Ethan was startled by the choice of word. Escape meant wanting to get away from something terrible.
“I don’t think he wants to go anywhere,” Ethan said, but he suddenly remembered how Inkling had wandered off into the art room. That was just curiosity, though. He’d smelled ink. He’d been hoping to find other creatures like himself. Would he try again?
Ethan realized how much he wanted Inkling to stay, and not just because he needed his help. Inkling was like a friend now. Surely if he’d wanted to escape, he would have done it by now. All he had to do was slip under the door, and he could go anywhere.
“To Inkling, then,” Dad said, raising his glass.
Ethan clinked with him, and Sarah insisted on clinking her milk glass, too, and Ethan thought that things were definitely looking up.
Next morning, as he woke up, Ethan smelled coffee and bacon. He lay in bed for a few more minutes, smiling, just listening to the comforting kitchen sounds: cutlery clinking, fridge door closing, toaster popping, the muted sounds of Dad talking to Sarah.
When he went to the kitchen, Dad was already dressed, and he’d gotten Sarah dressed and was making her scrambled eggs. He had lots of coffee in him and was now Alert Dad.
“Hey, sleepyhead,” Dad greeted him.
“You’re up early.”
“Time to get serious about work,” Alert Dad said.
He certainly looked and sounded energetic, and Ethan grinned. He could remember the times when Dad’s work was going well. Maybe he’d meet his four-month deadline after all.
“You’ve got an idea?” Ethan asked hopefully.
“Let’s just say I feel something ready to bang on the door.”
When Ethan got home from school, he found Dad in his studio, asleep on the little sofa.
“Hey,” Ethan said worriedly. “How’s it going?”
“Oh, good. Good! Just taking a little nap!”
Ethan wondered if there was an exclamation-mark lie in there somewhere. Dad must have seen the uncertainty in his face, because he said, “Want to see?”
He got up, stretched, and walked to the drafting table.
“Oh, wow!” said Ethan.
It was a glorious full page: inked, colored, lettered. And it was definitely a continuation of Inkling’s double-page spread. Ethan recognized the main character and the landscape.
“Dad, this is amazing!”
“It turned out pretty well, huh?”
“I can’t believe you did this all in one day!” He looked around the drafting table. Usually after Dad finished a page, there’d be pencil cartoons and roughs and color tests scattered all over the place. The table was surprisingly tidy, and Dad was not a tidy person.
“I had a little help,” Dad admitted.
Ethan looked at him. “What d’you mean?”
“I spent a long time looking at that opening spread, and it was incredible. You could stare at it for hours. Beautiful. But really, it was just a mood piece. There’s a girl looking over the jungle, and there’s a village and maybe, way off, a tomb. It feels like an adventure, like something about to begin. But what? And is it on earth, or another world? Those creatures up in the sky, are they normal birds? So many questions. I just thought Inkling might have some of the answers.”
“So you asked him what happened next?” Ethan said.
Dad shrugged. “Why not? He came up with the opening image, so maybe he’d already imagined a bit of the rest.”
“I thought you were just . . . you know, going to do your own thing with it,” Ethan said.
“Sure, but what was the point of me making it up if Inkling already knew? And he did. He even offered to sketch out the next little bit for me.”
Ethan’s eyes widened. “You brought him in here? I told you about the sketchbook!”
“Don’t worry, I kept it closed and moved it way out of the way.”
Ethan felt the same stab he’d had when Soren asked to borrow Inkling. “So he just roughed in a few panels for you?”
At this Dad looked sheepish. “Bit more than that.”
“Coloring?”
“Some coloring, yes.”
“The dialogue?”
“He came up with some very good lines.”
Ethan was surprised how indignant he felt. He really didn’t like the idea of Inkling working with his dad. A day ago, all he’d hoped for was his father getting back to work. But now he couldn’t stop himself saying, “So he’s basically doing everything?”
“He’s just giving me a good push,” Dad replied.
