Grimoire: Curse of the Midions

Betsy did not return over the next days. Though he was nearly frantic over the loss of the Grimoire, Jarvey didn’t know where she had gone or how to reach her. He spent the time either sleeping in the attic or slinking through the streets, stealing food whenever he could. He had found a butcher’s shop not far from the local pump, and he slenked odds and ends of raw meat from their refuse bin, but not for himself.

He had found a way inside the brick wall, the route he had spied on his first visit. The old oak tree near the wall drooped a branch down just low enough for him to scramble up, when it was dark enough for him to get in without being spotted. He could drop into the lane between the wall and the wrought-iron fence from there.

The two dogs must have been kept starved. They snarled and threatened him—until he began to toss them tidbits of raw meat. The first night they gobbled the meat, then growled and muttered. He sat in the tree until the dogs barked, then dropped back over the wall to safety. The same thing happened the second night, and the third, but then the dogs came running over not with rumbles of anger, but whimpers of anticipation. Jarvey found he could crouch in the dark and extend the meat to them. They let him ruffle their ears and even tried to stick their snouts through the fence to lick his face. “Good old boys, good old boys,” he said in a soft voice. “Hungry, weren’t you, guys?”

When a week had passed, Jarvey was sure the dogs knew him and would not tear him limb from limb if he had to get into the palace grounds by way of the tree. Well—reasonably sure.

A day came when he heard the maidservants in the flats eagerly chattering about their holiday—“A whole week, fancy!” one of them said. Jarvey listened hard, learning that Midion was planning to be away in the country, taking some of his chief advisors with him to have a governmental conference.

That night he slipped away from the apartment house and climbed up into the oak tree. The big stone house lay in quiet and darkness. Below the tree, the two dogs circled, whimpering and whining. Jarvey crouched in the branches, but he knew the dark house was bound to be locked up, and at last he dropped back over the wall, not sure what to do.

He no longer had the Grimoire, but he did have the art. Or sometimes he had it. Jarvey thought it over. Siyamon Midion had seemed to say that if someone had even “wild art,” he could be trained to use it. But how did you train to use magic? If there were how-to books, the one place, the only place he could find them in Lunnon had to be in old Tantalus Midion’s library. And maybe—he hated to think it, but the thought would not go away—maybe if Betsy had betrayed him, the Grimoire was kept inside the library too. The thought of sneaking back into Bywater House, into the library where he and his parents had been tricked, made him feel sick, and yet he could think of nothing else.

His errand-boy clothes were beginning to look shabby and dirty, and he no longer dared to show himself boldly on the streets. Jarvey had hoped to do this on his own, no longer trusting even Betsy. He had to face facts: He needed help. He needed the Free Folk.

The next day he went hunting. No one was in the old Den in the alley, and he wasn’t even sure he could find the basement where he’d first met Betsy and the others. He remembered Charley’s bunch had been sent to the butcheries. On a rough, narrow street called the Shambles, he found big butchers’ shops where animals were slaughtered and their meat dressed. At one end of the street stood dozens of ramshackle stalls, where the tougher, less palatable cuts were sold to the poor. Jarvey hung around these, keeping an eye open.

He was almost ready to give up after two days of this when a group of three boys boiled out of a shop doorway and pelted around the corner. He recognized two of them, and one was Charley.

They had a good start, but desperation gave Jarvey an extra burst of speed. He ran as if he were trying to steal second in the last inning of a close game. Charley’s head swung around, his eyes narrow, as he heard Jarvey’s footsteps, and a broad brown-toothed grin spread itself across his grimy face. “Hold up, you two,” he said, tossing his head to get his black hair out of his face. “Here’s a turn-up! Old Jarvey Green! What cheer, Jarv?”

Charley frowned and scratched his head. “Dunno, mate. Dropped out o’ sight, she has. Run into Puddler some time back, he said he seen her talkin’ to a Toff near the palace, if that’s any help.”

“You were right,” he told Charley. “There’s a rat. Listen.” He hastily filled Charley in on what he had learned running errands for Captain Hawk. “So they’re looking for us,” he finished. “And they know Bets by name. Elizabeth Dare, the note said.”

They went down to the river, where Charley made sure the coast was clear before leading the way into a boathouse built onto a wharf. The light inside was strange, cool and green, with ripples from the water crawling over the walls and ceiling. Once they were inside, they all sat on the edge of the wharf, dangling their feet. “Listen,” Charley said, sounding reluctant. “I dunno if this is worth it or not to say, but I never knew Betsy’s last name before. Dare? You sure it was Dare, mate?”

Charley ran a brown hand though his mop of hair. “Well, then, it’s—I dunno. Jarv, before old Nibs caught him stealin’ and had him hung, Fortner Dare was captain of the watch. Head tipper, same as like Hawk is now.”

