The Bedtime Bell struck its final chime, and then Peter heard a deep, clockwork rumble that ticked and whirred all around them—behind the walls, underneath the floor, above the ceiling. It was as though the very stones were alive. Mrs. Molasses happily went on with her work, paying no notice to the trembling houseplants and furniture.
The rumbling stopped as abruptly as it had begun, ending with a Skhhrrr—THUD! The sound was familiar to Peter’s ears: A dead bolt had slid tight across Mrs. Molasses’s front door. He could hear the thud! of dozens of other dead bolts doing the same all down the corridor. Somehow, the clockwork was locking every door in the palace.
At last, there was silence once more. Mrs. Molasses put the finishing touches on Peter’s bed, softly humming the bird-song from supper:
A perfect end to a perfect day
We love our king—hip-hip hooray!
“There, all snug!” she said, patting Peter’s bandaged head. “And just think, we get to do it all again tomorrow!” She blew out the candle and shuffled off to her own perfect bedroom.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A CHAT with PICKLE
Not ten minutes after Mrs. Molasses had extinguished the lights and glided off to her bedroom, Peter discovered for himself what had so frightened all the people at supper.
There was a monster in the palace.
He could hear it in the corridors outside. It moved with a terrible scraping, clinking, shuffling sound that seemed to echo on forever. Its voice was even worse—a hollow, miserable wail that curdled Peter’s stomach and turned his arms to gooseflesh. He listened, pulling the covers tight around his body. Was this what he’d come to save them from?
If there was one thing Peter found even more disturbing than the awful noises outside, it was the fact that Mrs. Molasses was sound asleep in the next room. There was no way she couldn’t hear the horrible monster just outside her door. And yet she was peacefully dreaming the night away in her perfectly made bed. The boy supposed that after enough time, a person could grow accustomed to anything—no matter how loud it growled and moaned and rattled and roared. Peter, however, had far too many questions to even think about sleeping. He decided it would be best to go investigate. From the king’s extreme security precautions, it was clear that the monster was very, very dangerous—otherwise those giant dead bolts wouldn’t be necessary. “If only I had my fishhook,” he thought for the hundredth time that night. He had already checked his bedroom for something that might make a weapon, but the best he could do was a throw pillow.
Peter tucked the box of Fantastic Eyes under one arm and crept into the foyer. When he reached the front door, he knelt down and placed his ear against its surface. Through the metal he could hear a hundred shuffling footsteps. Was it a giant centipede? No, Peter could now make out that what he had thought to be one horrible voice was actually a chorus of dozens—all grunting, moaning, and wheezing. The boy waited patiently until the monster, or monsters, had disappeared around the corner, and then he set to work.
For Peter, as we know, the average dead bolt, though tricky, was hardly insurmountable. But the lock on Mrs. Molasses’s front door was far from average. The mechanism was made of thrice-tempered steel and reinforced by gears in the door frame. “Who would make a door that locks on both sides?” he wondered quietly. Since waking up in the palace, the boy had been spending more and more time talking out loud to himself like this. While for some people that may be a sign of madness, for Peter it was more a sign of loneliness.
The boy knew that without the proper tools, he couldn’t open the door—which meant he would have to find another way out of the house. He could find no windows along the front wall, but he did notice a faint breeze flowing out from beneath Mrs. Molasses’s bedroom door. He turned the handle and slipped inside.
Mrs. Molasses was asleep in her bed. Peter could hear the woman tossing her head, caught up in some kind of nightmare. “N-n-no,” she moaned. “Give him back . . . Give him back!” The master thief moved to the far wall of the room and searched for the source of the draft. The air was coming through a screen door that opened onto a small courtyard. He stepped outside, taking extra care not to disturb Mrs. Molasses as he passed.
The temperature in the courtyard was mild—perfect, really. Peter paused, enjoying the moonlight against his skin. “This must be the yard where Mrs. Molasses found me,” he said to himself. Getting out of the perfumed house meant that he could finally use his nose again. He took a long, deep breath . . .
