The 39 Clues: Cahill Files: Silent Night

In the winter of 1914, there was a battle waging between two great powers in Europe. There was that world war, too, but Rupert wasn’t concerned with that at the moment. No, his battle was being fought in the Davenport dining room, and his rival sat right across the table, wearing a military uniform with the bright star badge of a newly made second lieutenant. Rupert eyed that star like it was about to explode.

The enemy had the advantage at the moment, but Rupert was about to make his move.

The dining room at Southington, the Davenports’ small castle in Essex, was a comfortable place for a war. The vaulted ceilings were gilded, and golden statues of women hung in the corners, silently playing their harps and lutes and panpipes for those seated. The walls were hung in rich tapestries and lush paintings depicting some of the greatest moments in family history — the crowning of King Louis XIV, Napoleon’s victory at Austerlitz, the assassination of Peter III by Catherine the Great. And there, at the head of the room, behind where Father sat, was a portrait taller than Rupert and wider than his arms could reach. It was of a thin, hard-looking man in sixteenth-century garb who was hiding a dagger beneath his cloak.

Luke Cahill liked to keep a close eye on things, even if he’d been dead for over three hundred years.

“Tell us more about the Marne, darling,” Mother said to Albert, reaching over to pat his arm but really taking the opportunity to see what her diamonds looked like in the light of the chandelier. Father didn’t look up from the documents spread out next to his plate. He rarely paid attention to anyone during dinner, especially while preparing for a Lucian leadership council, but to Rupert’s surprise, he nodded in agreement. “Let’s hear about when they made you an officer,” said Mother.

“Well,” said Albert, with modesty so false that Rupert almost snorted. And yet he still listened, silently and with great attention. “The Germans thought that if they could get to Paris, they’d win the war in one fell swoop.” With his right hand in a fist, Albert made a swooping motion like he was going to swim across the dining-room table. He spread his fingers. “They would fan out and catch us! Like foxes in traps! But we stopped them. I was there and so cool under pressure, they made me an officer.”

Mother gave him a satisfied pat on the hand, and Father nodded again. “That’s very impressive,” said Father, finally looking up from his papers. Compliments from their father were about as rare as poor children getting ponies for Christmas, and Rupert felt a coil of jealousy begin to tighten around his stomach. But he forced himself to smile placidly. He had news of his own to share — a victory that would force his family to accept that he was the son to watch. Because while Albert might have the shiny star, Rupert was destined for greatness. It was something that he’d always known, deep down in the bones of his soul. And now, he had proof.

He cleared his throat. “Well, speaking of remaining cool under pressure, I —”

“Quiet, Rupert,” Mother scolded, shooting him a disapproving look. “Don’t interrupt your brother.”

Rupert sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. He didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. From what he gathered, Albert’s biggest accomplishment so far was managing not to die. He hadn’t demonstrated nearly the same cunning Rupert had during his most recent act of bravery.

“It’s all right, Mother,” Albert said. “I think it’s best to move on.” He closed his eyes dramatically. “There are some things I’d rather not remember.” He blinked and then gave Rupert an exaggerated smile. “What were you going to say, Rupe?”

Rupert ignored Albert’s patronizing tone.

“Well,” said Rupert, sitting up straighter. “I managed to get our exams postponed until after the Christmas holidays.” He beamed as he looked around the table, but no one reacted. “I, uh, gave all of the proctors a bit of food poisoning so we wouldn’t have to take them. It was brilliant. I got the idea from that book Grandfather left to me.” Rupert smiled expectantly. After years of being lectured at for not living up to his potential, he’d finally proved that he was a real Lucian — a cunning master of strategy and sabotage.

“
That’s
how you were ‘cool under pressure’?” Albert asked, raising one eyebrow.

“Of course,” Rupert said, looking to his parents for support. Rupert’s father shuffled his papers, and his mother dabbed her mouth with a napkin.

“Indeed.” Albert smirked. “Well, in that case, I suppose we are to commend you for your bravery.”

“I
was
brave,” Rupert said, narrowing his eyes. “If the proctors had found my stash of poisons, they might have —”

“Poisons?” Albert interrupted. “Rupert, no one uses poisons anymore. Nowadays, it’s all about steel and machinery. You’ll need to keep up with the times if you want to be any sort of help with the Clue hunt.”

Rupert was just about to tell Albert exactly what he thought about his stupid medal when their father cleared his throat. “I quite agree,” he said without looking up. Rupert felt his chest tighten, as if the three words had knocked the air out of him. He’d been so sure his father would be pleased with his scheme.

“Oh, and I forgot to mention,” Albert continued airly. “I saw a Madrigal.”

A chill swept through the already cool room, and despite the white-hot anger welling up inside him, Rupert shivered. Mother gave a little gasp, and Father looked up.

“I did,” said Albert. “At the Marne. He was tall, and in all black. He had a funny hat and a walking stick. You know there’ve been some rumors floating around that the Germans are actually being mobilized by one of the other branches. Which is really rather ridiculous, because who else but the Lucians would be able to handle an undertaking of that size and complexity? But that’s just what they were — rumors. No doubt the Madrigals are trying to sniff it out. How very like them to try to take advantage of a war.”

“We can talk about that further at the meeting,” said Father.

“Albert’s going to the meeting?” Rupert blurted before he had a chance to think. Neither he nor Albert had ever been allowed to attend the Lucian leadership council. But as soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

“Yes, but don’t feel too bad about it, Rupe,” Albert said with false cheeriness. “Really, you’re lucky to be too young to worry about things like bombs and machine guns,” said Albert. “I say, I almost envy you for getting to stay at school, safe and sound, orchestrating your little pranks. If you keep it up, you might even manage to make yourself useful in a few years, although the war will be over by then, of course.”

When the war had started back in August, everyone thought it would be over quickly. The year 1914 would be marred by a blip of conflict, a scuffle deep in the belly of the Continent, and then the world would settle back into itself for 1915. But November was over and December had just swept in with the first brushes of gray snow, and the war still burned in red and muddy stripes all up and down Belgium and France, like a bad rash.

But Rupert wasn’t scared of that. Not half as scared as he was of being left behind and shut out.

“I could go,” said Rupert, before he quite knew what he was saying.

“What was that?” said Albert, lifting an eyebrow.

“I said, I could join up,” Rupert said, a little louder. “I could go to war.”

Mother pressed her lips together, and Albert tried to hold back a laughing choke. Father finally looked up from his papers, locking his eyes with Rupert’s. Rupert squirmed.

“Rupert, darling, you’re not serious,” said Mother. Her mouth curled upward, making her look just the slightest bit amused.

“I am serious,” he said, feeling a surge of anger blend with the hurt already curdling his stomach. “Albert thinks I can’t do it, but I can. I could. I will.”

“You will what?” said Albert. “Join His Majesty’s armed forces?”

“Yes!” said Rupert.

Father put down his fork and leaned forward over the table. “Rupert. Do not be ridiculous. You have not proved yourself capable of handling that sort of responsibility.”