The Bridge to Never Land (2 page)

“You?”

“Yes.”

“How, exactly?”

“I’m going to start at Draycott Place.”

“Which is in London. We’re in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.”

“Right. And where are we going in two weeks?”

“Oh yeah,” said Aidan, remembering that the Cooper family was taking their summer-vacation trip to England this year.

“So when we’re in London, we’ll go find this Draycott Place,” said Sarah. “Meanwhile, we can do some research on the Internet. And I’m going to ask Dad what he knows about who used to own that desk.”

“Are we going to tell Dad about this?” asked Aidan, pointing at the document.

“Not yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because we found it, and I think we should have the first chance to figure out what it means. We’ll tell him about it later, okay?”

“No,” said Aidan. “It’s Dad’s desk, so he owns the documents in it. We have to tell him.”

“No, we most certainly do not. That desk is in our house.

That makes it just as much ours.”

“Absolutely not,” said Aidan. “We have to tell Dad. You are not going to change my mind about this.”

“I’ll introduce you to Amanda Flores,” said Sarah.

“Deal,” said Aidan immediately. He yawned. “Now please, can I go back to sleep?”

“Okay,” said Sarah. “Just don’t forget our deal.”

“I won’t. Don’t you forget your part.”

“I won’t.” Sarah turned off the light and opened the door.

“For the record,” Aidan whispered in the darkness, “you are completely insane.”

“Pleasant dreams.” Sarah quietly shut the door. Holding the books and the document, she tiptoed back to her bedroom. It was well past midnight now, but she was too excited to sleep. She sat on her bed and looked at the covers of the books, which were illustrated with scenes of a flying boy and a heroic girl menaced by cruel pirates and hideous, evil creatures. Sarah knew these stories well; she had read and reread them over the years. But to her they had always been make-believe; there was no flying boy, she knew, and no magical island.

She set the books on her bed, then went to her window and looked out. The backyard, bathed in moonlight, was dominated by a massive oak. A gust of wind shifted its twisting branches; their shadows writhed on the ground. Sarah looked at them for a moment, then back at the books. A persistent thought kept bubbling up in her mind; she knew it was ridiculous, but somehow she could not completely dismiss it.

What if it’s not make-believe?

CHAPTER 2

I
N LONDON THE COOPER FAMILY
stayed at the Cadogan Hotel, a stately brick building on Sloane Street. Sarah and Aidan’s father, Tom, had picked the Cadogan because, in his words, “it has some history.” He loved history.

Aidan, whose idea of the ancient past was sixth grade, was less enthusiastic about the hotel, especially when he saw the television in the room he was sharing with his sister.

“It’s not even high definition!” he complained. “What is this, the Middle Ages?”

His mother, Natalie Cooper, stood in the doorway; she had come from the room next door to check on her children. She was basically an older version of Sarah: tall, slender, and olive-skinned, with wide-set, dramatically dark eyes. And like her daughter, Natalie had a black belt in sarcasm.

“I know!” she said, gesturing at the children’s elegantly furnished room. “It’s so primitive. We’ll probably have to kill
our own food.”

Sarah, lying on her bed, snorted.

“Go ahead, laugh,” said Aidan.

“Thanks, I will,” said Sarah.

“Tom,” Natalie called over her shoulder. “Did you bring the squirrel gun?”

Her husband appeared in the doorway behind her, a tall, rumpled, bespectacled man with a prominent chin and nose. He looked vaguely distracted, as he always did except when he was examining antiques.

“Did I bring the
what
?” he said.

“Never mind,” said Natalie, exchanging eye rolls with her daughter. She turned to her son and said, “Aidan, we didn’t come to London to watch television. We’re here to do things.”

“Not now, I hope,” said Sarah, sitting up and looking at herself in a wall mirror. “I have airplane hair.”

“Your hair does that,” said Natalie, “because you—”

“I know, I know,” interrupted Sarah. She imitated her mother’s lecture voice: “‘You use too much hair spray, young lady.’”

“Well, you do,” said Natalie. Sarah had taken to wearing her hair in a retro style that she sprayed constantly from a can of intensive-hold hair spray she carried with her everywhere. Natalie hated the hairstyle; currently this was the topic of eighty percent of all conversations between mother and daughter.

“So what are we gonna do?” said Aidan, who was sick of the hair debate.

