Www.thetoymaker.com



The Toymakers

M Scott-Waters

Chapter One

The best time to go dumpster diving is right at sunrise. There’re less grownups around to ask questions and no chance of being seen by anyone from school. It’s funny how most people will ignore a girl walking around at five in the morning with a backpack. The one time a guy dumping stuff at the supermarket asked me what I was doing, I just made up a story about needing cardboard for a homework project. I got a box of donuts out of that trip.

I’ve been stockpiling food ever since Otto started shutting down. It’s been happening more and more lately. Everybody at school thinks Otto’s my father but he’s actually a machine. He looks pretty much like any other kid’s dad but if you really look into his eyes you can see gears spinning way in the back. He never eats, or sleeps. He used to have a lot of energy and pick me up after school, keep the house clean, pay all the bills. But the last couple of months he’s been moving slower. Sometimes he’ll go to sleep in a chair for a couple of days or freeze, just standing in a corner. One time he shut down for a week and I ran out of food. That’s when I figured out dumpster diving. Now I know better and have stuff stashed all over the apartment, just in case.

My biggest worry isn’t that my school will find out that I don’t have any parents. I can forge Otto’s signature, that’s no problem. I manage to stay out of trouble and get decent grades so they’ve never actually called and asked to talk to him. My biggest worry is that Otto might shut down for good, then how would I find out if my mom’s still alive?

--

Otto’s still sitting in the kitchen where I left him this morning.

“Well, yes, I have been a bit tired as of late,” he tells me. His voice is kind as always, soft and comforting. “I wasn’t supposed to last this long.”

What the heck is that supposed to mean? I try asking him but he just shakes his head.

“I should have delivered you by now,” he says. “I was made for a simple purpose, to see you safely across the waters and to your home, but I have failed you, Clio. I am sorry. I made a few calls for you, my dear. You can live here by yourself until school is out. Then you can go to the summer camp. I’ve made all the arrangements.” Then he says what he always says, “Your mother will come and get you soon. I’m sure of it.”

“You’ve been saying my mom was going to come for me for years. But what if she doesn’t? What do I do?” I want to shake him, but he starts moving slower as if he’s winding down.

“Oh, perhaps that might happen. I… don’t… know.” He freezes up, eyes wide and his mouth opens with a click. With a whirring noise a thin chain slides down his tongue and lands on the table. It lies there in a silver pile and I can’t bring myself to touch it. Then I notice a small tag that reads,

“In case of absolute and complete emergency, please notify the Busby Toy Company.”

--

I look up the number online for the Busby Toy Company and call it. I should’ve planned what I was going to say better because the conversation goes something like this…

“Busby Toy Company, how may I direct your call?”

“Um, I’m calling about Otto.”

“Oh! Yes! Please hold.” After a long time of listening to accordion music, the lady’s voice comes back on the line, “Thank you for holding. I’m putting you through to Mister Busby.”

The connection is scratchy and faint like I’m calling the other side of the world. Instead of a grownup, some kid answers.

“Hullo.” He sounds really sleepy like he just woke up or something.

“Who’s this?” I ask.

“Patrin Busby. How did you get this number?”

“Hi, I’m Clio Halina and I need to talk to somebody about Otto.”

“Great Minnie’s Marbles! Really! I’ll be right there to pick him up,” he says.

“Well, what am I supposed to do? Look, I don’t want you to take him away. I just need you to fix him.”

There’s long silence, and then the kid asks,

“So, Miss Clio, was the Otto, um, watching you?”

“He wasn’t “watching” me. He takes care of me,” I tell him. “He was supposed to help me find my mom but she never came.”

“Don’t leave the area. Don’t tell anyone,” Patrin Busby’s voice comes over the phone in a rush. “Don’t talk to clowns. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Before I can ask another question, the line goes dead.

I don’t leave the house for three days. Nothing. No mysterious Patrin Busby shows up. Otto stays slumped in his chair so I cover him up with a sheet so no one sees him in the window. After that I figure that I’d better go back to school before anyone comes looking for me. Three days turns into three weeks without even a phone call. I try calling again but there’s just a message that the number’s been disconnected. The bills start piling up and I don’t have any money so the electricity gets turned off. Having no electricity isn’t as bad as no water. No toilets, no baths, no washing machine. I use the restrooms down at the park and wash out my clothes in the sink, which gets old real fast. Tomorrow I leave for summer camp. Hot meals, indoor plumbing. I may even meet some friends. Wish me luck.

It’s my last night in the house. The sun is just starting to set and I have one last stub of a candle that I can burn for light. I figure, read for a bit, turn in early. Tomorrow’s going to be a big day. I really scored dumpster diving today. I found a half of a cheese pizza in the box behind the pizza place on the corner. It’s cold but it tastes pretty good as I read by candlelight.

After dinner I brush my teeth with a bottle of water I filled up at the park. I check my backpack one more time. I don’t have much, some clothes, a book to read on the bus, and hidden down in the bottom of the pack, Wilber, my stuffed dragon. I’ve had him since forever. He’s not much to look at, made of green velvet that’s wearing away around his nose. He reminds me of a happier time, when I had a mom, a time I can barely remember.

I put the rest of the pizza in the fridge. It doesn’t work but at least it keeps the flies off the food and makes my life seem halfway normal. I hear a car squeak to a stop out front, so I take a peek out the blinds, wondering if the mysterious Patrin Busby has finally decided to show up. All I can see is the silhouette of a small car parked out front. What’s weird is that the car has a big wind up key on top. Two people get out, a short woman with spiky hair and a huge man, too big to be driving such a tiny car. When they step into the streetlight my stomach does a squish inside out… clowns. The giant man is as wide as he is tall, with greasy blue hair falling to his shoulders. The short clown has white face paint with blue circles around her eyes and tiny red lips like a cross between a skeleton and a baby doll. Some people may think that clowns are funny, but I don’t, not at night when I’m alone in a dark house. A raspy woman’s voice says,

“This is the place. Grab the brat and get back before anyone sees us.” A high singsong voice asks, “What about the Otto, Captain?” The woman clown says,

“He won’t give us any trouble. You can have a bit of fun, dismantling him if you like. Just be quick about it.”