He could smell Sir Tode!
Peter raced to the center of the yard and pressed his nose against the cold stones. There was a bit of dried blood in the mortar cracks. Some of it belonged to Peter; some of it belonged to Sir Tode. “We both made it across,” he whispered, almost afraid to speak his hope aloud. “But how did we get separated?”
He studied the ground for more clues. He could feel chips in the stone where they had both landed—there were a few scattered raven feathers that must have come over with them when they transported. Then, farther along, he could smell a third person: someone had snuck up on them. This person smelled filthy, even worse than the prisoners of the Just Deserts. Peter followed the trail to reconstruct what had happened. The stranger had tried to take Peter’s burgle-sack, but there had been a struggle, because Sir Tode must have been inside it. The stranger was too fast, though, and managed to restrain the knight, running off to . . . where? Peter followed the scent, but couldn’t tell where the kidnapper had gone. It was as though Sir Tode and the stranger had simply disappeared.
Somewhere in the distance, a vicious snarl shook the air. The sound filled Peter with new dread. For all he knew, one of those monsters had captured his friend. If so, he only hoped that the creature was keeping Sir Tode alive for the time being—then, at least, there was a chance Peter could save him.
He ran to the low wall surrounding the courtyard. From the howling wind below, he could tell the other side was a steep drop. He tossed a pebble over the edge and listened as it fell, and fell, and fell. “This palace must overlook the same chasm as the Just Deserts,” he said. “Only on the other side.”
“’Course it does,” a tiny voice replied.
Peter spun around, balling his fists. The voice was so faint that even Peter’s incredible ears had trouble making out the source. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I’ll give you three guesses! Now, move your bloomin’ foot so I can get on with me doodling.” Peter crouched down and felt along the base of the wall. “Hey! Hands off, you big bully!” the voice shouted.
Peter scooped up a tiny beetle hiding in a crack of the mortar. “It’s you that’s talking, isn’t it? You’re a talking beetle!”
“Oh, well done,” the beetle clicked. “What tipped you off?”
Peter was still too young to understand that the beetle—who was rather irritated at being snatched up—was making fun of him by employing a bit of sarcasm. “I just listened to where your voice was coming from,” the boy explained. “I have very sensitive ears.”
“Well, ain’t you special? Supposin’ you want a prize now? Listen, I don’t go snatching you up in me pincers all willy-nilly, so howsabout you do the same and put me back down?!”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m a little lost. I’m new here and I need to find a friend of mine. I think he was kidnapped by a monster.”
“Sure, I seen him,” the beetle said. “Big ugly bloke in a bag, snatched up by some other big ugly blokes. A real brawl that was. Hissing and flapping and such—thought they was gonna up and squash me, I did.”
Peter’s stomach lurched as his worst fears about Sir Tode were confirmed. “Then what happened?” he begged. “Where did they go?”
“Honestly, I don’t pay mind to you bigs all that much. Soon as I was clear of stomping distance, I just went back to me work—speaking of . . . Ta!” And with that, the grumpy beetle hopped from Peter’s palm and scuttled away.
Peter stood back up. “Well, that was
a perfectly useless conversation,” he said with a sigh. Now, there is a wonderful thing in this world called “foresight.” It is a gift treasured above all others because it allows one to know what the future holds. Most people with foresight end up wielding immense power in life, often becoming great rulers or librarians. Sadly, Peter (being a ten-year-old boy) was built without any capacity for foresight. And so he continued walking, unaware of how his chance encounter with a grumpy insect would prove to be nothing short of transformational.
Though unimpressed by the beetle, Peter wondered whether it might be worth seeking out some friendlier, more observant animal to question. He remembered the little birds singing in the Eating Hall during supper. Maybe they could tell him about the monsters, or even Sir Tode? He took up the box of Fantastic Eyes and started for the main corridor.