“Well,” said Tom, “we’re going to start this afternoon with a tour of London on a double-decker bus. Then we’ll…”

He went on for several minutes, giving a detailed schedule of tours, museum visits, and excursions. When he finished, Natalie said, “So you see, there won’t be time to watch television.”

“There won’t be time to go to the bathroom,” said Aidan.

“Will we have
any
free time?” asked Sarah. She and her brother exchanged glances.

“Sure, you’ll have some time on your own,” her father answered.

“As long as we know where you are,” added her mother.

“Of course,” said Sarah, with another glance at her brother. Both of them made a point of not looking at Sarah’s backpack, which contained the mysterious document they’d found in the desk.

“All right, then,” said Tom. “We leave for the bus tour in a half hour.”

“My hair!” said Sarah, heading for the bathroom.

Tom and Natalie returned to their room to continue unpacking. Aidan flopped on his bed and turned on the TV.

“Hey!” he said. “They have
Family Guy
!”

“Finally!” said his mother from the other room. “A sign of civilization!”

After three busy days filled with planned activities, Sarah and Aidan were finally able to get some time on their own. Telling their parents that they were going to explore the neighborhood—which was technically true, as Sarah pointed out to her brother—and promising to be back for dinner, they set out from the Cadogan in the late afternoon. It was a sunny and unusually warm day for June in England; the sidewalks were crowded with sightseeing tourists and Londoners trying to get home.

Sarah studied the Google map directions she’d printed out back in Pennsylvania.

“This way,” she said, pointing south on Sloane Street. “Half a mile.”

Less than fifteen minutes later they reached the north end of Draycott Place, a four-block street lined on both sides with red brick buildings.

“Okay,” said Sarah. “In the book, the hotel was called the Scotland Landing. But according to Google there’s no Scotland Landing here now.”

“So why exactly are we here?”

“Because maybe one of these buildings used to be the Scotland Landing.”

“How are we gonna find it?”

“We’ll just walk down the street and see…whatever we see,” said Sarah.

“Wow,” said Aidan. “Clever.”

Sarah rolled her eyes. “I’ll take the left side of the street,” she said. “You take the right.”

They set off, one on each sidewalk, studying the buildings. They all looked pretty much alike; most appeared to be residences. After two blocks Sarah was starting to become discouraged. As they neared the end of the third block, her discouragement was turning to embarrassment.

What was I thinking?
she wondered.
Getting all excited about a stupid story…

“Sarah!”

Aidan’s shout interrupted her thoughts. She looked across the street and saw him standing in front of a building with flags hanging from two poles jutting out over the entrance. A plaque on the wall to the left of the door identified the building as the Spanish consulate. Aidan, looking excited, was motioning for her to cross the street.

Sarah waited impatiently for a break in traffic and trotted across.

“What?” she said.

“Check this out,” he said, pointing to the set of worn, white stone steps leading up to the consulate door.

“Steps,” said Sarah. “Yeah, so?”

“Look at the top one.”

Sarah moved nearer and studied the top step more closely. It had been worn down by countless footsteps, but Sarah could make out a faint design carved into the stone consisting of two interlocking letters.

“An
S
and an
L
,” she whispered. She turned to Aidan. “Scotland Landing!”

“Could be,” he said.

“You found it! How’d you even see this?”

“Keen powers of observation.” He tapped his temple.

“Seriously,” said Sarah.

“Okay,” he said, “there was this really hot girl going in, and she had this ankle chain thingie, and I happened to be looking at her legs, and—”

“Okay, okay!” Sarah said. “Anyway, you found it.” She started up the steps.

“Wait,” said Aidan. “You can’t just walk in there.”

“Why not?” said Sarah. “Nobody’s stopping me.”

But somebody did stop her. In the consulate lobby, a uniformed guard manned a metal detector at a security-screening station. Beyond that was a counter where a dozen people waited in line.

“May I help you?” asked the guard, in accented English.

Sarah thought he was quite handsome, not at all like the security people at airports.

“Yes, I…that is, we…” Sarah stammered. “We’d like to, uh, come inside.”

“Smooth,” said Aidan, standing a few steps behind her.

“May I ask the nature of your business with the consulate?” said the guard.

“I…uh,” said Sarah. “Just a moment please.”

She turned and walked back to Aidan.

“Way to think on your feet,” he said.

