Chapter 7

“We?” Cordelia was so surprised to hear Gregory say the word that for a second she couldn’t even react to the rest of his suggestion: We find HP. As if it were as simple as strolling down to the butcher and asking for a sausage link.

“I’m going to help,” he announced, puffing out his chest slightly—which, since he was so narrow, had the effect of making him look like an upside-down exclamation point. “You helped save my dog.”

“Zuppy,” Cordelia corrected.

“Sure, zuppy. Dead or alive, Cabal’s a friend. And you’re a friend too.”

Cordelia couldn’t speak immediately. Friend. Funny how a bundle of letters could add up to so much. Friend meant she wasn’t alone, not entirely. Friend meant she had hope.

Even so, the idea of trying to find HP was overwhelming. Where could they possibly begin? Cordelia had never been outside Boston; it was rare that she ever left the house, unless her father accompanied her. She had no idea how far the world extended, how long and wide it might be, what it looked like beyond the familiar slanting streets of her hometown.

“They’ve had a head start,” Cordelia said. “They might have gone in any direction.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” Gregory swiped his straw-like hair from his eyes. In the corner, Cabal and Icky were fighting over a canister of dung beetles, which the dragon, in his awkward attempts to fly, had knocked off the pantry shelf. Icky poked Cabal in the nose.

Cordelia had to admit that she didn’t. Still, she felt almost sick with fear. “We’ll have to be very careful. HP—whoever he or she is—managed to steal two bullieheads, two growrks, and a family of pixies without any trouble. He’s strong, and clever, and sneaky.”

“That’s all right,” Gregory said. “Careful’s what I do best. Besides,” he added and grinned, “we got a dragon.”

At that moment, the dragon coughed out a long stream of flame. Gregory yelped and jumped backward, knocking over one of the kitchen chairs. As he sprang forward to put out the smoldering wallpaper, and succeeded instead only in breaking Cordelia’s favorite mug and a jar full of dried arrowroot, Cordelia’s stomach sank all the way to her toes.

“Why,” she sighed, “do I get the sense that we’re about to do something very, very stupid?”

The filch let out a delighted fart.

Gregory packed a bag with supplies from the pantry while Cordelia went upstairs to change out of her nightgown. She put on a pair of old corduroy pants and carefully transferred the note into a pocket. She layered a large, moth-eaten sweater that had once belonged to her mother over a turtleneck and wrestled on her favorite jacket, which was fitted with seven deep pockets in which she liked to keep various tools of the monster-hunting trade: a spyglass, a sound-amplifier of her father’s own invention, and nose plugs (useful when hunting the bogs); a wrench, wires, pincers, and dingle clips; goggles, adjustable harnesses, square nails, and a pair of pliers whose handles had been gnawed practically into uselessness by one of their diggles.

She retrieved her rucksack from her closet, where she had discarded it the night before, and checked it to make sure her lantern, blanket, and collapsible net were still undisturbed. Satisfied that everything was in place, she shoved her feet into her mother’s rubber boots, slung the bag over her shoulder, and returned downstairs. In the pantry, she found her father’s leather coin purse, tucked away in an empty tin of biscuits. She counted out the total inside: twelve dollars and eighty-five cents. They would have to make do.

In the kitchen, Gregory ticked off pantry items he’d packed. “Salted beef jerky, sardines, seed bread, dung beetles”—he made a face—“tinned peas, a dozen bone cookies, a jar of peanuts, and Mrs. McGregor’s sweet buns.”

“What about the wormroot and the yak grease?” Cordelia asked, bending down to fix a collar and leash onto Cabal, Icky, and the dragon in turn. The dragon twisted his head and tried to spit flame at her fingers, but only succeeded, this time, in coughing out smoke.

“Got ’em,” Gregory said.

“And the fermented fish cakes? Icky—that’s the filch—is crazy about them.”

“Check,” Gregory said.

Standing in the warmth of the kitchen, surrounded by the clutter of familiar objects, Cordelia felt a sharp pang. She had no idea how long it would be before she returned, sat by the warmth of its ancient stove, or walked its warped floorboards.

“Hang on,” she said. “There’s one last thing I have to do.”