There is a knock on the door but I don’t wait around. I grab my backpack and slip out the backdoor. The front door breaks open as I climb over the fence and take off running as fast as I can.

After scrambling through backyards and alleys, I find a house with the lights off and hopefully no one home. There’s a tree house in the backyard, so I climb up there to hide. I don’t sleep much, waking up every five minutes expecting to see a clown’s skeleton face staring down at me. Eventually the sun comes up. Looking over my shoulder all the way, I walk as fast as I can to the school.

Chapter Two

I’m sitting in the morning sun cross-legged on the playground black top. The camp director has us all lined up in rows with our gear. He’s telling us all the fun that we are going to have and something about discipline and teamwork. It’s getting hotter and a drip of sweat runs down the small of my back.

“What’s that smell?” the girl in front of me asks the kid sitting next to her. He stops fiddling with the strings on his tennis racket and says,

“The girl in back of you stinks like a bus hobo. Sick, huh.”

It’s been a couple weeks since I’ve had a hot shower and don’t get me going about shampoo. I pretty much smell like old cheese. I wish that I could disappear.

“I know,” the girl whispers back. “Did you see her hair? Gross.”

I used to have long hair but it was hard to take care of so I asked Otto cut it. He got about halfway through cutting it and shut down so I had to finish it up the best I could myself. Now my hair is stringy and won’t stay out of my eyes. I keep my eyes on my book and try to ignore the comments. After a while the camp director calls my name to double check my paperwork. He eyes me up and down and asks me a bunch of questions about team sports. He seems annoyed, but not surprised, that I don’t have much experience. I tell him that I like swimming and art. He sniffs and puts me down for baseball and volleyball.

When I get back in line, my clothes are spread all over the playground, underwear and everything. The kid with the tennis racket is playing whack a mole with Wilber, my stuffed dragon.

“Hey!” I say, gathering up my socks. “What are you doing?”

The kid sneers, “We thought that you had something dead in there, so we decided to check it out. It must be this lizard thing that smells like vomit.”

I lunge to grab Wilber from him but the kid stands up, dangling him by one dragon wing, just out of my reach. Honest, I didn’t mean to, but my knee hits the kid’s stomach, knocking him backward across three kids. A girl screams and there is a bunch of scrambling and pushing as everybody tries to get out of the way. I grab Wilber and shove him with the rest of my things into my backpack, zipping it up before anyone else sees that I brought a stuffed animal with me.

“What is going on here?” The camp director asks, glaring at me all red faced.

“That girl’s crazy,” says the kid I knocked over. “She just went nuts.”

“He touched my stuff,” I say, realizing how stupid I sound as soon as the words leave my mouth. The director grabs me by the back of the neck and hauls me and my backpack across the playground to a bench by the front office.

“I’m calling your folks right now, young lady,” he says, poking a finger at my face. “We have zero tolerance for this kind of behavior. They’ll just have to come and get you.”

So I’m sitting on this bench wondering what to do next. I can’t go home. I have no money, no place to live. It’s only a matter of time before someone figures out I don’t have parents. I finger the chain around my neck and look at Otto’s tag for the millionth time. “In case of absolute and complete emergency, please notify the Busby Toy Company.”

Chapter Three

The stucco wall feels prickly against my back as I sit watching the kids on the playground do exercises. “One, two three,” they all count together, before taking off running around the field. In the silence there’s a “Pocketa-pocketa-pocketa,” noise in the distance. At first I figure it must be the school bus coming to pick up the campers, but there’s also a metal creaking against metal sound that’s not school bus like at all.

No one’s paying attention to me so I grab my stuff and sneak around to the street to check out the noise. It’s definitely not a school bus, more like a giant metal fish on wheels. It’s bigger than a motorhome and covered with tarnished brass scales, the size of dinner plates. Flapping off the back tail fin is a flag with a smiling bee on it and the words, “Busby Toy Company” A teenage boy with thick blond hair looks out a porthole that makes the fish’s eye and waves at me. The huge machine screeches to a halt. With a hydraulic hiss the door swings open and stair steps unfold with a clang.

The blond kid pokes his head out into the sunlight, squinting. He’s wearing a bright red suit with a peppermint striped tie, but it doesn’t look like a costume, more like something out of an old photograph.

“Hey,” I say, “Where are you from?” He looks startled for a second, then bounds up the walkway.

“Hello and hello! I’m Patrin Busby. You must be Clio Halina.” He ignores the confused look on my face and grabs my hand, pumping it up and down energetically. I manage a “nice to meet you” as he drags me toward the Fish Car. “Come in! Come in! Sorry I’m late, took me forever to find you. I’ve been driving around all morning. Let me show you around.”

The inside looks like a man’s study with dark wood floors and oak bookshelves built around three portholes on each side. Brushed aluminum arches and thick glass windows make up the ceiling of the fish. On the back wall is a fireplace blasting out cold air, with what appears to be snowflakes falling in it. Two dark brown club chairs, one regular-sized and one kid-sized, are tucked around a low coffee table.

“So nice to finally meet you,” he says, offering me a seat in the regular sized chair. “I picked up the Otto. He was in bad shape, all in pieces. It will take me quite a while to reassemble him and get him back to you.”

“Whoa, slow down, in pieces?” I ask.

“Yes, you really should have waited and not tried to attempt the repairs yourself.”

“Look, it wasn’t me. Last I saw him, Otto was in one piece. It must have been these people dressed like clowns that broke into my house last night. I didn’t stick around to see what they wanted.”

Patrin stops pacing like a skateboard hitting a rock.

“Clowns? Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I know it’s stupid, but there were two of them,” I say, “a big guy with blue hair and a creepy short woman that sounded like she smoked a lot.”

“No, no, no,” he says, “Let me think. I need to think.” Patrin takes a long, deep breath and stretches out his fingers. He rummages through a writing desk and pulls out a small toy.

“Here! Look at this,” He holds up a faceless white doll with a blue button on the stomach. “It’s called a Doppledoll. They’re top secret and brand new. Say cheesepuffs!” Patrin points the doll at me and squeezes the button. A flash goes off with a pop. I just stare with my mouth open. The doll’s face and clothes transform into miniature copy of me down to my dark hair and green hoodie.