“Shut up,” she snapped. “I’ll think of something.”

“Whatever it is, it’s going to have to get you up to that counter in the next room.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Take a look, Sherlock.”

Sarah turned around, peering past the guard, who was watching them intently.

“I’m looking,” she said. “So?”

“The archway. See it?”

“Yeah,” said Sarah, looking at the stone archway above the counter.

“Look at the top of the arch.”

Sarah looked. Then she gasped.

At the top of the arch, carved in stone, was the image of an eagle.

“‘In the Place,’” said Sarah softly. “‘In the Landing.’”

“‘Beneath the eagle,’” said Aidan.

“We have to get in there,” said Sarah. She stood for a moment, frowning in thought. Then she marched determinedly back to the guard.

“I’m studying Spanish in school,” she said.

“¿Sí? ¿Usted habla Español?”

“What?”

Aidan snorted.

“Do you speak Spanish?”

“No…I mean, not yet. I just started.”

“I see,” said the guard, smiling slightly.

“And…I…I thought maybe I might get extra credit if I talked to a real Spanish person who works for the government. Of Spain.”

“An interview,” said the guard. He seemed quite amused.

“An interview! Exactly!” said Sarah.

“And do you have an appointment for this interview?”

“Ah, no.”

“Unfortunately, you must have an appointment.”

“But how do I make the appointment if I can’t get inside?”

“You go there,” he said, pointing to the line of people at the counter.

“Okay!” said Sarah. She glanced up toward the eagle. “We’ll just get in line, then.”

The guard held out a hand. “Your passports, please.”

“What?”

“You must have passports to go inside.”

Sarah, batting her eyes, smiled brightly at the guard and said, “Maybe you could let us in just to book the interview? And then we’ll come back with our passports next time to actually do the interview.”

“I am sorry,” said the guard.

Sarah’s shoulders slumped. “All right,” she sighed. “We’ll come back with the passports.”

“I look forward to it,
señorita,
” said the guard, with a slight bow.

In a moment they were back out on the sidewalk.

“Well, that went well,” said Aidan. Mimicking Sarah’s voice, he said: “Oh please let us in, Mister Handsome Spaniard!”

“Shut up,” said Sarah. “We need to get our passports.”

“How? Dad always has them in that stupid thing around his neck.”

“I know,” Sarah said. “But we only need them for, what, an hour or two? Technically, they’re ours anyway, right?”

“Technically, I don’t know.”

Sarah turned to Aidan and put her hands on his shoulders. “Listen,” she said. “We’ve come all this way, and now we’re standing ten yards from the eagle. I am not going to leave without seeing what’s beneath it.”

“Also the guard is cute.”

“That too.”

“But how are we going to get the passports?”

“I don’t know yet,” said Sarah. She dropped her arms and started walking back toward the hotel. “But I’ll think of something.”

“That,” said Aidan, mostly to himself, “is what I’m afraid of.”

CHAPTER 3

I
NSPIRATION STRUCK SARAH
that night in the middle of a bite of hummus.

The Coopers were eating dinner at Dah Magreb, a Middle Eastern restaurant near their hotel with a sign outside advertising “Nightly Entertainment.” There were no utensils; they ate with their hands, sitting on pillows on the floor. Halfway through their meal, to their dismay, the “entertainment” arrived: a somewhat overweight belly dancer emerged from behind a beaded curtain. She began gyrating, wiggling, and bouncing to unpleasant music blasting from a tinny sound system.

“Why is it so loud?” complained Sarah.

“What?”
shouted both her mother and father.

“Never mind,” said Sarah.

“Oh, no,” said Aidan. “Don’t look now, but jelly belly is heading our way.” The belly dancer was indeed writhing toward their table. She was smiling at Tom Cooper in what she apparently thought was an inviting manner, but she looked more like a horse approaching the trough. Reaching their low table, she plucked at his sleeve, beckoning for him to stand up. He regarded her with a puzzled expression.

“What does she want?” he asked.

“I think,” said Natalie, smiling, “she wants you to dance with her.”

“Noooo,” said Aidan, burying his face in his hands.

Sarah also frowned for a moment. Suddenly, her expression changed. “I think it’s a great idea!” she said.

“You what?” said Aidan, jerking his head up. “Are you insane?” He looked around the restaurant; the other diners were watching all this with amusement.