It seemed to Ethan like this was already more than a push, but he didn’t say anything.
“I doubt I’ll need him anymore after today,” Dad added. “And anyway, he’s part of my imagination, right? These are my ideas.”
“I guess.” Ethan supposed he had a point, but it didn’t feel quite true. It was hard to think of Inkling as being part of Dad, when he seemed so much his own . . . person. Still, Dad was so cheerful now, and it was such a relief to see a new piece of work on his drafting table.
Ethan went to his room to find Inkling. All day, he’d been looking forward to his drawing lesson, to seeing his own graphic novel grow panel by panel. It was his favorite time of day, just the two of them, working quietly together. Inkling was a patient teacher—and Ethan knew Dad wouldn’t be nearly as patient, or as encouraging.
For the first time in a long time, things felt good again.
Chapter 12
At lunchtime the next day, Vika signed herself out of school and rode her bike to the Rylances’ house. She cycled past it to the end of the block, locked her bike to a pole, then went back on foot.
The car was in the driveway, so she knew Mr. Rylance was home—no surprise, since his studio was in the house. She knew she’d have to be really careful. Quickly she walked down the side of the house, through the tall, ratty grass.
Every time she passed a window, she ducked. When she got to Ethan’s room, she stopped and peeped inside. She grimaced. The blinds were still angled closed. She pressed her face against the glass and tried to peek through the cracks, but the lights were off inside, and she couldn’t see anything.
She continued to the backyard. She remembered there used to be a nice garden, but it didn’t look like anyone had taken care of it in a while. All the plots were overgrown, the plants strangled with weeds.
Mr. Rylance’s studio had big windows and French doors overlooking the garden. Crouched down below one of the windows, Vika listened, then slowly lifted her head. She’d always admired the studio, the few times she’d been invited to see it. It was the kind of space she dreamed she herself might have one day. Off to the right was Mr. Rylance, head bent intently over his drafting table. He sat back for a moment, and Vika noticed there was no marker in his hand, yet something seemed to move on the illustration board. She frowned. Quickly, she moved over a few more windows to get a better view of the drafting table.
Across the paper slowly swirled an inky shadow, like a satellite image of a hurricane, only black. Its outer arms were busy making lines and brushstrokes, creating a beautiful colored picture of a girl running through a jungle.
Mr. Rylance said something, and the shadow hesitated, then reached back and added a bit more color and shading to the drawing, and also adjusted the angle of the girl’s arm. Mr. Rylance nodded.
Vika suddenly realized she hadn’t taken a breath in a long time. She ducked down and sucked in air as quietly as she could. Her heart pounded.
It was real.
Whatever she’d seen that night in Ethan’s room, it was a real thing and it drew!
When she peeped up again, Mr. Rylance was putting the artwork facedown on a flatbed scanner and closing the cover. A bar of light started moving underneath. Mr. Rylance stood, stretched, and walked across the room toward the door. Vika flinched, afraid of being seen, but he wasn’t even looking in her direction. Probably taking a bathroom break.
The ink splotch ambled across the draft
ing table now, twirling itself into interesting patterns while moving closer to some colorful pages ripped from a comic book. The splotch paused in front of them, and its edges fluttered, like a kid wiggling her fingers at a choice of candy. Vika blinked as the ink splotch sent a sneaky tendril onto the paper and erased a swatch of red. Then, quickly, as if it couldn’t resist, it surged onto the paper and spread out, devouring all the ink and leaving the page blank.
This was definitely the creature she’d seen in Ethan’s room that night—and she was positive it must be doing his project for him. It seemed to be doing Mr. Rylance’s work, too!
The flatbed scanner made a beep, and suddenly the big monitor behind it lit up, showing the artwork in all its glory. Vika knew that most artists and illustrators, even if they worked by hand, transferred their drawings to computer so they could make more adjustments.
The ink splotch paused and seemed to tense at the sight of the brilliant colors on the screen. Curiously it flowed up the plastic base of the monitor. It wanted a closer look. But when it surged onto the glass screen, it slipped back down so fast it went right off the screen and landed in a tall glass tumbler left on the table.