“Dunno what to think,” muttered Charley. “But Dare ain’t a common name. One of the Firsts was Fortner Dare. He couldn’t die here, not naturally died. He had to be hung, didn’t he? But whether he was Bets’s dad or not, well, I dunno, mate.”

Jarvey sat silent for long moments. Then Charley slapped him on the back. “Buck up, though. Tell you what: If you can get yourself up to the palace without bein’ caught, I’ll wager you I can get you in.”

From somewhere in his rags he produced a metal ring of what looked like spikes and L-shaped rods of metal. “Lockpicks, mate. For gettin’ in where nobody wants you. And if you’re caught with lockpicks on you, mind, it ain’t the mills for you. It’s—” He drew his finger across his throat and made a horrible gurgling sound. “It’s good-bye and farewell to your noggin, mate. It’s a hangin’ offense.”

Jarvey had never studied anything in school as hard as he studied becoming a burglar. For two days Charley instructed him, letting him work on a wide sampling of locks that he had squirreled away in one of the hideouts. Jarvey learned how to feel for the tumblers inside the lock, how to ease them up and keep them up one at a time, until even the heaviest lock would spring open. Over and over they practiced, until Jarvey’s knuckles ached and blisters stood on his thumb and forefinger from the effort. Finally, Charley said, “That’s all I can teach you, mate. So are you willin’ to risk the drop, then? You really goin’ to do it, fighting the odds?”

Charley gave him his stained grin. “Nah, mate, only get you caught if I did. This here’s a one-man job, see? Them dogs may wag their tails and turn over on their backs to see you, but they’d have my bleedin’ leg off if I came along. My bunch might kind of stroll around, though, keep the guards’ attention on us, like. Best we can do, mate.”

So it was settled. The next day brought the worst fog yet. While the others went out gathering food and some bones for the dogs, Jarvey practiced with the lockpicks over and over. Night came on with a slow fading of the light, the fog still dense, nearly impenetrable. All the better.

They made their way through the dark streets, and Jarvey felt grateful for Charley’s knowledge of Lunnon. In the fog, he would have lost himself after the first hundred feet. He carried the picks and a lumpy parcel of bones and meat, bribes for the watchdogs.

It must have been nearly midnight when they reached the brick wall. “Luck, mate,” Charley whispered, slapping Jarvey’s shoulder. “Sing out if you find yourself in trouble, and we’ll do what we can.”

With dread in every move, Jarvey made his way to the overhanging branch, by feel, not by vision, for everything was pitch black. Finally his stretched-out hands brushed the hanging twigs, and he hauled himself up into the tree. He made his way to the trunk and swung down. He would drop into the yard, not the lane, from there, and if the dogs had forgotten him—well, old Tantalus wouldn’t have anything more to worry about.

Jarvey closed his eyes and let go. His heels hit the soft lawn with a thump, and he sat down hard from the impact, but he sprang back up immediately. He heard growls and the scratch of paws, and he said softly, “Good boys! Good boys! Are you hungry? Want a snack?” It was all he could do to keep from yelping the words.

The dogs began to whine, and instead of biting him, they jumped up on him, planting their forefeet against his chest. He emptied the parcel, and he heard them snarfing up the bones and meat scraps.

With his hands stuck out in front like the Frankenstein monster in the old movies, Jarvey made his way across the lawn. He found the house, worked his way to the front door—if servants were still there, they’d be more likely to be in the back, he reasoned—and set to work with his picks.

He couldn’t see a thing, not even the torchlight from the gatehouses a few yards behind him. It helped to close his eyes. He began to sweat as the pick found the lock pins and slowly moved them. The dogs came over, sniffing him, rubbing against him, probably hoping for another snack.

Jarvey began to sweat in frustration. Remembering the time he had used magic to force a lock open, he tried to hold back those feelings. Zoroaster had warned him that old Midion could sense magic. It wouldn’t do to alert Nibs, not now, not when he was so close—Jarvey felt a click, another, and another. At last the pins all seemed free, and he gingerly reached to turn the knob. With a soft click, the latch opened, and Jarvey pushed inside the house, closing the door against the dark and the dogs behind him.

One gas light burned low and blue in the great room. He found the door that led to old Tantalus’s study. A lock secured it too, but an easier lock, and with a minute’s attention, he had it open. Inside Hawk’s anteroom, Jarvey risked turning up the gas a little. That let him open the last locked door, the one into Tantalus Midion’s library. He stepped in.

So many books! Jarvey went to the desk and pulled a large open volume toward him. It was in some foreign tongue, all swirls and squiggles, and he couldn’t read a syllable of it. He moved over to one of the two sets of shelves and looked at the spines. Some of the books were old and crumbling, some fresh with gilt lettering. None had titles that sounded at all helpful. Maybe the other shelves—