“Shut up, Aidan,” said Sarah, giving her brother a significant look. “C’mon, Dad! It’ll make a great picture!” She pulled her father to his feet. “Mom, get the camera,” she said. She shoved her father next to the belly dancer, who shook her hips violently at him. He stared at them with an expression of alarm. He was still holding his shish kebab.

“I’m going to kill myself,” said Aidan.

Natalie, laughing, rummaged through her purse and pulled out the camera. She was aiming it at her husband when Sarah said, “Hold it! Let’s take this off for the picture.”

She grabbed the pouch that her father always wore suspended from a cord around his neck, much to the embarrassment of his children, who called it the Dork Sack. This was where he kept money and travel documents—including passports.

“Here, Aidan,” she said, tossing it into her brother’s lap. “Hold this for a sec, okay?” She gave him the look again.

“Uh…ah!” said Aidan, suddenly understanding. “Okay!”

Sarah moved in front of her brother, blocking sight of him from her parents, whose attention was fully focused on the belly dancer anyway. She took the shish kebab out of her father’s hands, pinching its stick between her fingers.

“Say cheese, Tom,” said Natalie.

“Feta cheese!” said Sarah, managing to win a grin from her mother.

But not from Tom. Nervously eyeing the writhing dancer, he attempted a smile, which came across as a wince.

The camera flashed, blinding Tom. “Got it,” said Natalie.

“One more!” insisted Sarah. “For safety.”

“Okay,” said her mom. She raised the camera, held it steady, and it flashed again.

“How about one with Dad actually dancing?” urged Sarah.

“He
is
dancing,” said Natalie. “That is your father dancing.”

Tom had, in fact, begun to respond to the music by swaying back and forth. Realizing this, he stepped quickly away from the dancer.

“Yup, that will do it,” said Aidan, now standing just behind Sarah. He handed the Dork Sack back to his father, then leaned closer to Sarah.

“Nice move,” he whispered. “I got ’em.”

The next morning, Sarah and Aidan left the hotel right after breakfast, having promised their parents that they would return by eleven a.m. when the family was due to leave for yet another historical tour. They walked directly to the consulate, reaching it shortly after the doors opened at nine. Manning the security station inside the entrance was the same guard they’d spoken with the day before. He smiled when he saw Sarah, and made a little bow.

“The Spanish student!” he said.
“Bienvenido, señorita.”

“Likewise,” she said, blushing.

“Likewise?” said Aidan.

Ignoring him, Sarah unzipped her backpack and took out the two passports Aidan had removed from the Dork Sack.

“Here you are,” she said.

The guard studied the passports, then handed them back. He went through Sarah’s backpack, then directed her and Aidan through the metal detector.

“That way,” he said, pointing toward the counter. “The woman behind the counter will help you.”

“Thank you,” said Sarah, smiling brightly.

“Con mucho gusto,”
said the guard.

“Likewise!” said Aidan.

“Shut up,” said Sarah.

The line at the counter was shorter this morning; there were only four people ahead of them. Behind the counter was a clerk, a serious-looking woman who wore her red-dyed hair in a tight bun. She was stamping some documents. The eagle in the archway was just in front of the counter, a few feet ahead of where Sarah and Aidan waited in line. Sarah looked up at it, then down, but all she saw beneath the eagle was a large man in a brown suit, now second in line.

“I don’t get it,” she said quietly to Aidan. “What’s supposed to be beneath the eagle?”

Aidan was studying the floor.

“Beneath your feet,” he said.

Sarah looked at the floor. It was made of marble tiles, each about two feet square, grayish-white with black veins running through them in random-looking patterns.

“Yeah? So what? It’s a floor,” she said. “Big deal.”

“We’re not under the eagle yet.”

The line moved forward. Now the man in the brown suit was talking to the clerk; behind him was a young woman, and behind her stood Aidan and Sarah, last in line.

“Okay,
now
look,” whispered Aidan, pointing at the tile directly under the young woman’s sandals—and directly under the eagle.

Sarah looked, then frowned.

“What?” she whispered.

“That tile is different from the others,” he said. “Don’t you see? It’s not as worn down, and the color’s a little lighter. And the dark lines are…sharper.”

Sarah studied the marble tile. “So one of the old tiles broke and they replaced it. So what?”

“Maybe,” said Aidan. “Maybe not.”