“It’s amazing the things that we can do with digital technology and toys today.” A wide grin covers Patrin’s face as he admires his work. He waves in the general direction of the chairs with his elbow and says,

“Sit down! Relax! I’ll be back in just a second.” Patrin takes the doll and the door whooshes up behind him. I pull off my backpack and flop it down on one of the club chairs. This Fish Car is so amazing. I wish I had a camera to take pictures, not that I’d have anyone to show them to if I did. Through one of the portholes I see Patrin placing the Doppledoll on the sidewalk then stepping back. The doll grows bigger and bigger until it’s a life-size version of me. Then Patrin walks around to the back of the doll and presses with both hands between its shoulder blades. The doll jerks to life and expressions come over its face. Patrin gives the doll a little push and disappears from view.

“What the…” I run to the door and try to open it but the handle wouldn’t turn. I’m locked in. The copy of me walks back toward the bench where I am supposed to be sitting.

Chapter Four

I wish I could say I do something smart like waiting for someone to open the door, because I don’t. Instead, I grab the fireplace poker and swing it hard as I can against one of the portholes. The poker bounces off without leaving a mark. So I press my face against the window, frantically waving, hoping a passing car will stop and help me. The giant fish backs up slowly and turns. As it begins to pick up speed, the fins on the sides of the car unfold out with a slow creak. The fins pump back and forth and the floor jumps beneath my feet. The school, and the whole street drop away as the car takes flight.

My heart is trying to jackhammer out of my chest so I take a deep breath and try to calm down, forcing myself to look around the room. If I’m going to get out of here, I need what I’m dealing with. I start with the bookcase. It’s filled with beautifully bound books, all in foreign languages, but not any I recognize. Carved into the woodwork over the fireplace is a crest with a ramping griffin. Everything in here, from the mahogany coffee table to the crystal decanter on the writing desk, is like something out of a museum. Even the leaf-patterned rugs on the hardwood floor are thick and expensive. Whoever is kidnapping me is rich.

The bookcase swings open to reveal a circular staircase and Patrin Busby. He swoops in, balancing an enormous red teapot and cups on a tray in one hand. In the other is a platter piled with a mountain of muffins, fruit and pastries. “How are you enjoying the trip so far?” He flashes a wide grin as he set the trays down on the coffee table. “Will tea do or would you prefer something cold?”

“I don’t want anything. I’m supposed to be going to camp, not that doll thing. What was that?”

“I’m one step ahead of you. The Doppledoll will take care of everything. Right now your doll is on a bus to summer camp. I took the liberty of giving her a popularity rating of nine-five.” He sits back and takes a bite of a chocolate croissant. “When you gets back, you’ll have all kinds of new friends. Don’t worry! No one will be able to tell the difference.” He looks me over and says, “In your case it might even be an improvement. I had to bribe the director to take you back, well, take your Doppledoll back. He said you’d been fighting.” Patrin finishes his pastry and wipes his fingers neatly on a napkin. “So sit back and enjoy the ride. Let me know if I can do anything to make you more comfortable.”

“Look, kid!” I move to block Patrin from the door. “I’m not going anywhere with you.” I grab the poker and hit him in the arm, hard. A look of complete surprise wipes off his cheerful smile.

“Ow! That really hurt!

“I don’t care! Take me back.”

“Please,” he says, rubbing his arm. “I had to get you out of there. Those clowns that you saw last night, they are dangerous, horrible. They will kill anyone that stumbles in the way of what they want.

“Yeah, right. You’re just full of it.”

“Well, yes, I mean, no!” Patrin shakes his head, “It’s not like that. I was telling Chimka…” The ship lurches under our feet. It feels like we’re falling out of the sky.

“Chimka! Oh my stars! I forget about Chimka. We’ll crash. I'm in so much trouble. We are in so much trouble. Big trouble. Big! Big! Big!” he says, “We’ll be thrown off course. Let me go. Please, for the love of all things good.”

“Who’s Chimka?” I lower the poker a little bit.

“Chimka’s my Friend. When he gets scared he tends to overreact. He’s supposed to be piloting the ship, but he’s not very good at it.”

“How do I know you won’t hurt me or sell me for medical experiments or hand me over to those clowns? Why should I trust you?”

“I promise! I’d never do anything to hurt anybody intentionally. I’m sorry if I caused you alarm, but I need your help.”

“I don’t know…” I say. The ship jumps again, throwing Patrin back into a chair.

“Swear!” I stare into his blue eyes, trying to decide if this kid is telling the truth or lying. “Give me your best promise. Swear on something super important like … like …your worst nightmare.”

“I swear on…” Patrin closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them. “Exploding Frogs. Please don’t tell anyone.” He looks so serious and pained that I feel sorry for him, even though I’m trying not to laugh. Exploding Frogs? That’s too weird to be fake.

Strange chattering noises pour down from the top of the staircase and the ship heaves again, sending cups crashing onto the floor.

We climb up to a small room that looks like a cockpit. A large arched window looks out over the clouds. A flash of something red moves on the top of a tall bookshelf.

“Yes, I know, I apologize about that, but I was detained,” Patrin tells the thing, “You could have asked for help.” He puts his arms up as if he expects something to fall into them. “Come on… it’s all right. This is the girl that I told you about. I know… she was not what I expected either.”

There’s a long pause and a little more chattering. Patrin nods and says,

“I’ll introduce you just as soon as you get down from there.”

With a thump, a bright red velveteen monkey jumps into Patrin’s outstretched arms. His shiny black eyes study me with suspicion.

“A stuffed animal that moves and talks?” I hold out my hand. “Hi, little guy!” The monkey’s face wrinkles in an expression of irritation.

“Chimka, allow me to introduce Clio Halina, Toymaker from the Greylands. Clio, this is Chimka, my Friend.” The monkey gives me a curt nod.

“I’ve never seen a red monkey before.” I say, forgetting to be afraid. “Did you make him? How does he move? I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“He’s my Friend. You have a Friend, don’t you?” Patrin asks. “You must, you’re a Toymaker! All Toymakers do!”

“Like a stuffed animal friend? Well, yeah, but I’ve never seen one like this before. Patrin said you can even pilot the ship.”

Chimka’s eyes get wide and he chatters something nervously.

