“Sure, look on the bright side.” He shoved a paw under the bottom of the wardrobe door and hooked it open an inch or two. “Listen.”
“Oui? I hear nothing.”
“That,” growled the cat, “is because you’re talking.”
A moment later, the ghost shrugged. “I still hear nothing.”
Then faintly, very faintly, just barely audible over the sound of Austin’s tail hitting the floor, came the roar of a large and very angry animal.
The two men exchanged an identical glance.
“You are sure that is not Claire?” Jacques asked.
“Yes! Mostly,” Austin amended after a moment’s thought. “Either way, it can’t be good. Dean has to go in and get her.”
“Okay.” Dean settled his glasses more firmly on his face and took a step forward.
“Un moment. You do not go alone, Anglais.”
“Yes, he does.” Austin interrupted. “You have to weigh more than forty kilos to go on this ride; it’s one of those stupid child safety features. Unfortunately, it also bars cats and ghosts, so I’m afraid Dean’s it.”
Jacques drew himself up to his full height, plus about four inches of air space. “If he carries the cushion, I go through with him.”
“It doesn’t work that way!” Austin directed a couple of angry licks in the direction of his shoulder. “And if it did, I’d be going through with him.”
Dean reached past the cat and opened the wardrobe door. It was dark inside, much darker than it should have been. Another distant roar drifted out into the room. He squared his shoulders, flexing the muscles across his back, and bounced a time or two on the balls of his feet. Claire needed his help. Cool. “What do I do?”
“Step up inside and pull the door closed behind you, but don’t latch it.”
“Why not?”
“Only idiots lock themselves in wardrobes.” His tone suggested any idiot ought to know that. “Once you’re in there, think about Claire. Holding an image of her in your mind, walk toward the back wall. When you get to where you’re going, keep thinking of her.”
“Where am I going?”
“I have no idea. Once you arrive, look and listen for anything out of the ordinary. She’ll be in the middle of it. Oh, and don’t eat or drink while you’re in there. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada.”
About ready to step inside, Dean paused. “Why not?” he asked again.
“Did you not read when you were a kid?”
“I, uh, played a lot of hockey.”
Austin snorted. “I guessed. If you eat or drink inside the wardrobe, it holds you there.”
The door half closed, he stuck his head out into the room. “How do I come back?”
“Think of this room and go through any opaque door.”
“But do not return here without Claire,” Jacques told him, “or I will make of your life a misery.”
Dean accepted the warning in the spirit it had been given. “Don’t worry. I’ll save her.”
As the wardrobe door swung shut, Austin leaped up onto the bed. “I hate waiting.”
“You know,” Jacques said thoughtfully, drifting over to join him. “If you are wrong and she does not need saving, she is going to be not happy with you.”
“Excuse me? If I am wrong?”
The inside of the wardrobe smelled faintly of mothballs. Dean found it a comforting smell as he turned away from the door and the argument gaining volume on the other side. It reminded him of the closet in the spare room at his grandfather’s house. Unable to see, he took a tentative step forward, expecting, in spite of everything to whack his face on the back wall. Another step, and another. Still no wall.
A new odor began drifting in over the mothballs.
His grandfather’s pipe tobacco?
He stopped and closed his eyes, suddenly remembering that he was supposed to be thinking of Claire, not of home.
“Holding an image of her in your mind…”
It was hard to hold a single image, so he cycled through the highlights of their short association as he took another step. Claire walking into the kitchen that first morning; Claire explaining how magic worked; Claire going up the spiral stairs to the attic. The smell of the pipe tobacco began to fade. She was his boss; she was a Keeper; she had a really irritating way of assuming she knew best or, more precisely, that he knew nothing at all. When he opened his eyes, he could see a gray light in the distance.
Approximately thirty-seven steps later—he wasn’t sure how many he’d taken before he’d started counting—he stood on Princess Street looking down the hill toward the water. Prepared for the strangest possible environment, he was a little disappointed to find himself in a bad copy of the city he’d just left. Everything was vaguely out of proportion, the street had been paved with cobblestones, and, although there were a few parked cars, there was no traffic. The half dozen or so people in sight paid no attention to him.
He could hear church bells in the distance and the cry of gulls circling high overhead.
There was no sign of Claire.
Hoping for a clue, he pulled out the card.
Aunt Claire, Keeper
Your Accident is my Opportunity
(could be worse, could be raining)
The skies opened up, and it began to pour. Dean stuffed the card back into his wallet, noting that magic had a very basic sense of humor.
Fortunately, he seemed to have passed from October into August. The air was warm, and the rain was almost tepid. Pushing wet hair back off his face, he drew in a deep lungful of air and frowned at yet another familiar smell. Hoping he hadn’t screwed everything up by thinking of home, he started running downhill toward the harbor. Look and listen for anything out of the ordinary, Austin had told him. Well, as far as he knew, there were no saltwater harbors on the Great Lakes.
It wasn’t just a saltwater harbor. Signal Hill rose across the narrows where the Royal Military College should have been. Massive docks butted up against a broad thoroughfare
