Greenglass House (41 page)

The man at the helm didn't seem worried about being followed. He wore a brown tarpaulin hat with a gold pin stuck through the band that ran around the crown. His chin was clean shaven, but his sideburns were red-blond, just exactly the same shade as Meddy's. He was younger than Milo had expected, younger than his own parents, but he had the stern, determined face and blazing eyes of a hero. This was someone who was intent upon important things, difficult things, and who would be a force to be reckoned with if you tried to stand in his way. All of that was clear from his face and the way he gripped the tiller. And from the people gathered on the riverbank, waving and cheering with all their might, it seemed that he just had to be a force for good. You almost didn't need to know who he was to want to cheer him on too. But of course, they all knew exactly who he was. Captain Michael Whitcher, the smuggler who'd called himself Doc Holystone.

Dr. Gowervine had called this kind of drawing a cartoon, and it did look a bit like one, in that the shapes had thick, dark outlines that Milo figured must represent the metal that would join the pieces together in the final glasswork. But it was not at all
cartoonish.
The colors were subtle and varied, and the forms the shapes built were fluid and seemed to have motion of their own, from the frothing water at the bow of the clipper to the sails billowing in the wind. The only other place Milo could remember seeing people done in stained glass was in a church, and the face of the man at the helm did not look at all like the stylized, immobile figures of saints Milo was used to. He looked as if he might turn his head at any moment from the river before him and look right out at you.

It was staggeringly beautiful—a work of art all on its own, even though the piece of glasswork it was intended to become had never been made. It was almost hard to imagine the final window being any more stunning.

Meddy reached out and touched the painted face. “That's my dad,” she said softly. “That's just how he looked to me.”

“It's just how I pictured him too.” Dr. Gowervine's face, which had been so pinched and tight and aggravated ever since he'd arrived, had relaxed at last into a look of contentment. “What a treasure. This house is so full of treasures.”

“Boy, is it ever,” Milo put in.

Mrs. Pine spoke up. “You said you'd been looking your whole life for this. What did you plan to do if you found it?”

“I don't know.” The professor couldn't tear his eyes from the cartoon. “I suppose before I told the story I hoped you might not know what you had, that perhaps I could convince you to sell it to me. But of course, you must keep it,” he added with complete sincerity. “It belongs here, with you. With his daughter's . . . memory.”

“What if . . .” Meddy hesitated. “What if you borrowed it?”

“Well, then I'd take it to the university, have a copy made by a glassmaker I trust—an apprentice of Skellansen's, actually—and perhaps, if you think it proper, ask him to go on and create the window it was meant to be. I suspect the university might display it if I asked.” He touched one edge that had been worn from rubbing up against the wiring in the tube. “And perhaps I might go ahead and have this mounted for you. For preservation.”

“That sounds like a pretty good plan,” Mr. Pine said. “What do you think, Milo?”

“I think it ought to be up to Meddy,” Milo said. “Addie, I mean.”

Milo's mother nodded. “I agree.”

“Then I think you should borrow it,” Meddy told the professor. “Take care of it and don't let anything happen to it. But I'm really glad other people will get to see this picture.”

“Your father was my hero, you know,” Dr. Gowervine said. “Perhaps, sometime later, you and I could talk about him.”

Meddy beamed. “That would be great.”

There it was again, that joy, the same feeling Milo had when Mrs. Hereward had told Owen the Lansdegown story. Meddy's family was gone, but here was someone who could share what he knew about her father, and who would cherish what she told him.

Mrs. Pine came around to where Milo stood and put an arm around his shoulders. “Not a bad Christmas, all things considered? Even if it wasn't what you were expecting?”

Milo looked around the room. With Mr. Vinge gone, those who remained were either old friends or those who had come looking for something and had found it—or something enough like it to be content—and had given something to someone else. Mrs. Hereward, who had found a lamp and given Owen a piece of his past; Georgie, who had found an answer (even though it wasn't the one she had been looking for) and who had helped convince Mrs. Hereward to tell the Lansdegown story; Owen, who had come seeking Clem and who had given Milo his childhood treasure; Clem, who had come seeking the key to Owen's heart and who had helped Milo escape so that he could rescue everyone else; Dr. Gowervine, who had come seeking his hero and would be able to give Meddy new knowledge of her own family.

“I think it turned out
better
than I was expecting,” Milo admitted. “And it's not even Christmas yet.”

Into the contented hush that followed his words came the frosty peal of the railcar bell.

 

fifteen

It was late; full dark, by the time the grizzled ferryman had downed a cup of coffee and had his scarf and gloves warmed in the dryer and declared himself ready to sail again. One by one the guests began drifting downstairs with packed bags. “Are you sure you want to leave now too?” Mrs. Pine asked when Clem and Owen came to pay their bill. “It's so late, and it's going to be freezing out there. Where will you go?”

“Owen lives in the Quayside Harbors,” Clem said. She winked at Milo. “We'll be home before Santa gets anywhere close. And we'll pass the word for some reliable lawmen to come up when they can, if you like. I know one or two who won't let customs bully them around, and you might feel better about all this if you talk to someone.”

“Well, I won't lie, that would be wonderful,” Mr. Pine admitted, “but only if you're sure you really want to go. And of course, we hope you enjoyed your stay.”

All four of them burst into laughter.

“You didn't get to show me how to use the lockpicks!” Milo protested as Clem and Owen made their way to the door with Mr. Pine and Mr. Ostling, the ferryman. At the mention of lockpicks, Milo's parents both looked over at him with similar questioning expressions, but neither said anything.

“You're right, I didn't.” Clem sat on the arm of Milo's chair. “Tell you what. When I get home, I'll send you a book to start with. Then one of these days, I'll see if I can't stop back by and see how you're coming along. Fair?”