“What do you mean you turned off the auto-pilot?” Patrin throws Chimka into one of the chairs and sits at the console. “Where’s the map? According to the instrument readings we’ll hit ground in about three minutes. Hold on!” Patrin struggles with the controls.

“I think you’re off with your timing, look!” I shout, as we break through the mist and hit water.

The window goes dark green except for a wash of bubbles as we submerge. I’m thrown to the floor and feel like I just belly flopped off of a high dive. My head aches and my legs are trapped under a landslide of books. Patrin struggles to the console and starts pushing buttons and flipping switches in a frantic attempt to get the ship under control. The power fails, leaving the room in darkness. A surging noise pulses up from under the floor and emergency lights switch on, bathing the room in a creepy blue glow.

“Underwater power systems on, at least I think that they’re on.” Patrin pulls hard on the steering wheel and finally gets it to turn. “Front searchlights are on. Watch out for whales. Hold on! This could get very wet in a hurry.” The lights don’t do much to illuminate the murky water outside. Strange looking fish come into view and vanish, schooling in the swirling current. Patrin pushes a blond lock of hair out of his eyes and looks intently into the green depths. “We have to get up enough speed to get back into the air. Just give me a second to check the manual.” He grabs a book from off the floor and flips through the pages. “It’s says we have to pull the wheel to the right. Don’t let it wobble. We’ve got to get this thing turned around.” I grab the wheel with both hands and pull for all I’m worth. Chimka presses buttons furiously as Patrin starts calling out numbers from the book,

“Water to Sky sequence Beta, red, five, three, three, three, press white and connect seventy-four and GO!”

I lose my grip and slid back on the floor as the room tilts up in an extreme angle. I manage to keep from sliding out the door by grabbing the only thing I can get my hands on, Chimka’s tail. The monkey squawks in surprise but keeps on pushing buttons. Broken teacups and books go sliding by me.

“Steady, steady and….” Patrin’s knuckles are white as he pushes hard on a big lever. “…just a little farther!” The dark green viewing window grows lighter and fish scatter above us as we near the surface. With a mighty swoosh the Fish Car shoots up like a bottle rocket into a cloud-filled sky, peaks and starts dropping back. My stomach jumps into my throat as we change direction.

“Convert the power! Convert the power! Not there! There!" Chimka lets out a loud screech and pounds a big green button with his fist. After a long moment of horrible silence a familiar pockety-pockety sound kicks in.

“Well! I’ve never done that before,” Patrin says, grinning wide.

“That was stupid.” I glare at him. “Are you sure this thing is even going the right way?” Patrin looks at Chimka who shrugs his velvet shoulders and nods.

“Well, at least the auto-pilot is back on. We’ve just enough power to make it to Blocksbury,” Patrin says, fiddling with more knobs and buttons.

“Blocksbury?” I ask. “Never heard of it. Why are we going there?” Patrin reaches into his pocket and pulls out two small wooden dolls.

“I found these in the Royal Toymaker’s archives. They’re part of a set, a courting gift from what I could tell. It’s a group of friends or a family. I’ve been trying to find this man.” He hands me a doll in a white suit and broad brimmed hat. “Does he look familiar to you?”

“Nope,” I say, “Doesn’t ring a bell. Don’t know, could be anybody.”

“How about this one? “ He holds up a pretty dark haired lady in a long blue dress and shows me how the two dolls hands link together.

“Well, they’re sweet but I can’t think of anyone.”

“Do you think that they might be friends of your parents?”

“I don’t have parents. Otto was supposed to take me to find my mom, but he never did. And I never really knew my dad. He left after I was born.”

Patrin hands me another doll, in a red suit and with blond hair that looks like a younger version of him. The second one is a dark haired little girl with a braid down the back. Except for the hair it looks just like me. It’s even wearing green, my favorite color.

“You think this is me?”

“Why else would you have an Otto looking after you? And look at this.” He points to a tiny dragon mark on the bottom of the doll’s shoe. “Does this mean anything?”

“Okay, that’s just…” I start to say something, but clam up instead. It’s almost like he knew about the toy dragon in my backpack. I slump against the co-pilot’s chair as the monkey bustles around with a dustpan cleaning up the mess.

“Please, help me, “ Patrin says. “Perhaps you’ll know him if you see him. Or he might know you. He might even know your mother. Anyway, we don’t have to enough fuel to get back.”

Patrin points to the carving of the man in the white suit. On the bottom of his boot is a tiny griffin mark. Then he points to the griffin crest carved over the fireplace.

“The Toymaker who made this doll, made this Fish Car,” Patrin says, “And he’s the only one who knows how to recharge it. So until we find him you’re stuck with me.”

Chimka makes a chattering noise and rushes to the window.

“Clio, look!” Patrin says, “We’ve reached the Happy Isles.” Grey thunder clouds part, spilling sunshine on a rolling green countryside dotted with little cream colored houses and pitched red roofs. We fly over a large city with boulevards paved with cobblestones and lined with old trees.

“Look! Saint Ives, the Royal City. That’s the Queen’s castle, and the parade ground. There’s Water Park and the Academy of Toys where I went to school.” Patrin points out all sorts of places like Kiteflyer’s Bluff and the Dancing Tiger fountains before the scenery below changes to endless miles of fields and farms.

Pinks, oranges and purples wash across the sky as the Fish Car begins its descent. I press my nose against the glass. A dry valley surrounded by mountains stretches out, split by a long lake. On the edge of the lake squats an industrial town with rows and rows of little square buildings with flat roofs. It doesn’t look very interesting and I wonder what Patrin did to get stuck in such a dismal place. This town doesn’t even have a castle, just a grey factory with giant brick chimneys spewing out streams of black smoke.

“And time to put down the landing gear,” Patrin says. Chimka starts turning a crank and a door scrapes open under the Fish Car.

“Landing lights are go,” Patrin flips a switch as we circle the runway. There’s a loud pop and the lights flicker and fade. Patrin’s face turn pale.

“The power’s run out,” he tells me, his voice calm as death. “I must have miscalculated how much weight we are carrying. I’m afraid we’re going to crash.” He puts his hand on mine, as if to say he’s sorry. I grab his collar and yank him down to the floor, throwing my arms over our heads, just as we hit ground. After a sickening thump, the Fish Car rolls for long, long way. I can hear the wheels turning slower and slower. I drag myself up to peer out the window. The Fish Car hits a patch of dirt and slows to a stop. The exit door opens with a hydraulic whoosh. Cold evening air blows in from the mountains.