The clerk finished up with the man in the brown suit. The young woman ahead of them stepped up to the counter. Aidan and Sarah moved forward, now directly under the eagle. There still was nobody in line behind them.

“Quick,” whispered Aidan. “Give me a piece of paper.”

“Why?”

“Just give it to me.”

Sarah unzipped the backpack, poked around inside for a moment, and withdrew a spiral notebook. She tore out a blank piece of paper and handed it to Aidan.

“Do you have a pencil?” he said.

“What are you doing?”

“Just give me a pencil,” said Aidan, snapping his fingers.

“Okay, okay.” Sarah rooted around in the backpack and produced a pencil. Aidan took it, then glanced back toward the guard station; the guard was talking with two people who’d just entered.

Perfect.

“May I help you?” said the clerk.

“Distract her,” Aidan whispered to Sarah.

“But what should I—”

Aidan pushed her toward the clerk. “My sister has a question,” he said.

“Right,” said Sarah to the clerk. “I’m…I’m studying Spanish, and I need to interview a Spaniard. I mean a Spanish. I mean a Spanish person.”

The clerk eyed Sarah doubtfully.

Aidan tugged on the backpack. Sarah clung to it, jerking it away from him.

“Let go,” he hissed.

“Why should I?”

Aidan drew open the backpack’s zipper farther, while at the same time he pulled on the backpack’s strap. The clerk shook her head impatiently.
Americans
.

“Don’t pull!” Sarah said to him. “You’re going to—”

Aidan tore loose the backpack, but it tipped and dumped its contents.

“—spill it,” said Sarah. “Nice move, moron.”

“I’m sorry,” said Aidan, not sounding at all sorry. “I’m going to pick it up now.” He dropped into a crouch and cleared off the tile in the middle of the backpack’s spilled contents: a Kleenex travel pack, three packs of gum, four tubes of mascara, some coins, hair ties, hair clips, a hair scrunchie, and the hair spray that Sarah carried everywhere. The counter prevented the clerk from seeing him. Aidan looked back; the guard remained occupied screening the two arrivals.

As Sarah stammered out a vague story about her needing an interview, Aidan placed the document onto the cleared section of tile. The dark lines on the tile showed clearly through the thin paper. Aidan moved the paper around, rotating it one way, then another. Suddenly, he stopped.

“Yes!” he exclaimed, a little too loudly.

“What?” said Sarah, looking down at her brother.

“Just getting this picked up!” Aidan said, still too loud. He stuffed a few items into the backpack.

Sarah turned back to the clerk, who was craning forward to peer over the counter. Sarah sidestepped to block her view of Aidan, who was now using the pencil to trace the lines in the stone.

“Sir!” Aidan jumped as the guard’s stern voice called to him from the security area. “What are you doing?”

Aidan looked up; the guard was walking quickly toward him.

“What are you doing?” the guard repeated.

“Picking up what I spilled,” said Aidan, now stuffing things into the backpack.

“With a pencil?”

“Oh, that,” said Aidan, looking at the pencil in his hand as though he’d just noticed it. “Ah…I’m tracing.”

“You’re tracing the floor?”

“The grain in the marble,” said Aidan. “It’s very…interesting.” He continued tracing.

“Sir, this is not a museum or a cathedral,” said the guard. “Please, no more tracing. Collect your things, please.”

“But I’m almost done,” said Aidan, working frantically.

The guard reached him and put his hand on Aidan’s shoulder. “Sir,” he said, “I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”

“Okay, okay,” said Aidan, making a few last pencil strokes. “I’m done anyway.” He gathered the remaining spilled items from around him and shot a look at Sarah as he stood, handing her the backpack.

“All right, then!” she said to the clerk. “You’ve been most helpful. Thank you.”

“What about the interview?” asked the clerk.

“I…ah…I just remembered,” said Sarah. “It’s not Spanish I’m studying. It’s Italian! I’m always getting those two languages mixed up. So sorry! Thank you! Bye!” She turned and followed Aidan, who was walking quickly toward the door. Once outside, Aidan burst out laughing.

“Italian?” he said.
“Italian?”

“Hey, it was the best I could do. But what was with spilling everything? What were you doing there on the floor?”

“Tracing,” said Aidan, grinning proudly. “And you won’t believe what I got.”

“What did you get? Tell me!”

Aidan held up the piece of paper. “I have no idea,” he said.