Greenglass House (39 page)

“I'd say so.” She eyed the fire escape.

Negret scratched his head and peered out. The snowy steps ended just above a sloping roof. “That's the generator shed. We can climb down from there, and then we'd be right by the kitchen door at the back of the house.”

“Which is next to the laundry room where everybody's locked up, right?”

“Yup.”

“Sounds like a plan, then.”

“Yup.”

She looked at him, frowning. “You think you can manage the climb?” There was a fearful note in her voice. “All it would take is one slip and . . .” She trailed off. “Well, one slip and you and I would have a lot more in common than we do now,” she finished.

Control in unexpected situations . . . Athletic . . . High in dexterity, intelligence.
Negret reached into the rucksack and pulled on Wildthorn's Crackerjack Gauntlets (also guaranteed to be useful when it's cold).

Of course, it was one thing to pretend to be an escaladeur and another to try to climb down four windy, real-world stories of icy fire escape, jump from there onto a roof, and then somehow get from that roof to the ground.

In the real world he wasn't a blackjack. He hadn't been trained by a famous blackjack father who'd always known his son would follow in his footsteps. He was just a kid who didn't know where he came from and hadn't had any say in where he'd ended up. But, he told himself, he
did
get to decide what he was going to do from here. Just as he'd decided who Negret was, he got to decide who
Milo
was. He got to choose who and what he was going to be from now on.

It must be separated from the others to do its work. It has potential when it is connected to the rest, but when it is sundered away, its potential becomes power.

He got to choose what he was going to
do
with whatever potential, whatever power, he possessed.

“Negret? . . . Milo?”

He nodded. “I'm going to try. If it means I can help my parents and get these creeps out of the house, I've got to.”

He opened the window, and Clem's lockpicks made short work of the screen. Wind and snow swirled into the room, and cold sharp as a knife.

“I'll be with you,” Meddy said. “I'll be right behind you.”

Milo nodded. He swallowed, and then, as carefully as he could, he swung one leg over the windowsill, and then the other, and then he was outside.

He grasped the railing and stood up. The metal was freezing, even through the gloves, and it felt as if the entire fire escape was swaying in the wind, as if it might pull away from the house at any moment.

“It won't come down,” he said to Meddy through chattering teeth. “Dad has it checked every year. It just feels that way.”

She nodded and eased herself out after him, but she looked worried. “You okay?”

The snow was soaking through his shoes. He picked up one foot, testing the slick surface beneath it.

Abruptly, the window came down behind them. “Get down,” Meddy whispered. Milo hunkered down as far as he could while still holding on to the railing, and he could just make out the shape of one of Vinge's thugs passing by in the hallway. A heartbeat later, the second one peered into the room. But he didn't seem to think anything of the screen Milo had left propped against the wall, and it didn't occur to him to look outside, beyond the room itself. He disappeared into the hallway, apparently satisfied.

“Our captive seems to have been let loose,” Meddy said softly.

“M-m-maybe that's good,” Milo replied numbly. “M-maybe they'll waste time looking for us. Right now, Mr. Vinge doesn't have backup.”

But for how long? Milo moved his other foot carefully, testing. With all the snow, it was almost impossible to see where the edge of the stair actually was.
There.
A little give as the snow crumbled, and his foot found the first step.

He eased his way down, still clutching the railing.
Ignore the wind,
he thought.
Ignore the way the metal rattles against the wall. Ignore the way your feet slide a little each time you move.

And then, suddenly, instead of another step there was a wide, flat space. He'd reached the fourth floor.

“Wait.” Meddy slipped past him—of course she didn't have to worry about falling—and peered through the window. “All clear.”

Down and down and down, feet testing, gloved hands clamped tight to the railing. Move one foot. Move one hand. Move the next foot. Move the next hand.

It was freezing. He couldn't feel his feet anymore. And then, another open space, and they had reached the third floor.

“And . . . and all clear.” Meddy looked down. “One more floor, then the shed roof. You still okay?”

Milo nodded, teeth clicking together convulsively. “One more floor.”

“You're doing great,” Meddy said. “Come on. One more. Let's go.”

It was harder to get his feet moving this time, but somehow he got down the last flight of stairs without freezing or falling. Here, instead of more stairs down to the ground, there was a ladder with a latch on it. In good weather, you could just release it and the ladder would slide down, leaving only a short drop to the ground. But now the mechanism that held it in place was frozen solid.

They were up too high to simply jump to the ground, but the roof of the generator shed was closer, and the bottom of its slope was low enough to leap from. “All right,” Milo said through clenched teeth. “All right.” Carefully, he climbed over the railing and stood with the metal bars at his back, clasping them tightly.

“Want me to count?” Meddy asked. Milo nodded. “Okay. Ready? One . . . two . . . three!” She looked down at his hands, which had simply refused to let go. “Want to try again?”

Milo shook his head and jumped.

His feet shot out from under him as he landed on the angled roof. Just like on the fire escape, under the snow was a layer of ice, and it was as if he had landed on an oiled slide. Down he slipped, scrambling helplessly for a grip on something, anything—but there was nothing to hold on to, and before he could even yelp he was tumbling off the roof and into a snowdrift.

He lay in the snow for a moment, trying to determine if anything was broken. Meddy perched on a drift beside him. “All in one piece?”

“I think so.”

“Then get up before you catch pneumonia. Let's go!” She pulled him up by his elbow and pointed at the back door. “We're almost there.”

