JAMES POTTER AND THE VAULT OF DESTINIES

Adams', the name plate read. 'Our Madam Curator spends about as much time at her post as a Virginia night watchman.'

       'I take offense at comments like that,' another portrait commented from further down the hall.

       'We know, Thomas,' Washington said with a roll of his eyes. 'That's why Adams keeps making them. He's been trying to get your goat for centuries. I cannot understand why you keep making it so very easy for him.'

       'Like shooting fish in a barrel,' Adams smirked.

       'Some of us prefer more sporting contests,' said the portrait from further down the hall. James leaned to the side and read the name plate: 'Thomas Jefferson'. 'Us Virginians aim for loftier challenges than mere colloquial insults.'

       'Do note, John,' Washington added carefully, 'that I was a Virginian as well.'

       'Yes, but you can give as well as you get, George,' Adams replied jovially. 'You have a sense of humour, after all.'

       'Wait a minute,' Ralph interrupted. 'George Washington. You're the guy that invented peanut butter, right?'

       'Ahem,' another voice coughed lightly. 'You're thinking of George Washington Carver, young man. A common enough mistake, I suppose.'

       'Oh,' Ralph said, his face reddening as he glanced aside at the portrait of a handsome man with dark skin and grey hair. 'Er, sorry, Mr. Carver.'

       'Not necessary,' the portrait smiled. 'Although do spread the word, if you will pardon the pun: I invented over four hundred uses for the common peanut. Being chiefly remembered for the creation of a snack food tends to be a bit of a legacy killer.'

       Ralph nodded. 'I'll, er, try to remember that, sir.'

       'So then,' Adams said, leaning back in his painted chair, 'what can we do for you fine gentlemen?'

       Zane stepped forward. 'All right,' he said, glancing around at the portraits. 'We're looking for information about something that might have been here in the museum a long time ago. Any of you guys remember a silver horseshoe?'

       'Silver horseshoe,' Washington mused thoughtfully. 'Rings a very faint bell, I daresay, although the idea seems a bit impractical on the surface of it.'

       'You may wish to ask Miss Sacajawea,' Jefferson suggested. 'She has a better view of the rest of the museum, being on the end near the entryway.'

       James walked along the line of portraits until he came to a large painting of a tall Native American woman in a fringed, buff-coloured tunic. Her long black hair fell over one shoulder, glinting in the light of a forest sunset.

       'Um,' James began, 'hi, Miss. Mr. Jefferson said you might know something about an old horseshoe that used to be here in the museum. Do you remember anything like that?'

       The woman in the portrait didn't move for several seconds. Finally, her eyelids fluttered slightly, as if she were rousing herself from a sort of sleep. She glanced at James solemnly and then nodded past him toward the corridor's broad entrance. 'The talisman of the Rider's mount,' she said softly. 'I remember it. Its voice once sang from the hall beyond you, from its resting place near the window.'

       Zane frowned. 'Er, I don't think we're talking about the same thing,' he said respectfully. 'This was a silver horseshoe. You know. Not the sort of thing that sings, usually.'

       'It was no usual relic,' the portrait said, and there was a tinge of sadness in her voice. 'Its home was not of this world and the hoof from which it came belonged to no ordinary beast. Its voice was tiny, nearly faded to silence, but such was the enchantment of its origin that it still told its sad tale even after so many seasons had passed over it. I alone heard its song and marked its passing.'

       In an awed voice, James asked, 'Do you remember what happened to it, Miss?'

       Sacajawea nodded slowly. 'The man with the iron cane took it,' she said. 'He enchanted the woman who was curator in that time, making her believe that he had been given special privileges. She helped him unlock the talisman's case. When the man touched the talisman, its song, faint as it was, finally ceased. He took it with him and it has been gone ever since.'

       'The man with the iron cane,' Zane whispered, nudging James. 'Magnussen, you think?'

       James nodded. 'Who else could it be?'

       'Ignatius Magnussen,' Jefferson's voice echoed from the corridor. 'I remember him— and his cane.'

       James looked back. 'You saw him here too?'

       'He was not the sort of man one is likely to forget,' Jefferson answered soberly. 'Had a face like something carved from granite and a tongue like a two-edged sword.'

'We observed him with his classes, on occasion,' Washington added. 'Thomas is quite right. Professor Magnussen had a way with cruelty that was very nearly an art form. I knew men like him in my day, men whose words could both build the strongest confidences and cut the deepest wounds.'

       'And his iron-tipped cane, I might add,' said the portrait of George Washington Carver, 'was no normal cane. Its power was concealed, but no great secret. Where others seem to rely on magical wands, Professor Magnussen wielded his horrid cane, and it was revered with much dread.'

       'I remember seeing that cane,' James said thoughtfully. 'In the Disrecorder vision. It was leaning against the table, right next to him. Its handle looked sort of like a falcon or a gargoyle or something.'

       'Indeed, that was the man's constant companion,' the portrait of Adams said, nodding. 'Be glad, gentlemen, that his day is past and you do not have to sit beneath his cold eye.'

       'Yeah,' Ralph said morosely as they made their way back along the corridor, heading for the exit. 'Hooray for us.'

       It was Valentine's evening before the three boys were finally able to attempt the trip through time in pursuit of the infamous Professor Magnussen. Tracking down the date of the professor's disappearance was the easiest part since, by all accounts, it coincided with the fire that destroyed his erstwhile home. Figuring out how to get the Warping Willow to take them to that exact date, however, proved to be a bit more of a challenge. In the end, Zane had called upon his fellow Zombies, including Warrington, to help write the appropriate rhyming verse that would, with any luck, send them back to the evening of October eighth, eighteen fifty-nine.

       The day leading up to the adventure went exceedingly slowly. James found it very difficult to pay attention in Georgia Burke's Magizoology class even though they were studying live Velocipedes, which tended to require constant observation and very quick reflexes. Halfway through the class, James had gotten neatly bowled over by one of the huge hundred-legged insects. As a result, the creature had squirmed playfully around him in a vigorous hug and licked his face repeatedly with its long prehensile tongue.

       'You'll be all right,' Professor Burke called from outside the muddy pen. 'They're like big puppies, really. Just relax and she'll get bored with you in a minute. There's no point in trying to disengage yourself, trust me.'

       James flopped back into the mud and squinted his eyes shut while the Velocipede huffed excitedly into his face, its tongue like a miniature, rubbery whip.

       The afternoon's classes had no sooner ended than James had to rush across campus toward Pepperpock Down, munching a sandwich en route and dragging his Clutch gear along with him. The afternoon match was against Pixie House, and amazingly enough, Team Bigfoot was tied with the Pixies' scoring record. Frankly, James