Chapter Fifteen

Gustafson had no trouble tracking down Journey that night, in spite of the late hour.

He could practically hear her sniffling from his factory. She sat dabbing her eyes on a stoop in a dark, chilly alley opening onto the empty square, Jeronicus’s shop on the far side.

Better yet, she was alone.

His footsteps sounded along with the quiet taps of his bejeweled staff, which doubled as his cane, giving him away. “Hello, young lady,” his smooth voice said from the shadows behind her.

Journey looked up from Gustafson’s pair of shiny shoes and cloak to his top hat as he sat down. He leaned up his cane, removed his hat to reveal his bald noggin, and cleared his throat.

“Oh! Pardon my rudeness,” he said. “I’m—”

“Gustafson,” they said in unison. Journey knew who he was—the aspiring inventor in her mother’s tales who stole from the Jangles in order to build his own toy factory and empire.

He grinned, taken aback. Then again, who didn’t know his famous name? “Oh. Well done!” He gave a lighthearted chuckle. “And you must be . . . Jeronicus Jangle’s granddaughter.”

Journey stayed silent. In the same way she could see invisible formulas and missing parts, she could also tell when someone’s heart was coated in a slimy, slippery layer of sleet.

“If I know anything about your grandfather, Jangles and Things is stirring with something sensational.” He flashed an obsequious smile, hoping to get her to talk. “Something spectacular.”

She could tell he was obviously fishing for information. It was almost as if somehow he knew about Buddy. “It’s just a pawnshop,” she stated unflappably with a shake of her head.

He leaned close. “You and I both know there’s something in there. You can tell me. Perhaps I can market it or mass-produce it. For him.” His insincerity was as clear as black ice.

Journey stared up from her boots at him. “I’ve got items to mark down.” She leaned closer. “In the pawnshop,” she added, for good measure, then stood. She was a tour de force.

Gustafson seized her by the wrist. She spun to him, frozen in fear, willing him to unhand her. Then, as quickly as he’d grabbed her, he let go. He smirked. He would find another way.

She took off across the square, the arctic chill of his bony fingers still lingering.