“Miss Fitch.” Mr. Dumfrey had finally reached the attic. Taking his hands off his knees, he straightened up, drawing in a deep gasp of air. “What’s going on? What’s the meaning of this?”
Miss Fitch turned to him, still trembling with anger, and clutching one of Howie’s sweaters, which had obviously been next on her list for the window. “The meaning is that this—this—this rat has been scheming all along to shut down the museum.” Howie opened his mouth, but before he could speak, she broke in, “Don’t say a word. Don’t even try to deny it. I have the proof right here.” And she whipped out a piece of paper and passed it to Mr. Dumfrey.
Mr. Dumfrey scanned the letter quickly, his face growing paler and paler, his mouth thinning to a narrow line. Pippa closed her eyes and thought her way into his fingers, into the small space between his eyes. It was getting easier to find her way in. Suddenly, she was reading along with Mr. Dumfrey:
From: the desk of Roger Hebbsworth, Secretary, NYC Department of Criminal Justice
To: Mr. Howard Bubo, Superior President
Re: Your letters dating July 18, 22, 28, Aug 1, 6, and 15
Dear Mr. Bubo,
Thank you for your various letters concerning the children currently residing at 344 West 43rd Street. I apologize for the delay, especially in light of the increased urgency of your tone, but I was forced to bring the matter to my superior’s attention.
Our conclusion is that though we have heard of Rattigan and his unfortunate experiments, we do not feel our department is qualified to investigate whether the four persons you refer to in your letter might indeed have suffered at his hands, nor to name them, as you requested, “dangerous and unlawful, and a threat to society and humanity at large.” We suggest that you perhaps take the matter up with the New York City Department of Health. As for shutting down the museum, you must communicate your written request to the Better Business Bureau of New York.
Thank you for your time, and I wish you luck with your organization, Stop Unnatural Phony Entertainers from Ruining and/or Impairing Our Reputation.
Sincerely,
Roger Hebbsworth
“SUPERIOR?” was all Pippa could stutter, when she finished reading, and slid out of Dumfrey’s mind and squarely back into her own. “You started a club called SUPERIOR?”
Thomas, meanwhile, had snatched the letter from Dumfrey. He, Max, and Sam crowded close together to read it.
“It’s not a club,” Howie sneered. “It’s an organization to make sure that monsters like you don’t get to roam around and mingle with the rest of us.”
With a wordless cry of rage, Miss Fitch hurled his sweater out the window. “Out!” she screeched. “Out! Get out!”
“You heard what Miss Fitch said, Howie,” Mr. Dumfrey said with quietly suppressed rage. “Take your things and get out.”
“Let me help,” Quinn said. She sashayed over to Howie, plucked up his hairbrush and hand mirror, and then tossed both over her shoulder, out the window. “Ooops,” she said, batting her eyelashes.
“Oh, Quinn. How could you? That isn’t the way it’s done at all.” Betty hurried to Howie’s aid and grabbed the delicate, ivory-tooth comb he always used. But instead of passing it to him, she ground it to splinters beneath her heel. “That’s how it’s done.”
Howie’s eyes were narrowed to slits, and his lips drawn back in a sneer. “Very funny,” he said. “But I’m the one who’s going to be laughing. This place is doomed and you know it. Even if I hadn’t helped things along, you’d still be going under.”
Pippa felt a chill race up her spine. “Helped things along?” she said. “What are you talking about?” But as soon as the question was out of her mouth, she knew.
“It was you,” Thomas said. “You were the one who messed with Goldini’s blade box. It wasn’t Lash’s fault at all.” His face flushed. “I could have been killed.”
Howie shrugged unconcernedly. “Sorry,” he said, smiling, showing his big, white teeth. “Hazards of the business.”
“You distracted me when I was throwing knives,” Max said. “You were the one rummaging around backstage, weren’t you?”
Howie turned to look at her. His eyes, Pippa saw, held nothing but cold disdain. She thought of all the weeks he’d spent giggling and whispering with Max, finding excuses to touch her elbow or back. It had all been an act, a mask he’d slipped on so he could play the part, stay nestled within the museum like an insect in a piece of fruit, intent on destroying it from the core. And she felt that this was what Rattigan was like, too. They weren’t men at all, but only pretending to be. They were the monsters.
“I figured you were the weak link. You had plenty to say about the museum and Mr. Dumfrey, and Caroline and Quinn and the alligator boy, about who was unhappy, and why.”