Mrs. Molasses’s courtyard was cut off from the main palace, but Peter had little trouble scaling the ivy-covered walls. Soon he was standing on an open bridge that, if he recalled correctly, would lead him straight to the center of the palace. He retraced his route from earlier in the day, taking care to stay clear of the monsters pacing the hallways. Every so often, he would hear them moving nearby—there would be a sharp cracking sound, followed by a hundred horrid moans as the creatures slinked down this or that corridor. It sounded to Peter like they were also working their way toward the Eating Hall. “Then I’d better hurry,” he murmured, redoubling his speed.
Peter reached the broad passage that connected to the Eating Hall. He sprinted ahead, but halfway down its length he ran smack into a series of flat iron bars. The boy fell backward, dropping his box of Fantastic Eyes, which clattered noisily against the stones. He climbed to his feet and reached forward. The obstruction, which had not been there during the day, was part of a gate that cut off the Eating Hall from the rest of the palace. He ran his fingers along the edge, deducing that the gate was controlled by the same clockwork that locked Mrs. Molasses’s front door.
Though Peter was an accomplished contortionist, he could tell straightaway that the gaps were too narrow for him to pass through. The situation was infuriating—he could literally smell his destination just a few paces ahead. The boy considered finding an alternate entrance, but he deemed it too risky with so many monsters about. He picked up the box of eyes and thought about how they might be able to help him. Perhaps he could use the golden eyes to transport himself to the other side? He opened the lid, and as he did, his hand was drawn toward a pair in back. Peter began to scoop them up, but when his fingertips met their surface, he gasped and pulled away.
Those were not the golden eyes.
Peter swallowed and reached into the box once more. Again, as if by magnetic force, his hand pulled toward the same pair. He ran his fingertips over their slick, grainless texture and shivered with dread. There was no question: he was supposed to use the black eyes.
If you recall, Peter’s last experience with this particular set of enchanted eyes had left a salty taste in his mouth. Had it not been for Sir Tode’s judicious knock upside the head, Peter would most certainly have suffocated right there in the desert. But this time seemed to be different. This time the eyes were calling to him. Terrified as he was, Peter knew, deep down, that he must answer.
He lifted the black pair from their eggshells and closed the lid. “All right, you two,” he said. “I’ll give you another chance—but you’d better promise not to kill me.” The eyes maintained a worrisome silence. Peter slid the box behind a nearby plinth and faced the gate. He untied his bandage and took a deep breath. He slipped the eyes into his sockets and blinked.
This time Peter did not stop breathing. Nor did he hear the sound of water. Instead, as he opened his lids, he felt his feet and hands grow rigid. The ground beneath him began to transform, expanding into a great rocky canyon. “What’s happening to me?!” he shouted, but his voice came out small and weak. Peter still couldn’t see a thing—he was blind as ever—but his whole body felt different, somehow. His fingers were useless; he couldn’t even tell what they were touching. Moreover, he had an awful taste in his mouth. What was that? Was he licking the ground? Wait, it wasn’t his mouth at all—it was his feet! He could taste the floor with his feet! Peter skittered about, trying to gain his bearings, but the corridor had grown enormous. No matter how far he ran, the huge wall never seemed to get any closer. “What did these eyes do to me?” he clicked, extending his antennae. “Ahhh!” Peter screamed, realizing that he did, in fact, have antennae. For the great thief had just been transformed into a shiny black beetle.
Being a beetle took some getting used to. Peter was not accustomed to running so much just to cover a small distance. On top of that, his blindness was even more difficult to manage: he suddenly had to get used to a whole new set of senses—different taste, different touch, different hearing—and he had no sense of smell whatsoever. Soon, however, he had figured out how to feel his way around with his feet, and to understand what his antennae were telling him.
Given his change in size, the gate no longer posed a problem. Peter crawled right beneath the iron bars and was soon on the other side. He scuttled into a shadow, and plucked out the Fantastic Eyes with his forelegs.
