I wondered if the neighbors had noticed that our house was gone yet. That wasn’t the sort of thing we were going to be able to explain very well. When we returned to Rock Canyon, we would probably be known as those bizarre Millers whose house up and disappeared one day. Which was one more thing that would make me stand out as the weird girl at school.
Hudson ate his hash slowly. “Bartimaeus needs the Gilead, so hopefully he’ll agree to send us all back.”
“How long will it take to get to his village?” Sandra asked, taking small bites of her toast.
“It’s about ten miles east from the castle,” Hudson said, “but I’m not sure where we are now. How far north did we come last night?”
“About twenty miles,” Dad said.
Nick shoveled hash into his mouth. “So that’s only thirty miles—less if we can cut across the distance. We could drive that in a couple of hours.”
Hudson shook his head. “Most of the roads here are just foot-paths. You can’t drive cars on them. We only got as far as we did last night because we kept to a road that wagons use to go to market.
Besides, King John’s men will be watching for your cars now. They know they were used in the attack.” He looked up from his plate as though remembering something. “Did the Merry Men go brush away the tire tracks from the road this morning?” Dad nodded. Apparently they’d discussed those details before, maybe last night while I’d been changing wood into gold. It was odd to hear my father and Hudson talking like equals. Dad usually spoke to Nick’s friends with a kind of patronizing tolerance. But Hudson had been here for months. He knew this century better than the rest of us, and my father was listening to what he had to say.
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“We should still leave this campsite soon,” Hudson said. “Any of the villagers who helped last night could turn us in. Right now I bet King John would pay a lot for Tansy’s return.” Probably true. If not to marry me, then to hang me. And he’d probably make me change the gallows to gold before he did.
Dad scooped up some hash onto his bread. “How long would it take to get to Bartimaeus’s village on horseback?” Hudson thought for a moment. “One day if we find good trails and the horses gallop for part of the trip. Two if they walk.” The Merry Men had horses. They were tied among the trees, munching foliage. Nick glanced in their direction. “Would Robin Hood let us borrow some of his horses?”
“We don’t have to make a two-day trip,” I reminded everyone. “As soon as I figure out the moral of Rumpelstiltskin, the story will be over and my fairy godmother will send us home.” Hudson sighed, giving me the kind of patient look people save for children and the delusional. He had already told my family what he thought of fairy magic. “The story probably doesn’t have a moral,” he said, “and your leprechaun pal thinks it’s hilarious that you’re racking your brain to find one.”
I ignored him, stood up, and walked over to our boxes.
Dad had included a few books with the supplies. One dealt with outdoor survival, one was about the Middle Ages, and one was a book of fairy tales. My family had read the story of Rumpelstiltskin looking for clues that might help with my rescue. The story hadn’t proved useful in that way, but I was glad they had brought it. I sat back down with the book propped open in my lap.
In the pictures, Rumpelstiltskin looked more like a friendly garden gnome than a villain. In fact, the whole story seemed decept-ively tame spread out in the pages of this book. But it wasn’t a tame 228/356
story. It was tense and frightening, and I was surprised it hadn’t given me nightmares as a child.
“So what’s the moral?” I asked.
My family came up with ones I’d already tried: Don’t brag about things you can’t do. The pure in heart are helped. Good triumphs in the end.
I shook my head at each one. “None of those work.” Nick popped a piece of the fried toast into his mouth. “How about
‘Gold makes the world go around.’ ”
“Or ‘Don’t let your daughter talk to fairies,’ ” Dad added.
“ ‘Men will manipulate you to get whatever they want,’ ” Sandra said.
Dad shot her a disapproving look.
Sandra held her cup with both hands, taking slow sips. “Hey, it works in the context of the story.”
I opened my magic book. “Can’t hurt to try them.” I turned the pages and drew in a sharp breath. The story didn’t end where it had yesterday. On what had been a blank page, there was now a picture of me sneaking up the castle stairs, hand in hand with Hudson. I looked ready to swoon. He looked strong, determined, and glowingly attractive. I flipped over the page. The next painting showed King John holding his sword across the door, blocking the way. I looked totally swoony again. Hudson stood in the background, his chain mail glinting on his broad shoulders. He seemed so toweringly handsome that I wasn’t surprised my storybook self was completely smitten.