they see their error, they will come back to this tunnel with all speed.” Puck craned his neck to see around the mountain.
“So, let’s get out of here,” said Peter. “Which way?”
“Perhaps that path is going our way.” Puck pointed to a crossing ahead of them. The road clung to the side of the mountain, spiralling out of view.
“No cover,” said Peter.
“Then keep one eye on the sky.”
Peter and Rosemary puffed up the slope. The ledge narrowed, until all that was left was the roadway. The mountain was a sheer wall on their left and a sheer drop on their right.
As Rosemary limped along, Peter cast glances at her arm, still black from the Sea of Ink. Finally, he said, “Rosemary, is your arm okay?”
“Yeah, why?”
“How heavy was that grapple?”
“Heavy,” said Rosemary.
“Didn’t it hurt?”
“What do you think?”
“But you’re okay now?”
“Yes, Peter, I’m okay. What are you getting at?”
Puck raised one pointed eyebrow.
“That thing would have broken my arm,” said Peter. “But you’re okay?”
“Yes, Peter, I’m fine,” she snapped. Then she winced and stumbled. “Ow!”
He looked down. “You’re barefoot!”
“I’m wearing stockings.”
“Like that makes a difference.”
“Do you think those high-heeled shoes that went with this dress would help any? Anyway, I left them on the train.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“You have shoes in your pockets?”
“Puck,” Peter turned to him. “Could you change into a horse? Give us a ride?”
Puck snorted. “On these rocks? Would you ride a mountain goat?” He pointed. “Perhaps we can find shoes there.”
“I’m fine,” said Rosemary. She looked up. “Find shoes where?”
Ahead of them, the ledge widened. On it was a tall and narrow house. On top of a roof like a witch’s hat a lightning rod waited for something to strike. The house was built right to the sheer drop.
Rosemary swallowed. “Guys, I’m fine.”
“You can’t walk around like this,” said Peter, taking her hand. “Come on!”
In the shadow of the tall house amongst the barren rocks there was a little square of green. By the gate of this garden, an old man puttered around. Peter, Puck, and Rosemary walked up to him. “Excuse me, sir,” said Peter. “Do you have any —”
The old man looked up and fixed Peter with eyes like planets. Peter froze.
The man was tall and thin, wearing flannel pants, a white shirt, and a waistcoat, all of which looked too formal for gardening. His hair was silver, and combed precisely. He ran his thumbs beneath his suspenders.
“What were you going to say, my boy, hmm?” said the old man, his voice crisp. “Shoes, was it? Shoes for young Rosemary Watson?”
“Uh, yeah,” said Peter. He swallowed. “She hasn’t got any.”
“Really,” said Rosemary. “I’m okay.”
The old man beamed at her. “Nonsense! I would be remiss if I didn’t look, my dear. I would be even more remiss if I didn’t offer you my hospitality.” He opened the gate. “Come in, come in! I’ve made you all some refreshments.” He grabbed Peter’s and Rosemary’s hands and pulled them onto the lawn.
The cool grass felt wonderful to Rosemary’s aching feet and she staggered at the rush of relief. She gazed longingly at a lawn chair beside a table that held a pitcher of lemonade and then shook herself, as though from a dream.
“Ooh, lemonade!” Peter started forward, but Rosemary grabbed his arm. She looked up at the old man. “How did you know I’d be coming?”
“It is my job to know these things. After all, I am the Professor.”
“Professor what?” asked Peter.
“Oh, I’m much too busy to deal with names,” said the Professor. Then he paused. “But I seem to recall my surname starts with the letter M. You may call me Professor Em, if you wish.”
“What do you do, here, Professor Em?” asked Rosemary.
“Well, I’m afraid I control the forces of evil.”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Finally, Peter said, “Well, at least you’re honest about it.”
“It is who I am,” said the Professor. “And as for how I knew of your imminent arrival, let me show you something.”
He beckoned Rosemary around the house, with the others following, and pointed to the wall. A bank of screens covered the expanse of brick. Some of the scenes she recognized, having passed through them, seemingly ages ago. At the base of the screen, a long console held keyboards, displays, and printouts.
“This is my control centre,” said Professor Em. “My eyes and ears, the centre of my web, and all that.” Something caught his attention and he turned to the screen. After a moment staring, he smiled, pressed a button, and spoke into an intercom. “Prince Valiant is heading down the path to the swamp. Cue the crocodiles!”
“Crocodiles!” cried Rosemary.
The Professor smiled at her. “I can’t let him off easily. If he wants to rescue his fiancée from the quicksand, he’s got to go through the crocodiles.”
“His fiancée?” said Rosemary.
“Quicksand?” exclaimed Peter.
“You put his fiancée in quicksand?” said Rosemary.
“No, that was just bad luck,” said the Professor. “But I arranged for his so-called friend to lead him into the crocodiles’ path.”
Rosemary stared at him, appalled.
“So, I have been watching you, Miss Watson,” said the Professor. He tapped a screen that showed images of Rosemary at the beach before the Sea of Ink, at the bridge of the Black Knight, in the haunted house, and on the Magical Mystery Tour. “I knew you would come this way. I’ve met lots of heroes, you see. Speaking of which, are you hungry? Would you like a sandwich?”
Rosemary gave him a nervous glance. “No. Thank you.”
