wanted. Instead of wasting any further words on Wendell, he turned on his heel and headed toward the front door.
“Wait for me!” Wendell hollered. “Can you smell that pie?”
Harvey could, and wished he’d put some food in his belly before he’d started out on this adventure. Knowing that these tantalizing smells were all part of Hood’s repertoire wasn’t enough to stop his mouth from watering or his stomach from grumbling.
All he could do was think of the dust to which his ark animals had turned when he’d stepped out into the street. The pie on the kitchen table was probably made of the same bitter stuff, concealed beneath a veneer of sweetness. He held on to that thought as best he could, knowing that the House into which he was about to step would be full of such blandishments.
With Wendell again trailing a step behind, he climbed the porch steps and marched into the House. The moment they were both inside, the door slammed behind them. Harvey reeled around, his skin crawling. It was not the wind that had thrown the door shut.
It was Rictus.
XVII. Cook, Cat and Coffin
“Great to have you back, boy,” Rictus said, his smile as wide as ever. “I told everyone you wouldn’t be able to stay away. Nobody believed me. He’s gone, they said, he’s gone. But I knew better.” He started to wander toward Harvey. “I knew you wouldn’t be satisfied with a little visit…not with so much fun still to be had.”
“I’m hungry,” Wendell whined.
“Help yourselves!” Rictus grinned.
Wendell was off at a sprint, into the kitchen.
“Oh boy oh boy oh boy!” he hollered. “Look at all this food.”
Harvey didn’t reply.
“Aren’t you hungry?” Rictus said, raising an eyebrow high above his spectacles. He cupped his hand behind his ear. “That sounds like an empty belly to me.”
“Where’s Mrs. Griffin?” Harvey said.
“Oh…she’s around,” Rictus said mischievously. “But she’s getting old. She takes to her bed a good deal these days, so we laid her down somewhere safe and sound.”
As he spoke there was a mewling sound from the living room, and there at the door stood Stew-Cat. Rictus scowled. “Get out of here, pussy!” he spat. “Can’t you see we’re having a conversation?”
But Stew-Cat wasn’t about to be intimidated. She sauntered over to Harvey, rubbing herself against his legs.
“What do you want?” Harvey said, going down on his haunches to stroke her. She purred loudly.
“Hey, that’s fine and dandy,” Rictus said, putting off his anger in favor of a freshly polished smile. “You like the cat. The cat likes you. Everybody’s happy.”
“I’m not happy,” Harvey said.
“And why’s that?”
“I left all my presents here, and I don’t know where.”
“No problem,” said Rictus. “I’ll find ‘em for you.”
“Would you do that?” Harvey said.
“Sure, kid,” said Rictus, persuaded that his charm was working again. “That’s what we’re all here for: to give you whatever your heart desires.”
“I think maybe I left them up in my bedroom,” Harvey suggested.
“You know I think I saw ‘em up there,” Rictus replied. “You stay right here. I’ll be back.”
He took himself up the stairs two and three at a time, whistling tunelessly through his teeth as he ascended. Harvey waited until he disappeared from sight and then went to check on Wendell, letting Stew-Cat slip away.
“Ah, now, look at this!’ a voice said as he appeared at the kitchen door.
It was Jive. He was standing at the stove, as sinewy as ever, juggling eggs with one hand and tossing pancakes in a pan with the other.
“What do you fancy?” he said. “Sweet or savory?”
“Nothing,” Harvey said.
“It’s all good,” Wendell piped up. He was almost hidden behind a wall of filled plates. “Try the apple turnovers! They’re great!”
Harvey was sorely tempted. The buffet looked wonderfully tempting. But it was dust. He had to keep remembering that.
“Maybe later,” he said, averting his eyes from the heaps of syrup-drenched waffles and bowls of ice cream.
“Where are you going?” Jive wanted to know.
“Mr. Rictus is finding a few presents for me,” Harvey said.
Jive smiled with satisfaction. “So you’re getting back into the swing of things, kiddo!” he said. “Good for you!”
“I’ve missed being here,” Harvey replied.
He didn’t linger, just in case Jive saw the lie in his eyes, but turned and headed back into the hallway. Stew-Cat was still there, staring at him.
“What is it?” he said.
The cat took off toward the stairs, then stopped and cast a backward glance.
“Have you something to show me?” Harvey whispered.
At this, the cat bounded off again. Harvey followed, expecting her to lead the way upstairs. But before she reached the bottom step she veered off to her left, and led Harvey down a narrow passage to a door he had never even noticed before.
He rattled the handle, but the door was locked. Turning to look for Stew-Cat, he found her rubbing her arched back against the leg of a small table set nearby. On the table was a carved wooden box. In the box was a key.
He went back to the door, unlocked it, and pulled it open. There was a flight of wooden steps in front of him, leading down into a darkness from which a sour, dank smell rose. He might have declined to descend had Stew-Cat not hurried on past him, down into the murk.
With his fingers trailing on the damp walls to the left and right of him, he followed Stew-Cat to the bottom of the flight, counting the steps as he went. There were fifty-two, and by the time he had descended them all his eyes had become reasonably accustomed to the gloom. The cellar was cavernous but empty, except for a litter of rubble and a large wooden box, which lay in the dust maybe a dozen yards from where he stood.
“What is it?” he hissed to Stew-Cat, knowing the creature had no way of replying, but hoping for some sign nevertheless.
Stew-Cat’s only answer was to run across the floor and leap nimbly up onto the box, where it began to claw at the wood.
Harvey’s curiosity was stronger than his fear, but not so much stronger that he dashed to pull off the lid. He approached as though the box were some sleeping beast, which for all he knew it was. The closer he got the more it resembled a crude coffin; but what kind of coffin was sealed with a padlock? Was this where Carna had been laid, perhaps, after the beast had dragged its wounded body back home? Was it even now listening to Stew-Cat scratch on the lid, waiting for release?
As he came within a yard of the casket, however, he laid eyes on a clue to its contents: an apron string, left hanging out of the box by whoever had locked it. He knew of only one person in the House who wore an apron.
