They stormed through the fourth floor, flinging open doors, bolting down empty hallways. There was no trace of Mr. Falborg himself, although signs of his obsessions were everywhere: framed stamps and marble statues, puppets and matchbooks, shields and teacups, coins and bones; thousands—millions—of precious things that now belonged to one person alone. And here they were, shut up in an echoing old house, where no one else would ever glimpse them.
The more he saw, the sicker Van felt.
“Fifth floor,” Pebble called over her shoulder.
They rushed up a narrow staircase.
It led them to a round chamber where a collection of antique tapestries covered the walls. They had reached the tower at the end of the house, Van realized. A spiral staircase wound up through the ceiling. Small windows let in slips of dark sky. From the corner of his eye, Van saw something streak past those windows—something silvery and large, lit by a red-gold glow.
They raced upward. The stairs twisted beneath them, making turn after turn. Van’s heart pounded harder. His knees grew wobblier. From above, he could feel the shift of moving air, a breeze that was dewy and scented with pine. They ran until at last they reached the final step and staggered out onto a wide wooden floor.
They had reached the top of the tower. The peaked metal ceiling thrust upward above them. In the center of the room stood a towering glass case filled with bottles—bottles that pulsed with a reddish, smoldering light. Large windows encircled the whole chamber, letting in a haze of night sky. And standing in front of one open window, his back to them, his white suit glowing with reflected light, was Ivor Falborg.
Mr. Falborg closed the window. The cool breeze died. The room turned echoingly quiet. Mr. Falborg turned to face Van and Pebble, cupping a last smoldering bottle in both hands.
“Ah, Mabel. And Master Markson.” Mr. Falborg smiled, his crinkly blue eyes landing on the two of them without a hint of surprise. The room was still enough, and the glow bright enough, that Van managed to follow his words. “Well, this is wonderfully convenient timing. We’ve just finished our work.”
Van saw Pebble suck in a breath. Her eyes were wide. Furious. Horrified.
“The dead wishes.” She inched forward like an animal on a leash. Van crept forward too, keeping her face in sight. “That’s what you wanted.”
“Of course.” Mr. Falborg raised the glowing glass bottle in his hands. Still smiling, he nodded toward the windows. “And I’ve had wonderful assistance.”
Van followed his gaze. The swarm of Wish Eaters had gathered just outside the windows, their moonlight-tinged bodies forming a silvery mass around the tower. They drifted past the windowpanes, teeth glinting, pale eyes staring in, like sharks in a backward aquarium. The back of Van’s arms pricked with fear.
“That’s why you did all of this.” Pebble’s voice was flat, not questioning, but setting out the facts. Van wondered if, deep down, she still hoped Mr. Falborg would argue with them. “You tricked me into luring the Holders here, so your Eaters could steal the dead wishes and bring them back to you.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Falborg, as though Pebble had just recited the steps to a cookie recipe. “Wish Eaters are extremely loyal. Once you’ve fed and protected them, they’re yours for life.” His twinkly eyes moved to Van. “You’ve learned that firsthand, haven’t you, Master Markson?”
Van started. “I . . . But—Lemmy isn’t mine. It came back to me because it wanted to.”
“Do you see any cages around these creatures?” asked Mr. Falborg, gesturing to the swarm outside. “Any nets or cruel iron prods, as are used by your Collectors?” His eyes flicked to the lance in Pebble’s hand. “These wonderful beings are mine by choice. They know that I will provide for them.”
“Is that what you’re going to do with the dead wishes?” Pebble cut in, her voice flatter and harder than before. “Feed them to your Eaters?”
“Of course not.” Mr. Falborg brushed the lapel of his white suit, as though he was shooing away imaginary dirt. “At least, not all at once.”
“But—”
Mr. Falborg raised a hand, cutting Pebble off. “I am aware of their power. I honor that power. That’s why I am the right person to keep them.”
“What makes you think you’re right at all?” Van blurted, before he could help it. “You lie. You trick people. You use people to get the things you want.”
Mr. Falborg’s eyebrows rose. “Haven’t you done the same, Master Markson?” He stepped close to Van, bending down to speak straight into Van’s face. The glow of the dead wish glittered in his eyes. “Think of how you’ve used the people around you. Think of how often you’ve lied to your lovely mother. Think of the secrets you kept from Pebble and the Collectors and poor Peter Grey.”
“But . . . I had to!” Van protested.
“Yes, you did,” agreed Mr. Falborg. “You knew you were acting for the greater good. You wanted to save something larger than yourself. That is what I do as well. I am a collector.” His eyes shifted to Pebble. “Not a prison guard. Not a torturer. Not a thief of other people’s wishes.”
“But you hurt us,” said Pebble. Her voice started low, growing louder and louder until it rang from the stone walls. “You almost crushed Van with a train. Your Eater nearly trampled us. Your stupid trap almost killed Barnavelt!”