Patrin uncurls from a ball and sits up. I feel something wet running down my forehead and my head is burning. I wipe my head with my sleeve and it’s soaked with blood.

“Oh dear,” Patrin says. He pulls out a pad of paper from his suit pocket and draws a white square. He scratches at the corner of the drawing and with a flick of his fingers pulls a bandage right off the page. Folding the fabric in half he softly presses it against my forehead, blotting the gash. “I’m so, so sorry. Here, hold still.” He puts his other hand on my head and everything flashes red for a second. A bloody gash appears on his forehead and then fades away.

“What the heck?” I ask, wondering if I’m seeing things. My head feels better and so does my leg. When I touch my forehead again the bleeding has stopped, the cut is gone.

“I’m a Mender. It runs in my family,” Patrin explains. “Please don’t tell anyone. I’m not very good at it so I’m only supposed to do it on Saint Puffin’s Day. I’m glad it worked.” He brushes off his red suit and straightens his tie.

“Welcome!” he says, with a sweep of his hand. “Welcome to beautiful, picturesque Blocksbury.”

Chapter Five

“You’ll stay with me by the lake.” Patrin says, bouncing down the steps as if he’d just come back from a picnic, not just crash landed a giant metal fish in a field. “I just know you’ll like it here.”

He heads to the front of the Fish Car and pushes a button. A large door drops open like a mouth, revealing a storage compartment packed with large trunks and luggage and a small car. A whining engine revs up. I push Patrin out of the way as the car shoots out of the cargo hold and away at top speed. It looks a lot like the windup car with the clowns in front of my house last night but I can’t be sure.

“What was that?” Patrin asks, as we watch the car vanish down the road.

“You tell me, genius,” I snap, “Didn’t you know there was a clown car stowed onboard? No wonder we crashed. Didn’t you check before you took off?”

“Well, no. I was in a bit of a hurry.” Patrin rubs the back of his neck and shrugs. “I haven’t been thinking straight as of late. It’s getting dark, we better be on our way.”

Patrin pulls a tiny windup wagon out of his pocket, turns the crank a few times and sets it down on the ground. Just when I think this day can’t get any weirder, the wagon creaks and stretches into a regular toy wagon. Patrin walks over, gives it a kick and steps back as the toy grows to the size of a small sofa. He starts dragging all the boxes out of the storage bay and on to the pavement. I sit on the curb watching, thinking, trying to figure out what kind of hot mess I’ve landed in.

Off in the distance a steam whistle blows. Soon, groups of factory workers pass by, trudging home in the pale lamplight. Long lines of men, women, kids, all in different colored dirty uniforms stream by, like a muddy river. Some of the littlest kids cling to their parents, eyes barely open, too tired to walk. I wonder if that is where I’m going to end up, that is, if I don’t help Patrin find whoever he’s looking for. As people pass by Patrin they all touch their forehead and bow to him like he somebody important, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

No one speaks or looks at me as the crowd shuffles silently down the street. Then I pick out one young man with pale skin and a mess of dark hair, talking to a tall man who seems to be half listening. The younger guy jumps up to walk on a railing, and I wonder why he’s not in step with everyone else, as he gestures gracefully with his hands like a dancer. He seems so excited about whatever he’s talking about that I lean in, curious to hear what he has to say. But when they get closer the tall man snaps his fingers for him to keep quiet. They fall out of line and walk over to where Patrin is struggling to lift one of the larger trunks.

“Do you need some help, sir?” the dark-haired guy asks. The words rolls off his tongue like a purr. “My friend here and I’d be happy to assist.” I get a better look at him, he’s not much older than Patrin but taller and with a face like a lost angel. He’s wearing a drab white uniform covered with food stains so I’m guessing he works in a kitchen.

“Actually, yes,” Patrin says. “Thank you, ever so.”

The young man grabs the other worker by the sleeve. His older friend is bone thin and wearing the same greasy uniform. He looks like a tired and worried scarecrow.

“Come on, let’s give the Toymaker some help here,” the dark-haired young man says, and they quickly finish loading the cart.

“These boxes to go to Quad Hall right away.” Patrin reads their name badges. “Mook and Augwun, be good lads and run this cart on down for me. I’ll be along as soon as I finish up.” Patrin rummages in his pocket and takes out a few coins. “Here’s a little something for each of you.”

The young man puts his hand out after a moment’s hesitation and takes the coins. He touches his forehead and says,

“Not to worry, sir. We’ll get it there in a twinkling of the Maker's eye! Won’t we, friend?” The other worker doesn’t even look up but just nods and shuffles from foot to foot.

“Quad Hall it is! Come on, Augie, put your back into it!” Mook grabs the handle of the wagon and pulls while the older man goes to the back and starts pushing the load.

“Chimka, take Miss Clio on along.” Patrin hands me my backpack. “You might as well go on ahead and get settled in. My housekeeper, Mrs. Hogar, is expecting you.”

Clutching my backpack to my chest, I start off after them. I have no idea where I am, following two strangers pushing a wagon down a deserted street. I’m so lost.

The evening air smells like sewer gas, sour and heavy, as we walk down the grimy sidewalks. The wagon creaks past boarded up brick buildings and dingy shops, their wrought iron gates chained tight for the night. The only other sound is Chimka chattering nonstop as we weave our way through narrow streets. I get the feeling his chattering is just nervousness, not him actually trying to tell me anything. I keep looking over my shoulder at the growing shadows in this strange, ugly town. I trot faster to stay close with the wagon and I hear the workers talking.

“Augwun, my friend, I’m asking myself if this is good fortune or bad fortune,” Mook, the dark-haired young man, says. “Good fortune to have a nice bit of coin in my pocket, bad fortune to be still working when I should be done with the day and putting up my poor, tired feet. Yet, perhaps it is very good fortune to be making this particular delivery,” He stops the cart underneath the dim light of a street lamp. “It wouldn’t hurt to have a look, now would it?” He looks back and flashes me a smile so warm and persuasive that my cheeks turn red.

