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Authors: Julianna Baggott
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spiral ring sitting just below the knuckle—preserved in a jar.
What happened to the rest of him?
Truman wondered, with a shudder.
“This can’t be right,” Truman said, peering at the globe. “Yesterday, there was a man who’d been stabbed and a woman wearing a cloak with a big hood. It was as clear as anything, but now …”
Just then a tiny door opened. A small billowy cloud of locust fairies appeared—like a swirl of snow themselves—and a boy was shoved into the room, his ankles bound, his hands tied behind his back, his mouth gagged. The bindings weren’t regular cloth, though. They seemed to be made ofthousands of fine silken threads. The boy fell forward and lay on the floor. The locust fairies disappeared. The door slammed shut. The boy was now all alone.
Truman turned the globe this way and that, staring at the boy inside. The boy looked to be about Truman’s age, and he had brown hair and green eyes, like Truman. In fact, he looked a lot like Truman in many ways. But he wasn’t Truman.
The strangest thing was that no matter how Truman turned the globe in his hands, it seemed as if the boy was staring at him. And his expression surprised Truman. The boy wasn’t terrified, as Truman would have been, bound up and locked in a miserable museum. No. This boy seemed resigned to it. He hadn’t given up, exactly, but it was as if he’d been expecting it. He stared at Truman with tenderness, and now and then a little flash of warning.
Be careful
, the boy seemed to be saying.
It’s going to be okay. Don’t be scared. But be careful
.
Truman shut his eyes, but he felt that the boy in the globe could still see him. And Truman knew, somehow, that he had to find the boy and help him.
“What does this mean?” Truman asked Praddle “Ickbee’sss,” Praddle said. “Sssafe at Ickbee’sss. Go back?” “Safe? With a woman who wants to beat me with a rolling pin?”
“Missstake,” Praddle hissed. “Her hut iss sssafe!”
“I don’t want to be safe,” Truman said, and this surprised him. Truman Cragmeal had spent his life wanting to be safe. He was still scared—terrified, in fact, at the prospect of heading into a strange city in this strange world—but there wassome new part of himself that was emerging. Or was it that a sleeping part of himself was waking up, like an arm that falls asleep and feels dead but then slowly tingles back to life? “I’m going to the city to see what I can figure out. Where there are people, there have to be some answers.” He stood up. “Are you coming?”
Praddle nodded.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Worlds Are at Stake!
Camille was woken up by the sound of a loud pop, like a tire exploding or a car backfiring or a gunshot. She sat upright in bed. The room was dark except for a few little rays of light slipping between the boards that covered the windows. She said, “Truman! Did you hear that?” But then she looked over at his bed.
He was gone.
And then she remembered what Swelda had said about being early risers.
Golfers!
she said to herself. The pops were golf balls hitting the house. Truman was a light sleeper. The golf balls had probably already woken him up, she figured.
She slipped out of bed—her feet on the cold floor—and looked out through one of the cracks between the boards.
There was a light dusting of snow on the ground, but this didn’t stop the hearty golfers—and neither did the fog. Two of them were out there on the green. The fog was so dense that Camille could see only their brightly colored pants and the heads of their golf clubs. They were trying to tap theirballs—bright orange ones to stand out against the snow—into the little cup.
The snow reminded Camille of the snow globes. She walked to the bedside table. Truman had taken his with him. And hers? She forgot for a moment she’d fallen asleep holding it. It was lost in the bedcovers. She patted the quilt until she found the hard glass ball. She pulled it out and gave it a shake,
What happened to the rest of him?
Truman wondered, with a shudder.
“This can’t be right,” Truman said, peering at the globe. “Yesterday, there was a man who’d been stabbed and a woman wearing a cloak with a big hood. It was as clear as anything, but now …”
Just then a tiny door opened. A small billowy cloud of locust fairies appeared—like a swirl of snow themselves—and a boy was shoved into the room, his ankles bound, his hands tied behind his back, his mouth gagged. The bindings weren’t regular cloth, though. They seemed to be made ofthousands of fine silken threads. The boy fell forward and lay on the floor. The locust fairies disappeared. The door slammed shut. The boy was now all alone.
Truman turned the globe this way and that, staring at the boy inside. The boy looked to be about Truman’s age, and he had brown hair and green eyes, like Truman. In fact, he looked a lot like Truman in many ways. But he wasn’t Truman.
The strangest thing was that no matter how Truman turned the globe in his hands, it seemed as if the boy was staring at him. And his expression surprised Truman. The boy wasn’t terrified, as Truman would have been, bound up and locked in a miserable museum. No. This boy seemed resigned to it. He hadn’t given up, exactly, but it was as if he’d been expecting it. He stared at Truman with tenderness, and now and then a little flash of warning.
Be careful
, the boy seemed to be saying.
It’s going to be okay. Don’t be scared. But be careful
.
Truman shut his eyes, but he felt that the boy in the globe could still see him. And Truman knew, somehow, that he had to find the boy and help him.
“What does this mean?” Truman asked Praddle “Ickbee’sss,” Praddle said. “Sssafe at Ickbee’sss. Go back?” “Safe? With a woman who wants to beat me with a rolling pin?”
“Missstake,” Praddle hissed. “Her hut iss sssafe!”
“I don’t want to be safe,” Truman said, and this surprised him. Truman Cragmeal had spent his life wanting to be safe. He was still scared—terrified, in fact, at the prospect of heading into a strange city in this strange world—but there wassome new part of himself that was emerging. Or was it that a sleeping part of himself was waking up, like an arm that falls asleep and feels dead but then slowly tingles back to life? “I’m going to the city to see what I can figure out. Where there are people, there have to be some answers.” He stood up. “Are you coming?”
Praddle nodded.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Worlds Are at Stake!
Camille was woken up by the sound of a loud pop, like a tire exploding or a car backfiring or a gunshot. She sat upright in bed. The room was dark except for a few little rays of light slipping between the boards that covered the windows. She said, “Truman! Did you hear that?” But then she looked over at his bed.
He was gone.
And then she remembered what Swelda had said about being early risers.
Golfers!
she said to herself. The pops were golf balls hitting the house. Truman was a light sleeper. The golf balls had probably already woken him up, she figured.
She slipped out of bed—her feet on the cold floor—and looked out through one of the cracks between the boards.
There was a light dusting of snow on the ground, but this didn’t stop the hearty golfers—and neither did the fog. Two of them were out there on the green. The fog was so dense that Camille could see only their brightly colored pants and the heads of their golf clubs. They were trying to tap theirballs—bright orange ones to stand out against the snow—into the little cup.
The snow reminded Camille of the snow globes. She walked to the bedside table. Truman had taken his with him. And hers? She forgot for a moment she’d fallen asleep holding it. It was lost in the bedcovers. She patted the quilt until she found the hard glass ball. She pulled it out and gave it a shake,
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