Greenglass House (16 page)

Mostly
bare, because it was snowing again.

Milo stretched and sighed and checked the clock: not quite eight. Plenty of time to laze around before he needed to drag himself downstairs. He had just picked up
The Raconteur's Commonplace Book
to finish the story he'd been reading when sharp knocking sounded on his door. Milo scrambled out of bed, yanked on his robe, and peered out into the hallway. Meddy stood there, barely managing to conceal her excitement. There was some sort of hullaballoo drifting up from somewhere below: at least three angry voices shouting over one another. “You better come down,” Meddy whispered. “Sounds like you aren't the only blackjack in the house.”

“Didn't we already know that?” he muttered, shoving his feet into his escaladeur shoes and grabbing his rucksack from the desk chair.

“Well, we suspected it, but now something's
really
gone missing.”

Negret's blackjack keys were on his bedside table. He tucked them in his pocket, then followed her down the hall toward the noise at the bottom of the stairs. “Is it missing from Clem's room?”

She tossed him a dark look over her shoulder. “Nope.”

Christmas season at Greenglass House. Usually so full of traditions—roaring fires and carols and hot chocolate and roast meats and pies and puddings. This year, it was also full of yelling adults.

Milo had begun to assume that any shouting in the house was likely to come from Mrs. Hereward and Dr. Gowervine, so he figured two of the voices had to belong to them. Once Meddy had mentioned theft, he'd guessed the third voice had to be Clem's—after all, they knew for sure someone had been in her room who shouldn't have been. But when he reached the bottom of the steps, he stopped in his tracks, shocked to discover that he'd gotten two out of three wrong. Yes, Mrs. Hereward was there, clutching a mauve dressing gown about herself, red-faced and shrieking, while Mrs. Pine and Mrs. Caraway tried to calm her down, but neither Dr. Gowervine nor Clem was anywhere to be seen.

Instead, there was Georgie, and also—Milo frowned—Mr. Vinge?

A familiar hand gently moved Milo aside.
“Knock it off!”
Mr. Pine bellowed as he stepped into the fray. “Everyone just
settle down.
” He glared from one fuming face to the next. “One at a time. What is the problem? You first, ma'am,” he said to Mrs. Hereward.

The old lady didn't look like she could've held it in if he'd made her wait. Her face had gone the shade of one of the crimson poinsettias lining the stairs. “I have been
robbed!
” she wailed.

Milo's dad turned next to Mr. Vinge. “I am . . . missing something,” the tall man said carefully.

Georgie waited with folded arms until it was her turn. “Me too. Something's missing. I had it yesterday.”

“Is it possible any of these items have just been mislaid?” Mr. Pine asked patiently.

“I suppose anything is possible,” Georgie said reluctantly. “But I know where I put it, and it's not there.”

Mr. Vinge spoke up next. “I don't like to accuse anyone of stealing, but the thing is simply gone.”

“Not a chance!” moaned Mrs. Hereward.
“I have been robbed!”

“Do you think one of them's talking about the map?” Sirin whispered. “Maybe whoever owns it didn't realize until now that it was missing?”

Negret shrugged. “When was the last time you saw . . . the missing things?” he asked the guests. “What
are
the missing things anyway?”

The three burgled parties looked suspiciously at one another. “I'm missing a book,” Georgie said. “A notebook. I had it last night. I wrote in it before bed.”

“Mr. Vinge?”

“A watch,” the old man replied. “My pocket watch, which I was wearing last night during the storytelling.”

“Mrs. Hereward?”

She folded her arms. “My knitting bag, which I was using yesterday evening. I sat up knitting until past midnight.”

“Did you maybe leave it down here?” Mr. Pine asked, looking into the living room.

“No, I did not leave it down here! I took it up with me. I'm not in the habit of leaving my personal belongings lying around hotels!”

Interesting,
Negret thought. Three missing things; none of them was the chart, and none of them had gone missing from Clem's room.

“Okay, okay.” Mr. Pine rubbed his head and blinked. “Somebody make coffee and everybody keep it together. I'm sure we can figure this out.”