Max’s face was storm colored. “You used me,” she whispered.
Howie sneered. “Of course I did,” he said. “Surely you didn’t really think I’d be interested in a half-breed mongrel like—”
He didn’t finish his sentence. With a wordless cry of rage, Sam launched himself at Howie. He hit him square in the chest with his shoulder, and they crashed to the ground, skidding straight through a bookshelf, which split cleanly in half, as if Sam were a knife and the bookshelf a lump of butter. It took Smalls, Goldini, Danny, and Dumfrey to haul Sam away from Howie. Howie’s face was completely white. He was opening and closing his mouth, making no sound, like a fish dragged up onto shore.
“That’s enough, son,” Mr. Dumfrey said, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder.
“Yeah,” Max said. “He’s not worth it.”
“Show’s over, kid.” Danny toed Howie in the ribs with his boot. Howie groaned. “Time to pack it in, or else you’re the very next thing that goes out that window.”
Once Howie was gone, Miss Fitch settled down and returned to her usual rigorously commanding self. Under her barked instructions, the attic was rapidly set back to order. Everyone pitched in to help, and Quinn, Danny, Goldini, Smalls, and Betty worked particularly industriously, perhaps in an attempt to make up for the fact that they’d fallen under the spell of Howie’s influence.
“SUPERIOR,” Danny muttered as he picked splinters from the carpet. “SUPERIOR. Who does that little swivel-headed pip-squeak think he is?”
“The boy’s got all the brains of a blunt-headed beetle,” said a voice behind them. Lash, his arm in a cast, was standing in the doorway, grinning.
“Lash!” Pippa barreled toward him but he stopped her with an outstretched arm.
“Easy,” he said, wincing. “I took quite a bruising.”
“You came back!” Sam said, smiling for the first time all afternoon.
“Of course he did.” Mr. Dumfrey was sitting in a corner armchair, surveying the work without actually lifting a finger. “I asked him to report here immediately after leaving the hospital. It’s his home, after all.”
Pippa felt a bubble of happiness growing inside of her. She was almost afraid to breathe or it might pop.
“Well.” Miss Fitch hastily adjusted her hair. Obviously, Miss Fitch’s crush had not waned in Lash’s absence. “I suppose in your condition, we can’t ask you to fetch a broom—”
“A broom!” Mr. Dumfrey scoffed. “Lash is one of our star performers, Miss Fitch. Surely you don’t mean to waste his skill on housework. No. We’re just going to have to advertise for a new janitor.”
Miss Fitch stared at Mr. Dumfrey wordlessly.
Lash let out a laugh that sounded half like a wheeze. “That’s all right, Miss Fitch. You can put me to work. So long as it’s one-handed work.”
“Nonsense!” Mr. Dumfrey cried. “You need to rest up. Just as soon as you’re back, I’m putting you on the stage. Spode’s death will be all over the news. Imagine what people will pay to see the man, and the whip, that killed him!” He frowned suddenly. “Miss Fitch, will you make a note to speak to the coroner about getting the whip back?”
“I don’t mind sweeping, Mis
s Fitch,” said a woman shyly. Pippa gasped as Caroline stepped out from the hallway behind Lash, clutching her little blue suitcase and looking contrite.
“Caroline!” Quinn took a step forward, then promptly collapsed in a clean faint.
“Oh, fiddle,” Caroline said, her meek expression immediately replaced by one of supreme annoyance. “Of course she has to ruin my big moment. Did you ever meet a more selfish creature in your life?”
Quinn, reviving slightly due to the application of smelling salts to her nose, choked out, “I didn’t mean to, you heartless monster. Not everything is about you.”
“Well, it isn’t about you, either.”
“I wish you hadn’t come back. . . .”
“If you don’t like it, you can pack up and leave. . . .”
Pippa’s bubble of happiness had expanded, swelling to include the bickering twins, and Lash with his arm in a sling, and Mr. Dumfrey already making schemes for the future, and Betty and Goldini and Smalls and even Miss Fitch. Everything was back to normal.
All of a sudden, Max let out a sudden shriek and sprang to her feet. “Kitty!” she exclaimed. “I forgot all about Kitty. He must be starving by now.” Then, immediately, she clapped a hand over her mouth, as if she could physically force the words back in her mouth.
Sam stared at her warily. Howie had left a large scratch across his cheek. Pippa thought it made him look very rugged. “What are you talking about? Who’s Kitty?”