“Fair.”

Owen held out his hand. “Thanks again, Milo, for everything. It was really nice to meet you and your family.”

Mrs. Hereward came down next, followed closely by Dr. Gowervine. She turned to Milo. “Young man?”

Milo sat up straighter in his chair. “Yes, Mrs. Hereward?”

She fixed him with a stern look. Then it crumbled away and she smiled as she held out a flat box wrapped in red striped paper. “Merry Christmas, dear.”

“For me? Thank you!” He tore off the paper and opened the box. Inside were a scarf and a pair of mittens, dark green with white snowflakes dotting them here and there. “Are these what you were knitting all this time?”

“Yes, but I confess I didn't realize they were for you until today.” She patted his shoulder. “You were very good to all of us, Milo, and we certainly didn't give you any particular reason to be. Whoever said this house is full of treasures was right, and I think you're the biggest treasure of all.” She patted his shoulder again and rearranged her face back into its sterner configuration. “Now I think that's quite enough of my being sentimental. How about putting on those mittens and helping me with my things?”

Milo bundled himself up while Mr. Down and Mrs. Up settled their bills with his mother, then he collected as much of Mrs. Hereward's baggage as he could manage and made his way carefully out the door, down the stairs, and across the lawn to the butter-yellow light in the pavilion and the fairy lights that glowed golden under their white frosting.

Mr. Pine was there with his hand on the lever that started the winch; from the sound of the rails, the
Whilforber Whirlwind
and its two smitten passengers must've been about two-thirds of the way down the cliff.

“Mrs. Hereward and Dr. Gowervine are coming too,” Milo said, huffing a little as he set down the bags.

“Clem told me.” Mr. Pine tugged on his son's new scarf. “Present from the knitter?”

“Yeah. These, too.” He held up his mittened hands.

“Nice.”

The pitch of the rails changed, and Mr. Pine hauled the lever to its neutral position. A moment later, the bell rang below: a single crisp, half-frozen metallic note. Mr. Pine pulled the lever to start the
Whirlwind
back up the hill, and he and Milo stood in silence, watching the rustle of the trees in the wind sending down tiny flurries of snow. The fairy lights twinkled as the wind shifted them, too, and at last the blue nose of the railcar appeared at the top of the slope just as Mrs. Hereward and Dr. Gowervine arrived at the platform.

“It's been a lovely stay,” Dr. Gowervine said. He patted the tube Milo had thought was a telescope case, which now held the precious Skellansen cartoon of Doc Holystone. “Truly. Thank you.” Mrs. Hereward just nodded to Mr. Pine and patted Milo's shoulder once more, and then they, too, were off down the hill.

“Let's go see about some hot chocolate,” Mr. Pine said when the bell rang again from the bottom to let them know the railcar had delivered its passengers safely.

They met Georgie on the porch. “Taking the ferry with the rest of them?” Mr. Pine asked, ready to head back to the landing.

Georgie shook her head. “No, after all the noise I made about wanting a boat, I'm hopping the train instead. Brandon's giving Fenster a ride into town and I asked if I could tag along. Less . . . crowded,” she said with a sad smile. “Mrs. Caraway and her daughter are coming too. They should be out in a minute.”

Milo blinked. The Caraways had known about the BTS, just as the Pines had, because Brandon was a friend of the inn. But Georgie? “He told you about the Belowground?”

She gave him a wry look. “I'm the Eye, Milo, remember? I didn't need to be
told.
I just needed to convince him I wouldn't tell anyone else, and that's the kind of secret a thief just doesn't share.”

“Wow.
How
did you know?”

Georgie smiled. “Thieves also don't usually share how they get their information, Milo. But I will tell you that there was a big clue in
The Raconteur's Commonplace Book.
Never overlook folklore if you want to really know about the place it came from.”

“I must not have gotten to that story,” Milo said, searching his memory. “But that reminds me—don't forget your book. I'll go get it now. Be right back.”

“Well, wait, you haven't finished it?”

“Not quite. Almost.”

“Do you want to?” she asked.

Milo considered. “Yes. I like it a lot.”

“Then keep it. Lend it to someone else when you're done, okay?”

“Cool. Thanks, I will.” He fidgeted while they waited for Brandon and Fenster. “I feel bad,” he said at last. “Everybody else got something important to them. You didn't.”

“Not true,” Georgie protested with a grin. “I got a blue cake. A very delicious blue cake,” she added as the door opened and Fenster came out onto the porch with Brandon a step behind him.

“Which it was my pleasure,” Fenster said gallantly. “Even if Mrs. Hereward was a bit stingy with the cinnamon.”

Georgie took the old smuggler's arm. “She says it was pepper, you know.”

“Just a pinch, that's all I wanted to put in,” Fenster grumbled. “Just a pinch. How far by the lee could it have gone?”

Brandon shook Milo's hand. “See you in better weather, mate. Happy Christmas.”

Hugs from Mrs. Caraway and Lizzie, and then the whole caravan trooped away into the woods with Mr. Pine toward the red brick shed that hid the entrance to the Belowground Transit System. Milo watched them until they were gone.

“I'm going to go too. For now, anyway.”

Milo turned to find the ghost girl standing beside him on the porch. “You don't have to, you know.”

Meddy—Milo still couldn't quite manage to think of her as Addie—nodded. “I know that, and I'm grateful. But you should have your Christmas with your family, now that all the guests are gone. That's all you've wanted the whole time, isn't it?”

“It was,” he admitted, “but I don't mind anymore. Not about you. You're welcome to spend Christmas with us.” And rather to Milo's own surprise, he meant it.