Georgie huffed, stomped to the foyer, and started pulling on her boots. “I'm going for a walk. I'll be back when I'm calm.” Mr. Vinge stayed where he was, right next to the stairs. He tucked his hands in his pockets and waited. Mrs. Hereward did not look much like she wanted to keep it together. She began pacing alongside the dining table. The
ca-click, ca-click
of her footfalls was nearly unbearable.

Negret tiptoed into the kitchen after his parents, trying to be unobtrusive as he got the milk bottle from the fridge and poured himself a glass.

“You don't really think anybody could've broken into their rooms, do you?” Mrs. Pine asked her husband quietly. “In our twelve years of running this place, even with our . . . usual guests, I don't remember ever having a theft.”

“And they all seem to think they had the missing things when they went to bed,” Mr. Pine whispered back. “Someone breaking into their rooms while they were sleeping? That seems awfully far-fetched. Plus, the thefts don't make any sense. A watch I can see being stolen, but a notebook and a knitting bag? My guess is they put them away somewhere unfamiliar and now they don't remember where—or they may not even have looked that well, and when they came down and somebody suggested thievery, they all leaped at the idea.”

“Well,” Milo's mother grumbled, “we're going to have to find the stuff that's MIA. Lost or stolen, it's all still got to be here somewhere. Got any brilliant ideas?”

Negret carried his glass of milk into the living room and crept into the space behind the Christmas tree, where Sirin was already waiting. “The rooms are so small,” he said thoughtfully. “How could the thief have snuck in and taken things while people were sleeping, without waking them up?”

“I was thinking maybe Clem could've managed it.” Sirin scratched her head, knocking the Helm of Revelations askew. “Unless . . .”

Negret nodded. “Unless all three of them were out of their rooms at some point last night. So now we go from two potential creepers to
four?
”

“Looks that way. I wonder if any of them would admit to wandering around after everyone else went to sleep.”

Ca-click, ca-click, ca-click.
Mrs. Hereward's pacing was forceful, but she looked as though she was trying not to cry as she stalked back and forth in heeled slippers that matched her robe. “Is it weird that all of this began after they started telling stories?” Negret asked. “I can't stop thinking that if Mrs. Hereward was sneaking around, it had something to do with the story she told.”

“So you think . . . what? That she was looking for something from that story?” Sirin frowned. “But it's—well, like you said. It's just a story.”

“Yeah, but if that's really all it is, why'd somebody steal her bag?”

“What's her bag have to do with the story, Negret? She's obviously rich. Maybe it's worth something. That's the simplest answer.”

“No, it has something to do with the story, I know it.” He frowned and watched as Mrs. Pine approached the pacing lady with a cup of tea and maneuvered her to a seat at the table. “
This house
was sewn right there on the bag. You saw it. And the gate, just like in the windows and on the map.”

“All right,” Sirin argued, “but then if she's looking for something, what is it? What's the house got to do with an old story? 'Cause it's a
story!
It's
made up.
”

“So are Sirin and Negret,” he pointed out reasonably.

“Do
you
think
she's
playing a game?” Sirin retorted. “I don't.”

“No, it isn't that I think she's playing a game. But there's something about that story that's important to her, and somehow that's why she's here. Anyway, you're the one who said maybe Mrs. Hereward didn't think the story she told was just a story.”

“All right then, fearless leader, where do we start?”

Negret looked at the old lady sitting forlornly over her tea. “I wonder if she'll tell us.”

“If she'll tell
you,
” the scholiast reminded him, pulling the Eyes of True and Aching Clarity down off her forehead and perching them on her nose. “I'm invisible, remember? Also, you're the one with the high charisma score. Charisma's what makes you persuasive. You're way more likely to get her talking.”

“I still don't quite understand how these ability scores work.”

“In a tabletop game? Chance and probability. The higher your ability score, the better your chances. You roll a die to see if you succeed. For you, here and now?” She grinned. “Believe you can do it and try hard.”

Negret sighed. “Fine.” He crawled out from behind the tree and headed for the dining room. But just as he was about to slide onto the bench next to Mrs. Hereward, his mom's voice stopped him.

“Hey, Milo?” she called. “I hate to ask, but would you mind giving Mrs. Caraway a hand with breakfast?”

He slumped for a moment, then obediently changed direction and padded into the kitchen.