“You don’t mind, miss?” Mook asks. “Please?” His grey eyes have a shine in them, like he’s including me in on some secret joke. I turn away, not liking the feeling that I’m being charmed.

“Not my stuff,” I mumble. Chimka chatters something at him then shrugs and looks the other way.

Mook opens the top box and studies the contents. “Well, well. It looks like we have a new Toymaker in this boring excuse for a town.”

Augwun walks to the side of the wagon. Long dirt colored hair hides his pale green eyes and sharp nose. He catches me watching at him and frowns. I clutch my backpack tighter.

“Don’t, Mook,” he tells his friend. “We could get in more trouble than even I can imagine.”

“Are you not curious? Look at these drawings. This is what the Toy Counsel needs, new ideas that bring something good to this starving town. I used to make toys, you know.” Mook rummages through the box as he talks. “If I was the Toymaker here, things would be different. We’d make more than blocks and I wouldn’t have the children working in the factories from morning to night.”

“Mind your words. You’re asking for troubles. Now, put these back,” Augwun says, taking a couple of toy unicorns out of Mook’s hands and shoving them back in the box. “If you want to make toys then ask the new Toymaker to take you on as an assistant. Now go!” Mook looks a little wounded by the fierceness in his friend’s voice.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he says. “You know… you need more fun in your life.” he smiles that same charmed smile. “In all the time I’ve worked with you I’ve never once saw you goof off or take a holiday. It might do you some good.”

“Hmmpf!” The older man shakes his head, “And pulling this wagon a bit harder might do us both some good.”

After we pass a tiny railroad station the streets become cleaner and wider. We turn a corner and I can see a lake, glistening pink and gold in the last rays of sunset. Impressive beach houses sit side by side, clean and tidy with painted woodwork. The colorful homes spill out thick green lawns to a stone walkway wrapping around the water’s edge. I relax a little as we wind through a small park, lined with orderly beds of pansies and snapdragons. Chimka points to a large mansion at the end of the park and chatters.

“That’s Quad Hall? We’re going there? ” I ask, staring at an elegant mansion glowing in the setting sun. “Well it’s a step up from anyplace I’ve ever been.” Chimka nods brightly. It’s built out of large rectangular wooden blocks. A brick veranda runs around the outside of the house. Intricate cut glass windows in geometric patterns glow golden in the night, warm and inviting.

The tall scarecrow man jerks the wagon to a stop and snaps around, staring right past me. Mook ducks down behind the cart and I’m trying to figure out what they are so scared of when I hear a high singsong voice in the dark, “Hoody-hoo! Hello, little girl.”

Chimka jumps into my arms, squeaking panic. A huge clown, as wide as he is tall, waddles up the walkway. His blue, balding hair falls to his shoulders, just like the clown that was at my house last night, a hundred lifetimes ago.

“What do you want?” I ask, sounding braver than I felt.

“Ooh, no need to be alarmed. I’m Big Happy, your friendly neighborhood, welcoming clown! I just wanted to see if you needed any help.” A wide painted grin stretches over his large, blubbery face as he looks down at me in the lamplight. “Popcorn? Candy? I can get you anything, just say the word,” he says. “What’s your name?”

I don’t answer. Chimka loosens his grip on my neck and shrieks out a warning, shaking a little red paw. The clown glares at us for a moment before his lips pull slowly back into a rubbery smile again.

“No need to get huffy. Just trying to be neighborly.” Big Happy waves his white-gloved hands in front of him and backs away, disappearing into the darkness as abruptly as he appeared. The moment the clown is out of sight I run as fast as I can up the steps of Quad Hall.

I’m panting and trying to decide whether to push a square button that might be a doorbell or just knock, when a tiny old woman in a black dress opens the door.

“Yes?” She’s even shorter than me but her wrinkled brown face looks like she could somehow take on a whole army. Her ears are almost pointed and her teeth are sharp like a cat’s.

“Um, Mrs. Hogar?” I fumble for words. “Patrin told me…” Chimka interrupts with a bunch of sharp chirps. The housekeeper cocks her head to the side like a bird and stares at me. I wouldn’t blame her if she shuts the door on my face. There’s blood on my hoodie from the crash landing. I haven’t had a bath in forever and I’m pretty sure there are sweaty gym socks that smell better than me.

“You are… the Toymaker from the Greylands?” she sniffs. “Then you’d best come in.” She looks past me as the two workers pull the wagon up the drive.

“The Toymaker’s luggage, miss,” says Mook, bowing slightly. “Mister Patrin will be along shortly.”

“Who are you?” Mrs. Hogar asks, glaring Mook to a halt.

“Evening, ma’am. I’m called Mook and this is Augwun.”

The tiny woman stands on the brick steps and squints at the young man,

“Are you a relation of Mookael the Elder from Catsport?”

“I could be, ma’am. It’s been a bit of a stretch of years since I’ve seen the Firth of Cats.”

“Well, watch yourself. We’ll have none of your Cat’s Paw ways here.” She gives him another frosty look, then points at Augwun.

“I’ve seen you before. You keep the ledgers for the Kitchen Master,” Mrs. Hogar says, looking him over as if she is checking for fleas.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s one of my tasks.”

“Well, don’t stand around, get to work.” Mrs. Hogar says. Augwun gives her a curt nod and starts unloading the wagon.

“Where would you like this, ma’am?” Mook asks, carrying a crate filled with puzzles.

“The workroom is through the door on the right,” Mrs. Hogar says. She points to the end of the entrance hall and I follow Mook and Chimka.

I drop my backpack and stare. The workroom is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen. It’s filled with worktables, shelves full of paints and supplies, books, a sink, and in one corner, a curious looking sewing machine. Arched windows face a moonlit lake reflecting the flames of the warm fire burning cheerfully in the hearth. The inlayed floors gleam with a building block pattern of light and dark woods. There are benches for sitting on, overstuffed chairs for relaxing in and windows for daydreaming out of if you grew tired of thinking up wonderful things. But the best thing about this spacious room is the smell; the smell of glue and paper, paint and wood shavings - the smell of possibilities.

“What a ton of stuff. I guess I should say thank you.” I tell Mook as we finish bring in the boxes. Chimka is busy unwrapping a box of dolls and putting them on shelves.

