The Crimson Shard (28 page)

Sunni lay in her bed all day, curtains closed against the sun, drifting in and out of sleep. Now Blaise’s face kept appearing in her head, closer and closer, then reeling backward as the police barged in. She caught her breath every time.
Will he ever try to kiss me again?

When her dad knocked on the door at four o’clock, she croaked, “Come in.”

“Time to get up, sweetheart. We managed to get two cabins on the sleeper train for tonight,” said Mr. Forrest. “You’d better get those packed up, if you’re taking them.” He nodded at Sunni’s battered eighteenth-century dress, hat, and shoes lying on the floor.

“I’m taking them.” Sunni’s face was half-hidden under the quilt. “You believe my story, don’t you, Dad?”

“Of course I do.” He sat in a chair and rubbed a hand over his tired face. “I believed you last winter, and I believe you now.”

“We didn’t go looking for trouble,” said Sunni. “And it’s not Mr. Doran’s fault, either.”

“I know that,” said Mr. Forrest. “He and I talked. I don’t blame him — or you. But we’ll be keeping an extra-sharp eye on you for a while, Sunni. Until we’re sure the dramas around Blackhope Tower and Fausto Corvo are over, once and for all.”

“If they ever will be,” Sunni mumbled into her pillow.

“What, sweetheart?”

“Nothing. Sorry you had to come down here to look for me.” She poked her head up. “What are we doing after we’re packed?”

“We’ll need to get a decent dinner,” said Mr. Forrest. “It’s a long train ride back home.”

“I’m starving. Where are we going?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“Can I choose?” She sat up, fully energized now.

“If Blaise and his dad agree . . .”

“Okay! Give me half an hour to take a shower and pack my stuff,” said Sunni, patting down her unruly hair.

“Deal.” Mr. Forrest winked and left the room.

With one leap, Sunni was out of bed and rummaging about for her London map. She laid it out flat on the bed and ran her finger over its central streets and squares.

“Where would you be?” she murmured. “You must be somewhere still.”

An hour later, Sunni was leading Blaise and their dads along High Holborn. It was warm enough for a summer dress and sandals, and she was reveling in having air on her arms and legs again.

“Don’t we want to turn here for Covent Garden, Sunni?” asked Mr. Doran.

“No, it’s up this way,” she answered.

“Where is this place then? Near the British Museum?”

Sunni stopped at a junction and looked around for street signs. “Not quite. It’s kind of . . . hidden away.”

“As long as the food is good and we’re almost there, it’s fine with me,” said Sunni’s dad.

Blaise nudged her shoulder with his as they crossed the road. “We should have turned off at the last block.”

“Huh?”

“If we’re going where I think we’re going.” His eyes twinkled.

“Really. Then why don’t you take over, Marco Polo?”

“Okey-doke.” He turned in the opposite direction and said, “This way, dads.”

“Lead on, buddy,” said Mr. Doran. “Just don’t take us someplace where you vanish again.”

“No worries, Dad.”

They left the main road and wound through smaller, quieter streets. Blaise stopped a few times to look around, and made them backtrack once, but eventually he stopped at the entrance to a narrow lane.

“This isn’t it,” said Sunni. These weren’t the houses they had passed with the nightsneaks, all crooked and neglected. This lane was lined with a tidy, scrubbed row of houses. She pointed at the street sign on the wall: greengage lane.

Blaise shook his head, grinning. “Look higher up.”

An old, very faded plaque read bandy lane.

“What’s the story?” asked his father. “I don’t see any restaurants here.”

“Down at the end,” said Blaise, setting off toward a building decorated with hanging baskets full of brightly colored flowers.

Sunni hastened after him, her heart jumping as she noticed a small wooden sign above the door. It looked freshly painted, but the design hadn’t altered in over 250 years. The green dragon still reared up on its hind legs.

Apart from clean windowpanes and the profusion of flowers sprouting from boxes and baskets, nothing else about the front of the Green Dragon had changed. Blaise opened the door and breathed in.

“No smoke and some new furniture,” he said to Sunni. “But the rest is the same.”

The Green Dragon’s fireplace was cold and there were no raucous pickpockets slurping ale, but it didn’t matter because Sunni could still hear, see, and smell all of that in her head. She went straight to their “usual table” at the back, where they had eaten with Fleet and Sleek.

“These are the same benches we sat on — I’m sure they are,” she whispered to Blaise as he slid in next to her.

“Have you been here before, kids?” Mr. Doran had to bend down under the low ceiling beams.

“Yeah,” said Blaise. “While we were . . . away.”

Mr. Doran got a funny look on his face. “Why did you come here? This must have been a pretty rough and ready joint in those days.”

“It was,” said Blaise. “These two guys brought us here for safety. We learned how to get around from them.”

A waitress brought menus laminated in plastic. There was no pea soup, but there was roast chicken, which Sunni and Blaise ordered eagerly.

