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“What did Kris say to you?” Martin asked urgently.
“He said he’d meet me here,” I answered. “Was Trimble... on the sleigh?”
“No,” said Ariast. “Should he have been?”
“Kris loaded his body there.”
All three of the men were silent. The eyes of Andras and Ariast might as well have been razors, so cutting were the looks on their faces.
“I thought I felt it,” said Andras. “Then Trimble is...”
“Is dead, yes...” I said. “I saw it happen.”
The two Sami men conferred with each other in their own language, then talked to Martin.
“He’s got to be arrested!” they told him. “We will need a full statement. What does he know? How did he get that medallion?”
“Lemuel stole it,’ I said. “Do any of you know Lemuel Greenleaf?” The other three exchanged meaningful looks.
“That, at least, I can believe,” said Andras.
“All the same, Martin, we’ve got to follow protocols.” Ariast jerked his head toward the stairs, and the floor above. “Take him into custody. At least until we know what’s happened to Kris.”
Martin faced me solemnly. “I don’t have the authority to place you under arrest. All the same, until Kris arrives, I am responsible for this place. There are holding cells at the next landing. I ask that you remain in one of them, voluntarily, until such time as I can make inquiries.”
“Won’t one of you just take this medallion?” I said. “I don’t want it. I never wanted it.”
“We can’t,” said Andras. “She would curse us.”
“Mother Solstice, you mean?” I said.
“You seem to know an awful lot for an accidental visitor,” said Ariast. I suddenly felt like an enemy.
Martin proceeded up the winding steps, and I went along. Andras and Ariast followed after, with grim expressions.
At the next floor, we walked a dark hallway. Black iron lanterns hung from primitive sconces on both sides. Martin stopped at a door with a golden plate, on which was etched Cell Number Six. Beneath this was a lock, and Martin removed a key from his own long coat.
As soon as the door opened, I felt a waft of chilled air. The cell was a spare stone room, with bare floors and no windows. A tiny pot-bellied stove sat in the corner by a wooden bench, alongside a cot so short, I could tell that my legs would hang off the end of it if I tried to lie down. A small door, sized for gnomes, was installed on the right-hand wall.
“I will see to a fire for the stove,” said Martin. “In the meantime, please wait patiently. Oh, and if you wish to visit Cell Number Seven, that door leads right to it. That’s assuming the prisoner in Seven hasn’t locked it from his side.” He gestured toward it with his head, as if making certain that I had heard him mention it.
Martin and the two Sami herders backed away without another word, and the cell door shut. I heard the sound of tumblers rolling and locking into place.
I have heard people speak of a sense of unreality, even in mundane everyday pursuits. Who hasn’t occasionally been overcome by that strange feeling that whoever one is, and whatever one is doing, it is so very odd, once you think about all the other people you could be. When you find yourself in a snowbound palace, imprisoned in a cold room, worrying about the disappearance of Father Christmas, that unreal feeling is, I can report, highly intensified.
The cell was as miserable as my own mood. My sense of guilt, that I had somehow earned this punishment, made war with a new stirring of anger. I had gone from guest to prisoner so quickly, with so little sympathetic inquiry. There was no place to rest, not comfortably. No fire, no food. How long would I be kept here?
It didn’t take me long to decide I’d better investigate Cell Number Seven. I knocked on the small door. I didn’t hear any response, but I pushed against it, and it swung open. I crawled through.
Number Seven was a sumptuous suite. There was a corner fireplace, complete with kettle and chestnut roaster. A modest Christmas tree sat nearby, alongside a grand table and a writing desk, with tall chairs upholstered at the seat in rich red. The cell was furnished with a plush day bed, accompanied by two dressers, and a sideboard stacked with tea service, biscuits, cakes and tiny sandwiches. In the opposite corner, I saw a game table with chessboard and two chairs. Darts, skittles and other amusements were dotted about the place.
At the large table sat Clive Murney, scribbling away in his notebook, using a quill and ink. He paused long enough to give me a glance, then lowered his head and continued to write, now very quickly.
“Hello, Clive. It’s a relief to see you.”
“Just a minute, Candlewax. I’ve got to finish this.” He wrote for another few moments, then set the quill down. He blew across the page and blotted it, then turned his attention to me.
“Are you here to get me out, Candlewax?” His voice was quiet.
“No, Clive, and please call me Mannie.”
“All right. Why are you here?” He was almost whispering.
“I’m in the next cell over. Thanks to Lemuel.”
“We’re prisoners,” said Clive. It was troubling to hear him speak without his usual insolent tone.
“Have you seen my cell?” I asked him. “It’s nothing like this one.”
“I don’t deserve this.” Clive turned to another page. It was the last leaf in his little book.
“What did they put you here for?” I said.
“You know very well. I stole Olivia’s letter, and I took her place.”
“So, you’ve got to stay here? With all this? It’s not much of a punishment.”
“I know!” he said, and I saw that his eyes were watering. “I deserve so much worse.”
He put his head down on the table, and I went to him, and put a hand on his shoulder. He was shaking. “Clive, please don’t...” I started, but then his arms were around me, and his head was on my shoulder. I had never seen him cry before. I had scarcely seen any emotion but his usual smug self-satisfaction. That and the brief, beatific expression he wore as he sang in the cathedral last Sunday.
“I ruined everything, and look how they treat me...” he said at last.
“Then, they can’t be too upset with you, right?”
Clive let go and sat back in his chair. His nose was running pretty freely. I grabbed a napkin from the nearby table and handed it to him. He turned away from me and took a few moments to compose himself. As affected as I was by this show of honest remorse, I was still secretly amused by the loud, musical honking sound he made as he blew his nose.