The splotch tried to climb the sides but only made it an inch or so before sliding back down.
It can’t move on glass, Vika thought. Interesting.
The splotch churned round and round, seeming very agitated. Vika felt kind of sorry for it, trapped in the glass. It was just sitting right there, ready to grab.
She hurried to one of the French doors and tried the knob. To her amazement, it turned. She opened the door and stepped inside Mr. Rylance’s studio. She crept closer to the table.
A hiss made her jerk round. A big old cat was rising from a cushion, its fur spiked.
“What is it, Rickman?” she heard Mr. Rylance say from the hallway, getting closer.
Quickly she retreated, closing the door silently behind her and ducking out of sight. When she peeped up again, Mr. Rylance was looking around his table.
“Inkling?”
It has a name, Vika thought.
Mr. Rylance’s frown dissolved into a smile when he spotted Inkling in the glass.
“Stuck?” she heard him say. He tipped Inkling out of the glass back onto the drafting table.
“I see you’ve had a snack,” Mr. Rylance said, nodding at the blank comic book page. “So. Ready to do some more?”
Imagine, Vika thought, the things you could make with Inkling.
When Ethan got home from school, he found Inkling on his desk, looking pale and small.
“Inkling? What’s wrong?”
Listlessly, he wrote:
JUST TIRED.
“What were you doing today?”
HELPING YOUR DAD.
“Really?”
Ethan grabbed his favorite book from his shelf, Danny the Champion of the World, and opened it for Inkling. Slowly Inkling pulled himself onto the title page and took a sip of the lettering.
THAT’S VERY REFRESHING. THANK YOU, ETHAN.
Ethan walked straight to his father’s studio. Dad was whistling at his drafting table, looking over his work. For just a moment Ethan was so mesmerized by its beauty that he forgot he was angry. Then he turned back to his father.
“I thought you weren’t going to use him anymore!”
Dad’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “I needed a little nudge in the right direction. Anyway, he likes to draw.”
“He gets tired,” Ethan said accusingly. “It’s not good to use him so much.”
“Haven’t you been?”
“Not like this! He just helps me draw. You must’ve been using him all day! Did you even feed him?”
Dad frowned. “Um, sure, he had a few comic book pages.”
“That’s not enough! And those aren’t good for him!” His own anger startled him, but it felt good, too. “You’ve got to take care of him, Dad!”
He stormed out of the studio and went back to his room to check on Inkling. Maybe he was just as bad as his father, making him work. Inkling didn’t seem to mind it, but was he just being nice?
Ethan found Inkling already on page six of the book. His color had returned, and he was eating more quickly.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
YES. THIS IS A VERY GOOD STORY. I LIKE THE ILLUSTRATIONS, TOO.
Lately, Inkling’s way of talking didn’t seem so influenced by what he was reading. It was like he’d found his own voice.
Ethan turned as his dad entered the room.
“Hey, I’m sorry, Ethan,” he said. “It won’t happen again. From now on, nothing but the best for Inkling. The finest stories and artwork. I promise. I already know what to start him off with.”
“Okay,” said Ethan. “Good, but—”
“All he needs is food and a rest,” Dad said. “And he’ll be ready to go again tomorrow.”
“You’re going to keep using him?”
“I don’t see why not.”
Ethan knew he was on shaky ground here. He was using Inkling, too—but not for everything. The story came from Soren, the coloring and lettering were being done by Pino and Brady, and Ethan himself was now doing the drawings—with constant help from Inkling.
“When I got home, it was like he barely had any ink left! It’s probably all that color he’s using for you.”
“We’ll make sure he gets lots of color in his food.”
YES PLEASE, Inkling wrote on the page.
“But if you keep using him all day, he’ll be too tired to help me,” Ethan blurted out. How could he ask Inkling to work again tonight? “The artwork’s due at the end of the week!”
