don’t understand—” Adélaïde continued, but Archer could no longer hear her.
He couldn’t hear anything. The fire went blurry. His friends went blurry. Then everything started spinning. He’d spent two years hoping his grandparents weren’t dead. Two years. If they weren’t on an iceberg, where were they? Why would they let him think they were dead? This couldn’t be right. His grandparents wouldn’t do that. Archer shook himself.
“It’s mostly the Rosewood Chronicle that’s been printing these stories,” Adélaïde was saying. “It’s all they write about anymore.”
“My father won’t print anything until he hears from your grandparents,” Oliver added. “He feels terrible that he got the story wrong the first time. He’s not sure if it was a hoax.”
“What do you mean, he’s not sure?” Archer repeated, almost glaring at Oliver. “Of course it wasn’t a hoax. They sent me a piece of the iceberg. You saw it. Don’t tell me you believe this.”
“Don’t get angry at him,” Adélaïde said. “No one’s saying your grandparents didn’t get onto an iceberg. They’re just saying your grandparents wanted to vanish.”
Archer’s heart was thumping in his ears. Why would his grandparents want to vanish? To want something like that, you’d have to be out of your… His heart stopped.
Archer shot to his feet and shoved the articles into his pocket.
“My grandparents were lost,” he said, moving to the ladder. “Now they’re coming home. That’s all there is to it. Everyone’s going to feel very foolish when my grandparents set the record straight. So I’d suggest you two stop talking.”
♦ A PASTRY IN A GLUB TREE ♦
Archer hurried down the stairs. He poked his head into the Glubs’ great room and saw his parents laughing with Miss Whitewood. Merry spirits danced all around, but they kept their distance from Archer. He continued to the Glubs’ kitchen, which was a complete disaster. He opened the freezer, pushed aside a frozen fish and a pot roast, and there, at the back, saw a large chunk of ice—his piece of the iceberg. The one his grandparents had sent him. He’d left it with Oliver, fearing his mother might pitch it.
Archer pulled it out and went to the kitchen table, resting his head on his fists while his eyes flickered over the frozen hunk. This proved his grandparents were on an iceberg. It didn’t prove it was an accident. And it didn’t prove they were on one for two years. If they weren’t, where had they been? Worse still, in all that time, why hadn’t they sent him a message to let him know they were still alive? A letter. A secret gift. Anything. Were Oliver and Adélaïde right? Was everyone in Rosewood right? Had his grandparents gone round the bend?
Archer didn’t want to return to the party, but the longer he stayed away, the more people might ask where he’d been. He stashed the iceberg back inside the freezer and slowly made his way to the great room. Crazy? Oliver and Adélaïde were sitting on the couch when Archer entered. He went straight to the table of delights, which seemed anything but.
“There you are,” Mrs. Glub said, stepping to his side. “Oliver said you needed a bit of fresh air. Is everything all right?”
Archer’s forced smile betrayed him, drooping into a terrible frown. Mrs. Glub didn’t say a word, but it was clear she knew. She shot Oliver and Adélaïde a sharp eye and then grabbed a plate for Archer.
“You need to eat something, dear,” she said, piling it as high as could be. “Everything seems worse on an empty stomach. Here, take this and have a seat near the windows.”
Archer sat down. Claire immediately joined him. She didn’t say a word, but smiled each time she took and ate a pastry from his plate. Archer could feel Mr. and Mrs. Glub staring at him. He wasn’t sure if he felt more angry or foolish. He didn’t notice that Oliver and Adélaïde had inched to his side.
“We didn’t say we believe your grandparents are dangerous,” Adélaïde whispered.
“Only that it’s obvious something strange is going on,” Oliver added.
Archer stood to flee, but tripped on the gift Claire had tossed over her shoulder earlier. Pastries took flight, and he went headlong into the Glubs’ Christmas tree. The next thing he knew, he was sprawled across the couch with the tree on top of him. The party hushed as he untangled himself from the evergreen and its trimmings.
“I’m sorry!” he said, covered in tinsel, scrambling to gather ornaments and pastries from the floor.
“Don’t you worry!” Mrs. Glub insisted. She swooped in alongside Mr. Glub to right the tree, and though they couldn’t get it to stand straight again, she added, “Look! No harm done!”
Oliver and Adélaïde watched in silence as Archer brought the decorations and pastries back to the tree and began hanging pastries from the branches instead of ornaments.
“What’s wrong, Archer?” Mr. Helmsley asked, stepping in to help him. “I don’t believe the Glubs want pastries in their tree.”
Archer was silent.
“Why don’t you give those here, Richard?” Mrs. Glub said, taking the ornaments. “Yes, I’ll take the pastries, too. Very good. Now, Archer’s had a long day. Look at him. He’s exhausted. Perhaps it’s best he gets a good night’s sleep.”
The Glubs stood on the snowy front steps, watching as Archer followed his parents home. Mr. Helmsley paused outside the front door of Helmsley House. A note with a greasy thumbprint was taped to it. He read it aloud.
“Ralph and Rachel are arriving shortly. Expect them in Helmsley House later tonight or early tomorrow morning.
—Cornelius”
Mrs. Helmsley nearly collapsed on the spot. Mr. Helmsley helped her through the door. She fled down the hall. Archer made for the stairs, his head pulsing, but stopped and turned to his father.
“Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?”
Mr. Helmsley removed his glasses and rubbed his closed eyelids. “I didn’t want you to worry about something that might not be true, Archer. I’m not sure what the truth is, but let’s hope it’s not worse than the rumors.”
Archer shook his head. Worse? “How could it be worse?”
His father didn’t have an answer.
Archer went to his room and lay awake in bed. The moonlight was on his face as his ears searched the darkness, like many ears do on Christmas Eve. But it wasn’t yet Christmas Eve, and Archer wasn’t listening for sleigh bells. He was listening for footsteps. He was waiting for his grandparents.
“Are they crazy?” he mumbled, turning to the window, which glittered with moonlight.
♦ BREWING ♦
Outside Archer’s moonlit window and down crooked Willow Street, across the barren treetops of Rosewood Park and beyond the winding canals that emptied into Rosewood Port, a man with a patch covering one of his eyes ran along a lamplit dock that dipped gently with the waves. The Eye Patch had a wooden case tucked under his arm, and his