“Are you all right, Clive?”
“Sorry about that, old man,” he said quietly. I had to take a swipe at my own eyes, now dewy at the corners.
“Think nothing of it,” I said.
“I think something terrible has happened.” He looked at me again. “To Trimble, I mean.”
I explained the situation to him as best I could, trying not to say anything that would trigger more grief. I persuaded Clive to eat a few bites of cake. This made him feel better. We each recounted our own stories of how we ended up at Very North.
“I wanted that key, the good one,” Clive admitted. “When I saw Drillmast had snitched it, I thought he’d be more fun to follow. I really thought it was all just a game.”
He had been persuaded that bringing Trimble to Very North was the safest route, but the F.A.B. knew it was a trap set by the Grim Frost. I was glad to learn that Clive had not seen the shooting occur. He had been found by Andras and brought to Very North before that awful event happened.
I told him my story, and Clive laughed a little when I described how the bent key had opened the rock doorways only a fraction.
“They were all wide open for me,” he said. “I guess it really should have been you going through.”
“It really should have been Olivia,” I reminded him.
“I wish Olivia was here,” he said.
“So do I.”
“I bet you do,” he said, and a little of his usual smirk showed. “What I mean is, she’s good at making me feel better. You’re a bit of a drip, Mannie.”
Then I remembered what Kris had told me just before he left me at the entry to the ice labyrinth.
“Clive. Kris said something I didn’t really understand. He said that the candidates, the other children here, he said they might still meet Trimble.”
“Didn’t you say Trimble is dead?”
“Yeah. But Kris said it might be possible. Not easy, but possible.”
“Did he say how?”
“The last thing he told me was that I should be merry. Cultivate a jolly mood, that’s how he put it.”
“I have never felt less merry in my life,” Clive said.
“I know. But, perhaps there is some kind of magic, maybe a spell that ...”
“That will bring Trimble back? Did he say that?”
“No. He didn’t say much. But, we have to be hopeful. Hey, have you seen my cell?”
I took Clive back through the center door to my unadorned prison. As soon as he saw it, he smiled.
“You must have done something really awful, Candlewax!”
“No. It’s all a matter of me having this medallion. It seems to be a curse.”
“You really going to stay in here?” Clive said. “You’ll freeze!”
“Someone’s supposed to bring a fire.”
“Well, until they do, you better stay over on my end, don’t you think?”
“Yes. I suppose I’d best. Thank you, Clive.”
He grimaced. “Don’t thank me! You make it sound like I’m doing you a favor.”
At the sound of a key in the lock, the door to Number Six opened. In stepped a familiar figure. It was Lemuel. He was wearing a gray tunic and a crooked work hat. It didn’t complement his russet beard nearly as well as his usual leafy green clothes. Martin came in behind him.
“Gentlemen,” the gnome said.
“Lemuel!” I answered, astonished.
“I’m caught.” Lemuel’s expression was one of contrition. “And rightly so. This night, I have misled you both, and a great many others. In my own defense, I will only say, I thought I was protecting that reindeer. I made a deal with an icy devil, and I will regret it all my days.”
“So you know what’s happened,” I said.
“Exactly what I was trying to prevent.” Lemuel removed his hat and looked down. “It’s all on my head.”
“How did you get here?” I asked.
“I escaped from ...” He hemmed and hawed a bit.
“Mother Solstice,” I said.
“Yes! Shhh! Are you trying to bring her here?” Lemuel looked around nervously.
“It might not be such a bad thing,” I said. “Maybe she could take this medallion from me.”
“Oh. Right. Guess that got you into some trouble.” Lemuel chuckled nervously. “Sorry about that. You couldn’t bribe me to take it back from you, though.”
Martin interrupted. “Lemuel made his way here by another passage. I am sure he will be placed under official arrest, so we have inducted him into our service.”
“Gave me these nice gray duds,” added Lemuel.
“Fortunately for you, Lemuel has been able to corroborate much of your story,” Martin said. “I am giving Lemuel this cell, Number Six. As for the two of you, I have decided to place you both under my own supervision. We can use your help downstairs.”
“Am I not a prisoner anymore?” Clive said. “Those other two men, they said I’d be kept here for at least a year!”
“It’s not up to me,” Martin said. “Now, Mr. Candler, Mr. Murney, please come with me. There is merriment that needs making. And keeping you locked away here isn’t going to help Kris.”
Martin instructed Lemuel to wait in the cell, until further instruction. Clive and I accompanied Martin back down the stairs.
“Mr. Piper,” I said, “I don’t want to sound impertinent, but why are those two cells so, well, different?”
“It’s a bit of a test, Mr. Candler. We place a door between a room of paucity and a room of plenty. Two convict guests can demonstrate much about their characters, if they will reach an equitable means of sharing what is good and improving what is woeful.
“So, if we return, we might share with Lemuel.”
“That’s right.”
I leaned in to Martin and spoke very quietly. “You should know, Mr. Piper. When Clive saw my cell, he offered to let me stay on his side.”
“That’s good to hear,” Martin said. Very good indeed.” He pushed open the mirrored panel, and we reentered the Great Hall. There, four children danced an elegant quadrille, to sweet, melancholy music scratching and thumping its way out of a spinning disc on an antique gramophone. Della stood by, giving occasional reminders of the next steps. Gordon, Samantha, Tabitha and Jeremy had made good on their practice time. Their steps were sure, their faces bright. With Martin and Clive, I stood to the side and watched. The four children stepped around each other, formed into pairs, changed partners, joined hands in a circle, spun around. Outside, seven lanterns began to flicker and glow.
Martin shut his eyes, and I saw tears begin to fall as his lids closed together. He turned away so I could no longer see his face.