“Thanks, kiddo.” His mother leaned close. “Your dad and I want to talk right away to the people who are missing things and try and figure out what's going on.”

“What do you need me to do?” Milo grumbled.

Mrs. Caraway patted his shoulder. “Could you put dishes and napkins and stuff out on the table? This is a big help, Milo.”

Breakfast was soon underway. Clem came trotting down the stairs, then Dr. Gowervine emerged at a more stately pace. Both went right back up again after they heard the news, presumably to check their own belongings, and neither returned until breakfast was nearly ready. Mr. and Mrs. Pine chatted with Mrs. Hereward in the upstairs study, then Mr. Vinge. Just as Mrs. Caraway sent Milo to the table with the first of a seemingly never-ending procession of big covered dishes of scrambled eggs and sausages and grits and roast potatoes and fruit salad and sliced tomatoes with salt and pepper, Georgie returned from her walk red-faced from the cold and covered with a layer of fresh snow. “It's really coming down out there again,” she announced.

Three racks of toast, crocks of butter, a pot of coffee and a pot of hot water for tea, and the table was set. The denizens of Greenglass House filed along the side of the table, filling their plates; evidently Mrs. Caraway had decided buffets were the way to go. It was still a very awkward breakfast, though. Even though they weren't sitting together, it was just what Negret had wished for the night before: each guest seemed to be trying to figure out everybody else. Now, if only he and Sirin could determine what clues, if any, were being dropped.

“You sit in the living room,” she whispered. “I'll get my food last and eat at the bar by the kitchen so I can watch whoever stays in the dining room. Hurry!”

“How very odd,” Dr. Gowervine was saying when Negret took a seat on the hearth. “Has anyone come up with a connection between the missing items?” The three burgled guests glared at him, Mrs. Hereward and Georgie from the sofa, Mr. Vinge from his usual chair. Apparently, it hadn't occurred to him that he, not having had anything of his own go missing, was automatically a prime suspect.

“No, Dr. Gowervine, we haven't,” Mrs. Hereward said frostily. “
Is
there some connection between them? Please enlighten us, if you know something we don't.”

Dr. Gowervine swallowed. “I was merely asking. I was trying to be helpful.”

The old lady stabbed a potato slice. Her fork rang so hard against the plate that Mrs. Pine winced. “As far as I'm concerned, the only reason for anyone to steal an old knitting bag is kleptomania.”

Clem wandered in from the dining room with her plate in her hand. “You must be very sound sleepers.”

Mrs. Hereward glared at her. “Or the culprit was someone very, very quiet,” she retorted.

There was an accusation there for sure, but Clem only shrugged. “That's a given. But even a very quiet person couldn't be completely silent, not in such small, creaky rooms.” She blinked and glanced over her shoulder. “No offense. I just meant—”

Milo's mother replied from the dining room. “We know what you meant, Clem. None taken.”

It was interesting, Negret thought, how quiet Georgie Moselle and Mr. Vinge were being. Mr. Vinge was working his way deliberately through his breakfast, saying nothing. Georgie seemed too upset to eat much. She picked at what little she'd put on her plate. When someone asked her a direct question, she answered, but Mrs. Hereward was so loudly indignant that this hadn't happened very often.

Now Georgie was looking thoughtfully in Clem's direction. This was hardly surprising. Clem had to be considered Suspect Number One, even considering what Negret knew about Dr. Gowervine. She was not merely quiet—she was practically soundless. Plus, most everybody had heard her say she was a cat burglar, even though it had sounded like a joke. And Negret simply couldn't picture the short, gawky Dr. Gowervine in the role of a silent, sneaky footpad.

Then again, two days ago Milo would never have pictured himself as a silent, sneaky footpad—yet here he was, feeling more and more comfortable as the escaladeur Negret. Maybe Dr. Gowervine couldn't be ruled out quite that easily.

After breakfast, everyone went off on his or her own again. Clem announced that she was going to run the stairs for a bit, and disappeared. Dr. Gowervine went out onto the screened porch with his pipe. It was decided that the Pines would go up to their rooms with the burgled guests one at a time to double-check that the missing items weren't simply hiding in plain sight. Mrs. Hereward was first, of course.