“Well, there is one thing, miss.” Mook twists his fingers together and looks almost embarrassed. “If you could show us some of your work, well… it would be an honor.” Augwun gives Mook a look that would freeze sunlight, then nods at the door.

“Does he have to go?” I ask him. “Or don’t you like toys?”

“No, miss. That is,” Augwun’s eyes fall. “I’m sorry.”

“Can you come back tomorrow?” I ask. “I mean if it’s okay with Patrin, he can show you around… if you want.” A smile spreads across Mook’s face like a new day.

“I can come over on my lunch break. We work at the factory kitchen right down the street. Tomorrow then! Goodnight.” He practically dances out of the room with Augwun as his lanky, silent shadow following behind him.

The back door had just closed when the front doors swing open. Patrin pushes through, carrying two large painted boxes.

“So sorry if I kept you waiting. Are you getting settled in? I brought you a food box and a clothes box. You must be starving.”

I follow Patrin into the dining room. I haven’t eaten anything since the piece of cold pizza yesterday and suddenly I realize how hungry I am. I look inside one of the boxes and it’s empty. Patrin rubs his hands together in anticipation.

“You don’t have anything like this in the Greylands. Where should I start? How about some tea? He puts his hands on top of the green box then opens it, and takes out a brown teapot. “Oops! I forgot cups.” He closes the lid, opens it again and takes out two ceramic teacups. “So, what’s your favorite food?”

“Corn on the cob.” I say, thinking this has to be some kind of magic trick.

“You‘ll love this.” Patrin places my hands on top of the box. “Now see it in your mind’s eye. Think corn, butter, salt if you like, and don’t forget a plate. Let’s see how we do.” I think of an ear of fresh corn on a blue plate and feel my mouth water.

When I open the box inside sits a buttery hot ear of corn.

“No way!” I say. “Can it make anything?”

Patrin thinks for a moment.

“I guess so. It’s a food box, so if you thought of shoes they would probably be edible, fruit leather or something. So, what else would you like?”

I softly lay my hands on the top of the box and think hard. When I lift the lid there’s a steaming bowl of soup complete with white napkin and spoon.

“Remarkable! I knew you’d take to this with no trouble at all.” Patrin begins pulling various types of food out of the box and placing it on the table.

“Go ahead and eat before it gets cold.” He says, pulling out a huge slab of chocolate cake. “You know most folks can’t work these things. Mrs. Hogar will be angry that I even brought one into the house. She hates them. Some people can come up with a few simple things like cheese, but not with any nuance. Others can’t imagine flavors at all, which is why there is a great demand for kitchen workers and restaurants, especially here in Blocksbury, which is frankly not known for its creative population.

“The two guys that brought our stuff said they work in the factory kitchen. They didn’t look like they get much to eat.” I mumble through a mouthful of corn. “One guy said he made toys though.”

“There was another Toymaker here?” Patrin says, “How odd.” He stares over at the pile of boxes, counting them quickly to himself. “This is not good! This is not good at all.”

Chapter Six

“Chimka, take a message to the Bunks. Find the two workers who brought the luggage over and have the Warden bring them back here.” Patrin turns to me. “Check and make sure none of your things are missing. Theft in this part of the kingdom is not unheard of.”

“They said their names were, let me think… Mook and Augwun. You saw them. One of the guys wants to stop by and see the toys tomorrow.”

Patrin gets very excited and asks, “The one who was interested in the boxes, what did he look like?”

“Um, he was a few years older than you, real friendly, dark curly hair and grey eyes. He had some sort of accent. He seemed," I think carefully before saying, “like he was okay.”

“I believe the young man was from Catsport,” Mrs. Hogar says, coming down the stairs.

Patrin’s face turns thoughtful and his lips scrunch together in a straight line.

“No, I thought I knew who it might be, but I guess not. Never mind, Chimka, I can speak with them tomorrow. ”

He shrugs his shoulders and starts putting dirty dishes back into the food box. “Mrs. Hogar will show you your room. Here’s a clothes box. They work on the same principle as the food ones. Just think of a piece of clothing and open the lid. The box will get to know you and your size after a while, and when the clothes are dirty just put them back in the box. Don’t worry about cleaning up, Chimka and I’ll take care of it.”

Chimka rolls his eyes and grumbles something that doesn’t sound too flattering. I grab the clothes box and follow Mrs. Hogar up the stairs.

“The Council convenes tomorrow so you’ll want to dress accordingly,” she tells me. “You will find some books on the subject in the library.”

Mrs. Hogar shows me to my room. Everything is decorated with building blocks, from the carved wood paneling to the quilted coverlet on the brass bed.

“Is there anything else that you require for the evening?” she asks. “Your bathroom is through that door. I’ve taken the liberty of laying out an assortment of soaps and shampoos. I suggest that you use them. You do know what soap is, yes?”

“I know what shampoo is,” I snap back at her. I take a breath. I don’t want to make any enemies if I can help it. “I mean, thanks. There wasn’t much hot water where I’ve been. This place is, you know, kind of nice.”

“That it is, miss,” she says with a small nod and closes the door.

I take the best bath of my life, filling the clawfoot tub up to the brim and soaking in hot water until my fingers turn to wrinkly raisins. I use so much shampoo that I’m pretty sure I smell like a spring day. Then I flop on the bed and spend too much time pulling different pairs of pajamas out of the clothes box. I finally settle on a mint green pair with white and pink hearts. At the last minute I add a pair of soft pink velvet-lined house boots.

I sink back into the mound of feather pillows, watching wood squares burn in the fireplace to the patter of light rain on the windowpanes. I’m three seconds away from falling asleep when I remember Wilber in my backpack downstairs.

My velvet boots make no sound as I tiptoe down the dark staircase. When I reach the workroom door I’m paralyzed by the soft creak of a window opening and a sniffing noise like an animal smelling the air. After an eternity of frozen silence, I hear the sound of a few quiet footsteps and paper rustling. A dark shadow disappears over the railing of the veranda.

I have to wait until my heart stops beating like a scared rabbit before I can move my legs. Fumbling I find the key on the table lamp, chasing the shadows to the far corners of the big room. The sound of more footsteps makes me duck down behind a chair.