Max shifted from foot to foot. “It was supposed to be a secret,” she said, lowering her voice, and checking over her shoulder to make sure Miss Fitch wasn’t listening. “I was planning to give him to you for your birthday. But then . . . I don’t know. You were being weird and we were fighting, and then . . . it just never seemed like the right time.”
“The right time for what?” Pippa said impatiently.
Max sucked in a deep breath. “Maybe it’s just easier if I show you.”
Thomas, Sam, and Pippa followed Max up the narrow set of stairs to the loft. Max hesitated with her hand on the doorknob. “Are you ready?” she said.
“Enough with the mystery,” Pippa said, growing annoyed. “Just open the door.”
Max did. First, Pippa saw nothing but a blue blanket and an empty saucer Miss Fitch had been complaining was missing for some time. But then, almost immediately, she saw a flash of pale fur.
“It’s okay,” Max cooed in a voice that was distinctly un-Max-like. “Don’t be afraid.”
Slowly, quietly, a cat emerged from the shadows, its pale whiskers trembling. Pippa recognized it immediately as the cat Freckles had rescued, the one Sam had been so desperate to befriend. Apparently it remembered his earlier efforts, because it headed straight for Sam, twining itself around his ankles and purring loudly.
“What do you think?” Max asked, hugging herself.
Sam was holding himself totally still, as if the slightest movement might send the cat running. “I . . . I . . . This . . . You . . .”
“He loves it,” Pippa clarified.
“So that’s why you were stealing milk and cheese from the kitchen,” Thomas said. “You were sneaking them to the cat.”
“I almost told you a dozen times,” Max said. “I don’t know why I didn’t.”
“It’s the best birthday gift I’ve ever had,” Sam said, finally finding his voice. “Really.”
Max looked away, fighting down a smile. But she was obviously pleased. “I haven’t named him yet,” she said. “I thought you might want to.”
“What do you think, Sam?” Pippa said, bending down to scoop the cat up in her arms. He was as light as a feather, all softness and fur. His nose was mottled and his eyes were two different colors. He was not, she thought, the prettiest cat in the world, but he was perfect for Sam. He was perfect for the museum. “Do you have a name in mind?”
“Easy,” Sam said. He reached out and very carefully stroked the cat with a finger, indicating the tiny discolored spots on the very tip of its nose. “He looks just like a Freckles to me.”
Pippa smiled so hard she felt like her cheeks might burst. She buried her nose in the cat’s fur, which smelled like fresh milk and new grass.
“Welcome home, Freckles,” she said, and they moved as a group downstairs, to show Mr. Dumfrey the newest addition to the family.
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About the Authors
LAUREN OLIVER is the author of the teen novels Before I Fall, Panic, Vanishing Girls, and the Delirium trilogy: Delirium, Pandemonium, and Requiem, which have been translated into more than thirty languages and are New York Times and international bestselling novels. She is also the author of two novels for middle grade readers, The Spindlers and Liesl & Po, which was an E. B. White Read Aloud Award nominee. A graduate of the University of Chicago and NYU’s MFA program, Lauren Oliver is also the cofounder of the boutique literary development company Paper Lantern Lit. You can visit her online at www.laurenoliverbooks.com.
H. C. CHESTER is a collector of unusual relics who came into possession of the artifacts of the museum’s estate and discovered the story of the four children.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
Books by Lauren Oliver
FOR YOUNGER READERS
Curiosity House: The Shrunken Head
Curiosity House: The Screaming Statue
Liesl & Po
The Spindlers
FOR OLDER READERS
Before I Fall
Panic
Vanishing Girls
The Delirium Trilogy
Delirium
Pandemonium
Requiem
Delirium Stories: Hana, Annabel, Raven, & Alex
FOR ADULTS
Rooms
Credits
Cover art © 2016 by Benjamin Lacombe
Cover design by Erin Fitzsimmons
Copyright
CURIOSITY HOUSE: THE SCREAMING STATUE. Text copyright © 2016 by Laura Schechter and Harold Schechter. Illustrations copyright © 2016 by Benjamin Lacombe. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
www.harpercollinschildrens.com
* * *
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015948300
ISBN 978-0-06-227084-9 (trade)
ISBN 978-0-06-245885-8 (int’l ed)
EPub Edition © April 2016 ISBN 9780062270863
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FIRST EDITION
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Lauren Oliver, The Screaming Statue
(Series: The Curiosity House # 2)
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