“Incidental,” said Mr. Falborg, the way someone else might have said “A mere drizzle.” He shook his head apologetically. “I am sorry to have given you such a fright. But everything has turned out for the best, hasn’t it?” Mr. Falborg straightened, holding the dead wish between them like a bomb with a lit fuse. “Which gives us the perfect chance for a fresh start.”
As he went on, Mr. Falborg stepped toward a window, angling his face away. Van lost most of his next words. He thought he caught “children” and “mistakes” and “understand”—but then Mr. Falborg unlatched the window, letting in a fresh gust of air, and turned back to them, drawing a wishbone from his vest pocket.
Van’s heart went still.
Mr. Falborg couldn’t kill them with a wish. But he could do something pretty close. And there was no safe way to stop him, not while he held that dead wish in his other hand.
“Where shall we begin?” Mr. Falborg asked. “Perhaps with Mabel?” His eyes settled on her, gentle and warm. “Mabel,” he said softly. “I will forgive . . . betrayals . . . stay with me for good. This will be my wish for you: You will never see any of the Collectors or their Creatures again.”
Pebble took a choking breath. The flashlight fell from her hand. The Eaters outside the window pressed close to the frame.
Mr. Falborg turned his gaze on Van. “Or shall we start with Master Markson?” Van stepped forward, his eyes trained on Mr. Falborg’s face. “My wish for you,” Mr. Falborg continued, “will be that you forget all of this. Everything you’ve seen. Everyone you’ve known. You will return to your own life, content and safe, perhaps with a new father and brother, without any memory of the trouble you’ve caused.” Mr. Falborg gave him a tender smile. “You are not a Collector, Van Markson. You will never be one of them. And with their cruelty, why would you want to be?”
Van turned toward Pebble. His throat felt like it was being crushed in a gigantic fist. “He’s right. He should start with me.” He forced out the words. “We can’t let Mr. Falborg keep you prisoner again. Besides, the Collectors need you, and I’m—I’m not really a Collector. I won’t ever really be a Collector. You’ve said so yourself.”
Pebble grabbed Van’s hand. “No,” she said, squeezing tightly. She pulled him close. “You can’t forget us. Maybe you’re not exactly like us—but we need you too. I need you.”
“Why?”
“Because,” said Pebble, her wide eyes staring into his. “Because you can see both sides. You see the good and the bad about Eaters and wishes and everything else. Because—you’re you.”
Van glanced back at Mr. Falborg. The man in the white suit had gripped the ends of the wishbone and raised it toward the open window. Outside, the Eaters roared.
Both sides, Van thought. The good and the bad.
He’d discovered so much magic hidden in the world around him. The magic of wishes and Wish Eaters, the magic of Collectors and of ordinary people. That magic was both dangerous and wonderful—too dangerous and too wonderful for anyone, no matter their reasons, to control all of it. No one should be allowed to steal that power.
And no one was going to steal the power inside of him.
“Maybe we can stop this.” Van turned to Pebble’s mossy-penny eyes. “We have to try.”
Pebble’s eyes flared. She squeezed Van’s hand once more. “Together.”
“I am sorry, dear Mabel,” said Mr. Falborg. The bone in his grip began to bend.
Pebble charged forward. “My name is PEBBLE!” Van heard her scream.
Still holding tight to his friend’s hand, Van charged too.
They flew at Mr. Falborg.
Pebble’s shoulder struck him in the stomach. Mr. Falborg doubled over and quickly thrashed back, trying to raise the wishbone out of reach. But Van had already caught his arm. He clung to Mr. Falborg’s elbow, one hand scrabbling for the bone, while Pebble wrenched at Mr. Falborg’s other arm. Van’s fingers closed around the wishbone’s end. Mr. Falborg reached to stop him with the other hand—and in a moment so simultaneously fast and slow that Van couldn’t stop it, even as he watched it unfold, Mr. Falborg lost his grip on the glowing bottle.
The falling wish flared. The glass shattered against the floor.
A blast filled the tower room.
A sound like the hum of ten thousand voices flooded the air, eating every wisp of oxygen. It rang in Van’s skull and buzzed in his lungs. Wind ripped at his hair. The air turned the color of the heart of a fire—a white gold so bright that it burns without touching.
Just before the whirling light knocked them all to their knees, Van ripped the wishbone from Mr. Falborg’s grasp.
The blast grew brighter, the sound swelling.
Van peered toward the spot where Pebble should have been. Everything was a blur. All he could see was the glow of the dead wishes in their glass case, burning red against the white gold, and the smear of the open window where the storm of Eaters was about to push its way inside.
Inside—to the released dead wish.
Van grasped the ends of the wishbone. He couldn’t focus on a clear, simple wish. He could only remember a crowd of faces: Pebble, Barnavelt, Lemmy, Nail and Razor and Eyelet and Sesame and Jack, Charles and Peter Grey, even Mr. Falborg. And his mother, smiling down at him. All the good and all the bad, and everything in between. He could only hope, with every exhausted, terrified cell inside of him, that everyone would be all right.
The wishbone snapped. A fragile wisp whirled away on the fiery air.
There was a roaring, screeching, rending sound—and then the cold and the mist poured in.