“Let me give you a hand,” Dad said.
“No!” Just days ago he would have jumped at the offer. But he felt differently now.
“I like working with Inkling,” Ethan said, and then he realized that neither of them had asked Inkling how he felt about things.
“Inkling, are you okay helping both of us?”
I HAVE PLENTY OF INK TO GO ROUND.
Dad chuckled, but Ethan wondered if Inkling was just being generous. He had a very generous nature.
“There you go,” said Dad. “We’ll just make sure Inkling gets plenty of rest. I’ve got to go pick up Sarah. Come with me and we can walk home through the park?”
It had been a while since they’d all gone to the park together. The day was overcast, but the trees were flowering, and there were enough new green things pushing their way out of the earth that it seemed bright anyway. They took the paved path that ran alongside the stream.
When he was younger, Ethan had spent a ton of time in the park. Mom had been a big believer in family walks. The park was huge, with lots of stuff to do. There was a castle playground, a little zoo—bison, peacocks, scary emus!—a duck pond, and a café on the hill where you could get chocolate cake. Best of all, in spring, you could find little frogs near the fence by the pond. Mom had been better than Dad at spotting them. They’d catch them in their hands, admire them awhile, and let them go.
Right now, the highlight for Sarah was the dogs. Every one she passed, she asked if she could pat it. She had many questions for the dog walkers. What was the dog’s name? Did it shake paws? Could she give it a treat? It was slow going.
“How’s your graphic novel project coming along?” Dad asked.
Ethan looked at him in surprise. It was the first time he’d actually asked about it. So he told him about the story Soren had come up with, and Dad chuckled.
“A gorilla secret agent,” he said. “I like it. And Inkling’s helping with the art?”
“Well, at first he did everything, but I’d make him mess it up a bit. So it didn’t look too good. But I wanted to do the rest myself, so he’s been teaching me as we go. It’s still mostly him, but I think I’m getting better.”
He glanced over at his father, hoping he’d say something like “I’m sure you are!” or “You’re doing the right thing,” but Dad was already looking distracte
d again and just said, “Good, good.”
Up ahead, Ethan saw the toppled tree trunk that had spanned the stream for as long as he could remember. He and his dad used to cross it all the time, while Mom took Sarah across the bridge farther on, to meet them on the other side.
Ethan hadn’t walked the tree in a couple of years, but today he hopped onto it. All the steps came back to him, the right places to plant his feet.
Sarah called out, “Ethan, no! Come back!”
“It’s okay, Sarah!” he called over his shoulder. He reached the other side. It was easier than it used to be, but still satisfying. When he returned to Sarah, she threw herself into his arms and cried, “She was worried about you!”
Here was the thing about a Sarah hug. It was a real embrace. There was nothing half-hearted about it. Her soft arms folded around your neck, and she pressed her cheek against yours and smushed her body against you, and you felt like you’d just won the most amazing prize. And you couldn’t help grinning.
“I’m fine,” said Ethan. “It’s fun!”
“Sarah wants to do it, too!”
Ethan looked at Dad.
“She won’t be able to,” Dad said. “Let’s cross at the bridge.”
But Sarah wasn’t happy with that decision and stubbornly planted herself at the end of the trunk.
“I can help her,” Ethan suggested. “She’s older than I was when I first did it.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“Come on, Sarah,” said Ethan. For some reason he really wanted Sarah to cross the log. She’d like it. What was the worst thing that could happen? They’d lose their balance and fall a couple of feet into water that wasn’t even up to her knees. They’d get muddy.
“She’s scared!” said Sarah when he hoisted her onto the log.
“Okay,” he said. “We don’t have to do it.”
Sarah took a deep breath. “Sarah will be brave.”
“I will be brave,” Ethan corrected her.
“Yes, she will be brave,” Sarah countered.
“I’m holding on to you,” Ethan said, right behind her. He kept his hands on her shoulder and nudged her feet forward with his own. They made it out halfway.