Within seconds, Peter Nimble was a little boy once again. He tied the bandage around his head and tucked the black eyes safely into his trousers pocket, contemplating what had just occurred. The golden pair made him transport; this pair made him transform. But why a beetle? Why on earth would Professor Cake give Peter such a strange ability? He thought back to when he tried the eyes in the Just Deserts. Sir Tode had said Peter’s body was transforming then, too, but in a different way: his skin had gone all clammy and he couldn’t breathe. Whatever the answer, the boy knew there was more to this pair than met the eye(s).
Peter entered the Eating Hall and discovered that it, too, had been transformed. The place was an utter disaster. Food and dishes were scattered everywhere. Gravy boats and crocks of pork pudding had already gone bad. The boy wrinkled his nose as he stepped between congealing cream balls and pools of cheddar-brine. The bitterness he noticed while eating had become stronger—he could now smell it wafting up from every overturned plate. “Who could have made this mess?” he breathed to himself. Then he remembered the state of panic that had overcome all the people when the great bell struck. He cast an ear upward, listening for the movement of the clock’s hands, but he heard only a steady grinding.
The master thief picked his way across the floor until he came to a tiny bird nestled atop a stone pedestal, sleeping soundly. If the monster carried Sir Tode past this hall, then perhaps these birds could tell him where they went. He remembered hearing a faint jingling sound accompanying the birds during supper. Exploring with his fingers, he discovered that the creature’s ankle was fixed with a tiny gold shackle and chain. Were the birds being held prisoner?
“Pardon me?” he whispered. “I need your help.”
The bird jolted awake, flapping and shouting:
The perfect morn has come at last.
Peter pinched its tiny beak shut before it could wake the others. Still, the creature muffled its way through the second line:
Let’s praise our king and break the fast!
The bird was clearly terrified and struggled with all its might to break free from his grip. Peter could feel the animal’s little-bird heartbeat racing impossibly fast as it flapped in his hand.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said. He tried running a finger along the bird’s nape. He wasn’t sure whether birds even had napes, but the trick seemed to help. Slowly, the creature calmed itself.
“W-w-why is it dark?” it finally spoke. Peter could now tell by the voice—and the short feathers—that this bird was a girl.
“Because morning hasn’t come yet,” he said. “I’m here for information.”
The little bird started to shake. “I haven’t seen a thing! Long live our—!” Peter pinched her beak shut again. He was afraid all this singing would
wake the other birds or—worse—draw the attention of whatever monsters were wandering the halls.
“I’m not with the king,” he said. “I’m here to set you and your friends free. But I need you to be quiet, otherwise we might both get caught.”
The bird stopped protesting. “I—I saw you at supper. You’re the visitor, Mr. Trousers.”
“I am.” Peter wriggled his fingernail into the tiny lock, popping it open. “But my real name is Peter Nimble.”
“Pickle Sparrow, sir.” She curtsied, stretching her newly freed leg.
“Pleased to meet you, Pickle. I was hoping you could answer some questions for me about this place.”
The bird considered this for a moment. “First set my sisters free,” she said firmly.
Peter snuck around to all of the other birds and unfastened the latches around their ankles. There were twelve sparrows in all. Roused from slumber, each bird instantly began to sing, just as Pickle had done. She did her best to quiet them and explain the situation. When they learned that the stranger had opened their shackles, they stopped singing and looked at Peter with great awe. With a neat curtsy—for they were all girl birds—each sparrow chirped her thanks and fluttered off into the night.
Once her sisters were safely away, Pickle hopped back onto Peter’s palm. “We don’t have much time till the Night Patrol arrives,” she said. “What would you like to know?”
Peter had learned from his time with Old Scabbs that the best way to interrogate someone was to make every question about that individual: there is nothing people like to do more than talk about themselves. “I want to know why you’re chained up like this,” he said.
The bird stretched her wings. “We’re chained up here because the king doesn’t want us to escape.”