Stealing Magic (11 page)

“Goodness! What’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s gone … the key … we … can’t find it.” Ruthie could barely talk, she was so out of breath. “Mrs. McVittie … how are we going to … warn Louisa?”

“Sit down, both of you, catch your breath.” Mrs. McVittie walked them into the living room. “Now, one at a time, tell me what this is about.” She listened patiently as they recounted everything.

Finally Mrs. McVittie interrupted their blast of words
and worry. “Calm down. All this upset won’t make the key reappear. Perhaps if we start to think logically and observe carefully, we’ll find clues that may lead to answers.”

“Observe what carefully?” Ruthie questioned, her voice tinged with fear.

“Everything. Go back to your research paper, to the Thorne Rooms, to the catalogue, to your memory. I will do the same. Some small thing unnoticed may tell you more than you can imagine. Question your assumptions.” She looked at the two sitting glumly in her cushiony chairs. “All is not lost.”

Ruthie climbed into bed that night emotionally exhausted. Trying to take Mrs. McVittie’s advice, she went over the recent events as if her life were a movie, replaying moments, looking at things from new angles, hoping to see a glimpse of the key. But it only reminded her of the possibility of never finding it again.

She was so worried about Louisa. Could she live with the knowledge that she had had the chance to save someone and then blew it? And it wasn’t just Louisa—it was her whole family. She put her headphones on. Letting the French words soak into her memory as she repeated them, she had some trouble with the phrase
“Je regrette”
—“I’m sorry.”

Ruthie tossed and turned as she slept. She dreamed she was standing in front of the horrible building she had seen in Paris, the one with the frightening eagle on the top. The stone bird suddenly came to life, swooped down
and chased her, only instead of being pursued through the streets of Paris, she was running through her neighborhood in Chicago. The swoosh of its massive wings over her head and the gusts they created nearly knocked her off her feet. The sharp claws had just grazed her shoulders, piercing her shirt. She sat up in bed, a cold sweat on her forehead. It was dawn.

Grateful that she had awoken to escape the talons of the predator bird, Ruthie got out of bed and used the bathroom. She wanted to go back to sleep, but she needed something to calm her. Then she thought of the beaded handbag. Ruthie took it out of the drawer and climbed back into bed with it, adjusting the pillow and angling herself so that the faint early-morning light shone through the window right onto the handbag.

The beads sparkled, and Ruthie felt slightly hypnotized by the rainbows bouncing off the facets. It looked so much more impressive than the handbags she’d seen in department stores. This one dazzled. She turned it over and over, following the floral design as it wound its way intricately around the bag. Was this what Mrs. McVittie had had in mind when she’d said to observe everything carefully?

And then she felt it. There was no doubt this time. It was warming in her hand, first just at her fingertips, then spreading to her palms.
I knew it!
she thought.

Soon it was sparkling even more intensely. She didn’t look away, thinking that if she stopped staring at the bag,
the warming would cease. But it didn’t cool down, and for a good ten minutes the handbag seemed almost alive, as if it were trying to tell her something. Did the bag have a kind of magic triggered by something unknown to her? Or was it like a hibernating animal rousing? She had no idea why this was happening now. Finally it cooled to normal and the glinting dimmed. She rolled onto her back and lay clutching the bag, listening to the first chirping birds outside.

When Ruthie woke up again, it was nearly eight o’clock, and the bag was still in her hands. The songs of the birds had been replaced by sounds coming from the kitchen. She jumped out of bed, taking the bag with her to find Mrs. McVittie.

“Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?” Mrs. McVittie was cracking eggs into a mixing bowl.

“I had a horrible dream about being chased by a giant eagle,” Ruthie began. “It woke me up, but then I took this out of the drawer.” She held up the handbag for Mrs. McVittie to see. “And it warmed in my hand! It was glowing too!”

“Are you sure?” Mrs. McVittie asked, but without any serious doubt in her voice.

“I’m positive. The night you gave it to me I thought it did the same thing, but I wasn’t sure—I thought maybe I imagined it. But this morning it lasted a long time. Mrs. McVittie, where did it come from?”

“I don’t know precisely. It was my sister’s and she prized it. She never would let me touch it and never said where she got it. It was in a box of things I inherited when she died. Packed away for years!” Her brows were knitted for a moment. “I wonder …”

“What, Mrs. McVittie?”

“It’s very possible that she actually stole it from one of the rooms and never told me. It would have been easy for her to slip it in her pocket, since we took turns going into the rooms. We never went in them together, because one of us had to lift the other to enter.”

“But which room do you think it might have come from?”

“Why don’t you get dressed and we’ll do a little research after breakfast.”

As Ruthie dressed she had a renewed sense of optimism. She wondered how old the bag really was and how much magic it held. By the time she’d finished her omelet, Ruthie had convinced herself that the handbag would somehow lead to answers—and to Louisa.

Mrs. McVittie had her own copy of the Thorne Rooms catalogue, and the two of them pored over the pictures of every room to see if they could find any pattern, any decorative motif that resembled the handbag. Ruthie felt discouraged when, after scanning the last of the European room pages, they had found nothing.

“I’m not at all surprised. I’ve always thought the style more American,” Mrs. McVittie reassured her.

Sure enough, when they turned the page to a South Carolina ballroom, room A29, they were both immediately struck by the patterns on the rug and the color scheme of the room. Soft green, peach and gold echoed the colors of the beads, and the floral shapes of the rug repeated those of the bag. It was not an exact match, but the handbag wouldn’t have looked out of place in the room.

“Of course, the photos in this catalogue were all taken long after my sister and I had visited the rooms,” Mrs. McVittie said, gazing for a long time at the picture. “Yes, we were in this room. I’m certain of it.”