“What happened to them?” asked Mr. Forrest. “Do you know?”

“No.” Blaise stared at the table. “They’re dead now.”

“Only in
our
time.” Sunni moved close to him and made an empty space next to her on the bench. “In
their
time, they’re probably sitting at this table right now.”

“Sunni, they were on the run,” said Blaise. “They couldn’t come back here.”

The two fathers raised their eyebrows.

“They were thieves, but they helped us.” She patted the empty bench. “Maybe they sneaked back here for one more meal. Or maybe they came back after everyone gave up hunting for them.”

“That would be cool,” said Blaise.

“What were their names, these two guys who helped you?” asked Blaise’s dad.

“Fleet and Sleek. And we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them.”

Mr. Doran took a long breath in. “Let’s drink a toast to them.” He called over the waitress and ordered drinks for everyone. “Oh, and two half pints of ale, too, please.”

When the drinks came, Mr. Doran pushed the mugs of ale to the end of the table, where Sunni had made space. “Here’s to you, Fleet and Sleek. Didn’t know you and never will, but you helped save our kids, and, for that, we thank you.”

They all clinked glasses and laughed. The two mugs sat untouched all evening.

Later, as they got up to leave, the waitress asked, “Didn’t you want those ales, sir? Was there something wrong with them?”

“No,” said Mr. Doran. “They’re for absent friends.”

“Or for the ghosts of the Green Dragon?” said the waitress. “We do have some, you know.”

“I bet we know a couple of them,” said Sunni.

“Like the lady who sold me this.” Blaise tapped the side of his leather satchel as he followed the others out. “And let us sleep up in the Nook.”

“The Nook?” The waitress’s mouth hung open. “How do you know about that?”

Blaise grinned and raised one finger up to the brim of his imaginary three-cornered hat.

“D
on’t throw that away, Dad.” Sunni folded her father’s crumpled newspaper into a neat rectangle and stuffed it into the outside pocket of her backpack. “Thanks. I want to find out what I’ve missed.”

“Not much, compared to what you’ve been through.” Mr. Forrest stretched out on the upper bunk bed.

Sunni wedged her bag against the wall of the bunk and curled up under the covers. The top of the newspaper was sticking out, and she was half tempted to read it now, but her eyes were swimming. As she drifted off, her eyelids fluttered open once more, and two words stood out:
National Gallery.

It’s probably nothing,
she thought.
Then again, what if it’s not?
She went back and forth like this for a few minutes before snatching the paper out of her pack and reading the article.

Sunni stopped reading and let out a low cry.

“Sweetheart, what’s up?” Mr. Forrest’s voice came from the bunk above.

“Nothing, just something I read in the paper.” She threw a hoodie over her pajamas and slipped her sandals on. “I’ve got to tell Blaise something.”

Before her dad could object, she was out in the corridor, tapping on the Dorans’ cabin door and murmuring Blaise’s name until he stuck his head out.

“Read this.” She thrust the newspaper into his hand. “It’s about Will.”

Blaise frowned. “What? You mean Will from the Academy?”

“Yes. Some art expert says the Flemish angel in the National Gallery is a forgery. That means Toby saved the wrong painting from the fire.”

“But Will didn’t get to finish his copy of it,” Blaise said.

“Well, he hid his name and the year 1752 in the angel’s wings.”

“Will signed the copy before it was done?” he asked, unconvinced.

“Guess so.” Sunni blinked. “Yeah, why not?”

“It just seems weird. Unless . . .” Blaise said slowly, “Jeremiah put Will’s name there. To make sure a trace of him was left behind.”

Sunni stared out the window into the black countryside, her eyes stinging. The carriage swayed, and Blaise steadied her.

“He’ll stay with me,” Sunni whispered. “Just like the others.”

“Me, too.”

“Why us, Blaise?” she asked. “Why did we get pulled into all this?”

“Well.” He screwed his face up. “I seem to remember something about a weird bearded guy. And a map on a —”

“Paper napkin!” She poked him gently in the ribs. “That’s right, this is all your fault.”

“Okay, maybe it is. But at least there weren’t any sheeplike tourists where we went.”

Sunni smiled. “Or any china shepherdesses. Or Roman mosaics.”

“Exactly,” Blaise said. “If it wasn’t for me, we’d just have spent the day lounging in some park instead.”

“Oh, so you did me a favor then?”

Instead of responding, Blaise wrapped his arms around her.

“I think I did us both a favor!” he said.

“You know,” Sunni answered, hugging him back, “I think I might just agree with you.”

Writing
The Crimson Shard
was an enjoyable and challenging creative journey. I had great help from friends and colleagues along the way. Painter, art conservator, and restorer Brian McLaughlin, who advised me on Renaissance painting techniques for
The Blackhope Enigma,
also helped in my research on
trompe l’oeil
and the history of paint pigments. Jo Logan recommended valuable resources on the history of art forgery. My thanks to them and to everyone else who shared their knowledge with me.