Windblowne

don’t know what it’s like living here! Your great-uncle was the first friend I’d ever had!”

“Friend?” said Oliver. He jumped to his feet. “You kidnapped him and stole all his kites! You helped Lord Gilbert banish him to a hell-world! What kind of friend is that?”

But any answer Two might have given was interrupted by Lord Gilbert’s voice, which erupted out of Two’s handvane.

“Two! Come down immediately! We have work to do!”

The Olivers looked at each other. Two seemed on the verge of saying something, then bit his lip. “I’ll explain later,” he said. But Oliver could tell he was lying. Two limped from the room.

Watching him leave, Oliver wondered about the spars in the hidden drawer. Was it possible that Two intended to use them for the same thing Oliver did—to escape? If he left via kite, Lord Gilbert wouldn’t be able to pull him back through the machine. He caught himself wondering what would happen to Two after Oliver took the spars—then reminded himself that Two had betrayed Great-uncle Gilbert. He doesn’t deserve my sympathy.

Lord Gilbert’s voice came again, this time out of a panel in the wall. “Oliver One! Downstairs now!”

Lord Gilbert, covered in soot and still wearing his helmet, was waiting for Oliver in the living room. “Well?” he barked. “The repairs will be completed shortly. Have you come to your senses? Are you ready to start with the hunters?”

“Yes, of course,” said Oliver innocently. “The joints on each hunter have to be oiled. And I’m going to oil them.”

“Much better,” said Lord Gilbert, peering at Oliver. Then Two called something from outside, and Lord Gilbert rushed away.

Oliver had no intention of oiling the hunters. But what if Lord Gilbert checked the can? Thinking hard, Oliver went to the laboratory and removed the lid from the oilcan. Then he went into the kitchen and carefully poured the entire contents into the sink. Black liquid bubbled down the drain. Satisfied, Oliver replaced the can in the laboratory. Now Lord Gilbert would never know.

Back in the laboratory, he hunted for a ruler to get an idea of the length of the required spine, but he couldn’t find anything like one. With the inactive hunters on every side, he felt as though someone were constantly looking over his shoulder. He suspected one of the many inexplicable devices that filled the laboratory would do the job, but he had no idea which one. He searched through them all, looking for anything useful, but was afraid of raising suspicions by disturbing too much of anything when he was supposed to be oiling.

He suffered through a morose supper with Lord Gilbert and Two, who apparently had gotten the machine in working order. Lord Gilbert groused about the disruption to his schedule. Two coughed quietly. Oliver left the table as soon as he could, claiming he needed to get a lot of rest for a big day of fixing hunters tomorrow. He lay on a sofa converted to a makeshift bed in the living room, listening to a commotion from the next room as Lord Gilbert and Two dealt with some kind of kitchen catastrophe. Despite himself, he drifted off into a nervous sleep before he could find out what the catastrophe was.

He was woken by the sound of Lord Gilbert storming upstairs, growling, “First the machine, now something’s wrong with the pipes! My Olivers will fix it tomorrow.” Two followed soon after, limping up.

The strange lamps that filled the treehouse with light were extinguished. After waiting as long as he could bear, Oliver rose from the couch, alone downstairs in the darkened treehouse, bathed by white moonslight gleaming in through the windows. He wished it weren’t the month of Two Moons. His escape would be easier under cover of total darkness.

Outside, the winds howled, sounding oddly far away, unlike in Oliver’s treehouse at home, where drafts whistled in through the cracks. There were no drafts in Lord Gilbert’s perfectly built treehouse.

Oliver crept into action.

11

Oliver climbed carefully, carefully, placing each foot delicately on the next step as he inched upstairs, quiet as a ghost. In his own treehouse, there would have been cacophonous creaks and groans no matter how gingerly he went. Here, in Lord Gilbert’s flawless treehouse, the stairs were silent.

In the dark bedroom, Two’s breathing was slow and raspy. Oliver listened for a minute, making sure Two was really asleep. No chances, Oliver, he warned himself. No mistakes.

He crawled to the workbench, thinking quiet thoughts. He felt for the mechanism that opened the secret drawer. His groping fingers found it—

CLICK!

Oliver cringed. Was that the same click as before? Had it sounded quite as much like an explosion the first time? It seemed to echo through the room—CLICKCLICKCLICK!

With stern orders to stop imagining things, he held his breath and reached daintily into the drawer. There was a slight clatter, and then he had all of the spars in his hand. He stole ghostily downstairs to the laboratory, tremendously pleased at how well the plan was going.

He stumbled around in the dark until his hand found a lamp. Remembering what he’d seen Lord Gilbert do, he felt for a switch and pressed it. The room flooded with soft light. Well done, he thought smugly. He was learning his way around this strange world.

The moment the light came on, the caged hawk in the corner began chittering fearfully. “Shhh!” Oliver hissed. He stepped back, and the hawk quieted. On a workbench near the cage was the broken hunter. The thing lay on its side, glass eyes dull and empty, one wing stuck awkwardly straight up, exposing a puzzle of wires beneath. It was no wonder the caged hawk was upset.

“I’ll take you with me when I leave,” Oliver whispered. “I won’t let them do that to you.” He thought of releasing it right away, but turning a panicked hawk loose in the laboratory seemed like a superb way to blow his cover. No more mistakes.

He turned his attention to the poor crimson kite, pinned to a workbench, looking discouragingly dead.

Carefully, Oliver removed the pins and clasps restraining the kite, despairing at the damage, feeling inept. Under the artificial light, the bright crimson silk looked wan and sickly. His fumbling hands seemed to cause even more damage and more rips. Tears sprang to his eyes—could the kite feel pain?

At last the kite was free. Tenderly, Oliver smoothed the silk. His heart pounded. This was where things would get tricky.

Trying not to clatter, he arranged the sticky spars on the workbench. He chose one that looked to be spine length. Taking a deep breath, he tried to fix the spar in place. Too long. He tried another. Too short. He held his breath. Would the third one be just right? No, it didn’t fit either. He felt warm tears on his cheeks as he pushed and pulled, trying to fit at least one of the spars, feeling the last of his confidence draining away.

At last he found a spar that looked exactly right. Carefully, carefully, measuring with his eyes, he tried to snap it into place. But the spar was just slightly too long. Automatically, he looked around for a knife.

Then he froze. No mistakes, Oliver. He hated to admit it, but if he started messing about with knives or any other tools, he’d probably make things even worse.

He eyed the almost-right spar. It was so close—maybe if he just pushed a little harder, he could snap it in. After all, this kite had survived the force of the night winds—if it could do that, it could probably survive the force of his clumsiness. With a firm nod, he prepared to push.

“No!” A harsh whisper came from behind him. Oliver whirled.

Two stood holding a knife.

Oliver lunged, not thinking about the knife or the fact that he was completely unarmed.

Two threw one arm around Oliver’s neck. “Quiet, you idiot!” he coughed into Oliver’s ear. “You’ll wake Lord Gilbert.”

Oliver paused, panting, muscles tensed, wanting to fight.

Two released Oliver’s neck and spoke through clenched teeth. “If you try to jam that spar in, it will snap!