“I’ve got to tell Jack. We need to bring the handbag into the corridor and see what happens!”

F
RUSTRATINGLY, JACK HAD A MAKEUP
piano lesson that morning, and then Lydia made him stay home for lunch. He finally arrived at Mrs. McVittie’s a little after two, and they hurried to the museum. Ruthie was dizzy with the possibilities of what might happen, but Jack reminded her that without Christina’s key they would have to find just the right moment to sneak into the corridor the old-fashioned way—with the non-magic Art Institute key. The risk of getting caught was great. Ruthie tried not to let this dampen her mood.

Neither of them had a backpack to check, so they made their way swiftly to the lower level, the small beaded handbag safely in Ruthie’s messenger bag. They entered Gallery 11 and went straight to room A29.

Less than ten seconds later Ruthie whispered, “It’s
getting warm. I can feel it through the canvas, Jack!” She discreetly opened the bag and they both looked inside.

Even with no light hitting it, the smaller handbag glowed, the beads sparkling like diamonds. They could feel the heat emanating from it. The light bounced off the other items in her bag, all dull in comparison.

Ruthie closed the messenger bag and looked around to see if anyone was watching.

“Come over here.” She led Jack out of Gallery 11 to a small side room where computers and chairs were set up for kids. It was empty, and Ruthie thought they wouldn’t be noticed. “What should we do? I’m afraid to touch it. It’s still warm, even out here.”

“I think I should touch it first.”

“Okay, but really quickly.” She opened her messenger bag.

Jack looked around, then placed his hand inside and touched the glowing beads with one finger. Nothing happened, so he reached his hand around the object, as if to grab it.

“Funny, I can feel the warmth around it, but when I touch it, it feels pretty much room temperature.” He left his hand on it for a minute, waiting. “You try it.”

Ruthie slowly lowered her index finger. She quickly pulled it out. “Hot, really hot, Jack!”

“Awesome! Do it again.”

She repeated the motion, leaving her finger on longer.
“It’s not spreading; it’s only hot where I have contact.” She kept her finger on it. “Just like Christina’s book.”

“Do you hear anything?”

She listened for a moment to see if she would hear the magical bell sounds that they’d heard standing in front of Christina’s book. “No. Nothing.”

They sat for a minute or two, attempting to figure out what the glowing object was trying to tell them. “Let me see it close up,” Jack said.

“You take it out,” Ruthie suggested.

Jack reached into her messenger bag and lifted the jeweled handbag. He turned his back to the main room so that anyone walking by wouldn’t be able to see the light coming from his lap. The handbag had a small clasp with a ruby-red rhinestone holding it closed. He pressed on it and the bag opened. The interior was lined with gold satin, which nearly blinded them with a burst of light.

“Oh!” was all Ruthie could say as the glow lit up Jack’s face. The luminosity appeared to be radiating from one spot underneath the gold fabric.

“I think there’s something in there,” Jack said, fingering the fabric. “I feel something hard.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you’re just feeling the beadwork from the other side.”

“No. It feels different, like something flat, maybe a large coin.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out his Swiss army knife. He pulled the scissor implement from its slot.

“What are you doing, Jack? You can’t cut it!” Ruthie was horrified.

“I’ll just undo the stitching along the inside seam. We can stitch it back up.”

“You’ll ruin it!” Ruthie cried.

“Someone hid something in the lining and we need to find out what it is! I’ll be super careful,” he promised.

Ruthie’s mind spun. Someone had hidden something? What? Who? “Okay.” She breathed deeply.

Jack deftly cut the tiny threads of the inside seam, avoiding any damage to the fabric. When he’d cut about an inch he wiggled his finger in. He looked at Ruthie with a grin.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know yet.” He made a few more snips so he could get two fingers in the opening, then pulled them out. Between his index and middle fingers was a flat piece of metal, slightly larger than a quarter. He dropped it into his palm. It pulsed with light. And the handbag slowly stopped glowing.

“Do you have any idea what it is?” Ruthie asked, astonished by what she was seeing.

It was nothing at all like Christina’s key, no elaborate metalwork. The metal looked cheap, and the design was very plain. Scuffed and scratched, it was roughly a square, with letters and numbers stamped into it on the diagonal. A hole had been punched at one of the corners. If she had come across it on the ground, it wouldn’t have looked
like anything of value—except for the fact that it was glowing.

“What does that say?” Ruthie asked. It was hard to make out because the metal was so worn. “It looks like
C-h-a-r
something. And then some numbers—
587
. And some more letters—something
v-a-n-t, 1835
. What is it?”

“Beats me; kind of looks like a really beat-up pet license or a soldier’s dog tag.” Jack shook his head. “But I think you have to try touching it.”

Ruthie looked around first to make sure no one was near, then he handed it to her. The moment she touched it, the glow from the odd object increased, the warmth spreading just like the key. The neckline of her T-shirt began to feel loose, and the process that was now so familiar to Ruthie began.

Before she had shrunk even an inch, she dropped it right back in Jack’s palm, and brushed away the hair that had suddenly blown in her face. As soon as Jack got past the surprise of what had just started to happen, he smiled. “We’ll get to warn Louisa after all,” he said.

Ruthie felt overwhelmingly relieved. “I hope it works like the key works and you’ll shrink with me.”

“Only one way to find out,” Jack responded.

They went back into the gallery, which was beginning to feel crowded, and stood near the door to the corridor.

“Is it my imagination, or is that guard over there watching us?” Jack whispered.

Ruthie shot a glance in that direction. “Let’s just go over here for a few minutes to be safe,” she said, walking away from the alcove toward the American rooms. They were directly in front of room A1, the room from Massachusetts at the time of the Salem witch trials.

As she looked at the room Ruthie felt a jolt. “Do you see what I see? Or don’t see?” she asked.