“Yeah.” He got to his feet, brushed himself off, and felt to make sure the rucksack hadn't come open on the way down. Together he and Meddy crept to the kitchen door.

She peeked through its little curtained window. “I see Mr. Vinge's back, but the other agents must still be looking for us upstairs. Before, one was sitting in a chair in the kitchen guarding the laundry room, but there's no one there now.” She looked back at him. “You ready? We probably don't have much time.”

“I'm ready.” Milo rubbed his frigid hands together and reached for the doorknob.

But the door only opened partway, and it gave a tremendous protesting squeal in the process. Mr. Vinge rushed into the kitchen to see what the noise was. His eyes went wide. “You!”

Milo slammed the door shut and leaned against it. “What now?”

“Well, now—” The door flew open again and he went flying into the snow. One of Vinge's thugs towered over Milo for a moment, then grabbed him and dragged him inside. Meddy followed, wringing her hands. “I guess I was wrong about these guys still being upstairs,” she whispered apologetically.

 

fourteen

“Sneaky, aren't we?” Mr. Vinge observed as the man carried Milo into the living room and dropped him unceremoniously onto the rag rug before the fireplace. “Just keep your seat,” he snapped at Mrs. Pine, who was on her feet and reaching for her son. Reluctantly, she dropped back onto the couch between her husband and Fenster Plum.

“You all right, Milo?” Mr. Pine demanded. “These guys didn't hurt you, did they?”

“No, Dad, I'm okay. Just cold, is all,” he said as reassuringly as he could manage through chattering teeth.

Milo and Meddy looked at each other. “Remember the plan,” she said. “Find what he wants and get him out of here, Milo. Okay?”

“Okay.” He got to his feet and faced the three customs agents. “Mr. Vinge, you said you came for Doc Holystone's last cargo. If I tell you where it is, if I give it to you, will you leave? Will you leave us all alone?”

Mr. Vinge eyed him with interest. “
You
know where it is?”

“Like you said, I'm better at hide-and-seek than you are. Plus you practically told me where it was yourself.” He folded his arms. “Is it a deal or not?”

“I suppose,” Mr. Vinge said, taking his gun casually from his pocket, “I could just point this at your mom and tell you to take your deals and shove them.” Then he smiled grimly. “But yes, it's a deal. All I want is the cargo.”

“All right, then.” Trying not to think of the gun or the threat that had just been made, Milo got up shakily and went into the dining room.

Please, let us be right. Please, please, please.

He took one of the tall stools from the bar between the dining room and the kitchen and put it up on the table, right under the pale glass chandelier. His feet were still a little numb, so he was extra careful as he clambered onto the table and then onto the stool for a closer look.

The piece that connected the glass structure to the brass tube that held the electrical cord was also brass, and shaped like a square on top of a rectangle. Looking closely, Milo could make out slightly raised blocks along the side of the rectangle.
If this is a ship,
he thought
, those are the gunports.
The top square sat roughly where the quarterdeck of a ship would be, and a very faint seam ran along its edge, as if it had once had a lid that could be removed.

Milo took the lockpick kit from his rucksack and selected a tool with a thin, triangular spade at the end. Carefully, he wedged it into the seam and gave it a twist. The top of the square box popped off easily, although the entire piece gave a little lurch to one side as it did, twisting on the brass tube from which it hung. Milo reached inside and felt soft fabric.

“There's something here,” he whispered.

The stool shot out from beneath him. Milo flailed for something to hold on to, but the glass sails of the chandelier just fluttered and clicked out of reach and he went down hard, twisting his ankle and landing on his hip on the table. Meddy clapped her hands to her face with a squeal; and in the living room, Mrs. Pine shouted his name. “I'm fine,” he groaned. “Oww.”

“I'll take that.” Mr. Vinge tossed the stool aside and climbed onto the table himself, shoving Milo carelessly away with one foot. He reached into the chandelier and stepped down from the table holding a blue felt bag in one hand. He worked open the drawstring and dumped the contents into his other palm, frowning.

Milo couldn't see what had fallen out of the bag, but whatever it was, it wasn't what Mr. Vinge had been expecting. He glared at Milo. “Is this a joke?”

“Is what a joke?” Milo snapped, rubbing his ankle. “What is it?”

Mr. Vinge shoved the thing in Milo's face. It was a little painted figurine, very similar to the one Mr. Pine had given Milo that very morning, only this was a girl—or at least, it had a girl's face. The rest of it was shaped like a bird of some kind. An owl, maybe.

“Can I have a look?” he asked.

Mr. Vinge snorted and tossed the figurine to him. It was incredibly detailed, with individual feathers painted on its arched wings and minute scales on its legs and claws, which were curled around a branch. Its eyes looked more like an owl's eyes than a girl's. Milo turned it over. There was one word painted on the base.
Sirin.

Well, there is a kind of character I've always wanted to play. . . .

“It's a figurine for role-playing games. It's—it's a type of character called a scholiast.” Milo flinched as something ran down his face. He touched his cheek and discovered he was crying. “It was for his daughter,” he said. “It's a character she always wanted to play.”

“It's a
toy?
” Mr. Vinge snarled. “A
child's toy?
”

Milo nodded. He looked at Meddy, who was standing beside the table, unseen by everyone but him. She stared at the tiny owl-girl with wonder on her face. “He must have brought it back from a trip for her.”

“That can't be all there is,” Mr. Vinge protested. “All the subterfuge, hiding it like that—why would anyone go to all that trouble for a
toy?
”

Fenster spoke up from the sofa. “Ain't got any kids in your life, have you?”