staircase and a sitting room and into a kitchen. The interior wasn’t nearly as neo-Gothic-haunted. It was actually quite modern, especially the kitchen, which was all brushed silver appliances, spice racks, and high-end cookware. It looked like something out of that cable cooking show: Master Chef, or The Iron Spatula, or whatever it was called.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Rigby asked. “A snack? You got here pretty fast after school. Can’t imagine you ’ad much time to eat at ’ome.”
“That’s okay,” Archer said, though his stomach was rumbling.
“You sure?” Rigby asked. “My mom left a bunch of those huge gourmet cookies. You know, the thick ones with hunks of chocolate instead of chips?”
Archer changed his tune instantly. “Well, a few of those couldn’t hurt.”
“That’s the spirit,” Rigby said. He went to the refrigerator, which looked to Archer like it could double as a guest room, and took out a gallon of milk. He poured two glasses, set them on the table, and came back with a platter of gigantic cookies.
“Uh,” Archer said, “do we eat these or play catch with them at the beach?”
“I know, right?” Rigby said, digging in.
They munched cookies in relative silence, but it was an awkward thing. They exchanged glances, and Archer thought Rigby had a bit of a scientist-thing going on. Archer felt like he was being analyzed . . . measured. It was unsettling.
“Where are your folks?” Archer asked.
Rigby blinked. “Dad’s out of town. He’s a currency exchange specialist for investors, venture capitalists, that sort of thing.”
“Venture capitalists?”
“Bunch of rich guys who don’t know what to do with their obscenely large piles of money. So they look for poor inventors willing to give up the rights to a great new idea for a bunch of cash.”
“Ah,” Archer said. “And your mom?”
“At the tennis club,” Rigby replied. “As usual.” He drained his glass. “Guess we best get to it then, eh?”
Archer finished his glass and nodded. He wondered how to bring up the knife-flower incident. Maybe not just yet.
The basement stairs emptied into a T-shaped hallway. Rigby led Archer to the right, but Archer couldn’t help glancing to the left. It was a short stub of a path drenched in shadows, with a single formidable-looking door at the end. Archer swallowed and said a silent prayer that there wouldn’t be any animals he needed to take care of behind that door. He shuddered and turned his attention quickly back to following Rigby.
The smell hit Archer first. It was a combination of dry stra
w, mulch, dog food, and stale poop. When Rigby turned a corner, the yips, yelps, barks, and cries began again. “Yes, yes,” Rigby said, “we’ve come to feed you. You can calm down now.”
When Archer turned the corner, he stopped walking and found himself staring down the first of several aisles of cages, pens, hutches, and other pet enclosures. “Snot rockets!” Archer exclaimed. “You have a pet store down here.”
“It was a passion of my late Uncle Scovy,” Rigby said. “He collected rare and exotic pets for quite some time. We didn’t have the heart to get rid of them. Come see.”
Archer strolled down the aisle and gaped at almost every cage. A huge pair of golden brown eyes stared up at Archer from a network of branches and leaves. The eyes belonged to a fist-sized clump of fur with floppy triangular ears, a tiny peach-colored nose, and skinny knob-knuckled fingers. “What on earth is this thing?”
“Ha. Actually, it’s not found on earth,” Rigby said, retracing his steps. “Well, not many of them, anyway. This is a pygmy tarsier, quite rare, actually. We call him Herby. Now, take a look at his neighbor.”
The next pen held a cross between a mop and a gray wig . . . with really dark eyes and a twitching nose. “Is . . . is this a rabbit?” Archer asked.
“Angora rabbit,” Rigby said. “Folks in some countries make hats out of them. But not old Flops here.”
The tour continued, revealing a squat creature with a tapered snout. Its shell was covered in a mixture of yellow and rose-colored scales. It scurried when it saw Archer and began burying itself in the thick straw of the crate.
“A pink fairy armadillo,” Rigby said. “But you can call him Tex.”
“Oh, man! Kaylie would love this thing!” Archer said.
“Who’s Kaylie?” Rigby asked.
“My little sister. She is completely nuts over animals, especially cute ones.”
“You should bring her with you tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“Sure,” he said. “Most of these beasties crave attention, well, except Tex there. He’s shy.”