“Shouldn’t you be in bed, miss?” Mrs. Hogar appears in the doorway.

“There was a noise. Somebody was in here.”

Mrs. Hogar locks the window against the cold. Patrin’s storage trunks are still piled in a dimly lit corner and the large box of toys sits closed at the end of the worktable.

“See.” I point to a line of wet footprints glimmering faintly in the dim light, leading to a twist of paper underneath a workbench. When I pick it up three tiny painted unicorns tumble out.

“I guess Patrin was right about people trying to steal toys.”

“Why just these three unicorns? Why not the whole box?” Mrs. Hogar asks.

“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “Maybe the thief wasn’t stealing them, just putting them back.”

“Well, whoever did this won’t return tonight. I’ll make sure everything is locked down here, miss. You go get some rest.”

After locking my bedroom door I try to go to sleep.

“I wish that you were alive like Chimka,” I tell Wilber’s green velvet face. “Well, at least you’re real to me.” I tuck Wilber under the covers next to me, falling asleep to uneasy thoughts of clowns in the shadows and toy thieves.

Chapter Seven

“Let’s get to business.” Patrin says. I tuck into eggs, hash browns and pancakes, my first hot breakfast in months, as he spreads the tables with charts and diagrams. “We’ve so much to cover before our meeting. The most important thing to know is that the Blocksbury Toy Council is only interested in blocks. They’ll politely look at any other kind of toy, and then they’ll just as politely reject it. The Queen’s birthday is in four weeks and we need to come up with some extra special.”

Patrin slumps with his forehead on the mess of papers in front of him. He looks up and says, “I was hoping that you could help me come up with something spectacular.”

“What if we hid a tiny toy in the blocks?” I suggest. “We wouldn’t have to tell the Council about it. It’d be a surprise.”

“That might just work,” Patrin says, perking up, “Every block could have something different in inside.” He starts sketching intently.

“What if we made it like an Advent Calendar,” I add, “a block for every day of the month or even every day for a whole year? We could have them hanging on a tree.”

Patrin sketches a drawing of a tree covered with square blocks with toys popping out. “We could color code them.” Patrin gets very excited, his enthusiasm returning. “We could make kites and balls for the spring, sleds for the winter. It’ll be glorious!”

“How are you going to fit a kite into a building block?” I ask.

“That’s easy! I have a Dinkelyzer that can shrink almost anything. We can even fit the boxes with Repeaters that will duplicate the toys every time you take one out. That way the Queen can give them out as party favors.”

“It’d be a ton of work.” I scratch out some numbers on the margin of my notebook. “Three hundred and sixty five toys is a hecka lot of drawing. Is there any way to get some help?”

“I will!” Mook’s head pops in the door. He’s dressed in the same grubby kitchen uniform that he wore yesterday, although his pale hands and face look a little cleaner.

“Excuse me, miss, for barging in like this. I let myself in and couldn’t help overhearing your idea. It’s the most pleasant thing to reach my ears in a month of Fundays!”

He looks around the spacious workroom with an expression of rapture and hope, like a fallen archangel who’s been let back into paradise.

“Please, give me a chance to help you. I’ll do anything!” Mook says.

“Patrin, remember Mook?” I say. “He’s the guy that delivered our stuff last night. Mook, this is Patrin Busby.”

“’Tis my pleasure, sir!” Mook replies.

“Where’s your serious friend, what’s his name, Augwun?” I ask. “Didn’t he want to come too?”

“He’s covering for me in the kitchen. There’d be hell and a half to pay if the Kitchen Master caught us both gone before lunch.” A glimmer of fear flickers across Mook’s gray eyes as he talks.

“What would happen? Would you get fired?” I ask, hating the idea of him getting in trouble.

“Set on fire? No, nothing that harsh, he’ll probably just cuff me around a bit for being a lazy sot. I don’t care!” Mook replies, with a short laugh. “All I’m interested is seeing new toys. I used to make them before I came here.”

Patrin eyes him suspiciously and says,

“Then why haven’t I ever met you before? I don’t recall ever seeing you at any of the Toymaker Assemblies or Guild Meetings, or have you been erased?”

“Erased? Oh, no, sir. I’ve never done anything that awful, although I did serve under Hosmer the Innovator when I was younger.”

“Hosmer the Innovator!” Patrin almost spits. “Hosmer the Troublemaker is more accurate. He was awful, stealing peoples’ ideas, selling toys, taking bribes, that there hasn’t been one since. The Council of Justice is still trying to tract down all the horrible toys that he invented. But that was years ago. How did you end up here?”

“How does anyone end up in Blocksbury?” Mook shrugs and stares at the block pattern on the floor. An embarrassed pink washes across his pale cheekbones. “I’ve just moved around from town to town following work. Things haven’t been easy for traveling Toymakers lately. I’d do anything to make toys again, sir.”

“What does ‘erased’ mean?” I ask, not liking the sound of any of this.

“It’s a very severe punishment,” Patrin says with a shudder. “Not one that’s given out very often, at least not that many people know about. It’s said that sometimes, convicted Toymakers are erased from being. They aren’t killed, just forgotten.”

Patrin started doodling a line of little stick figures on a piece of paper.

“I’m not sure exactly how the Council of Justice does it but every book, memory and trace of the person’s existence is supposedly eradicated,” he explains as he draws.

“I’ve heard that the Council must agree on it unanimously and the Queen needs to give her Royal Seal. I guess it’s like being banished without having to go anywhere.” He dangles the pencil’s eraser over the drawing like a pendulum then lets it drop on one of the little figures. He erases it, leaving only a shadowy outline where the lines had been.

“It sounds like a pretty stupid punishment,” I say. “You’d think that it’d be better to know if somebody living next door to you was a serial killer.”

“We have other punishments for those kinds of crimes, not that they happen very often.” Patrin replies, crumpling up the paper and throwing it into the trash. “We’re a peaceful people for the most part. Erasing would be a punishment for something so scandalous that it would be better if that person had never existed. Like I said, it would be hard to prove if it had ever been done, wouldn’t it? I think it’s just an old hen’s tale to scare young chicks.”

Patrin pulls over a trunk of toys. “So Mook, take a look at these. If you can come up with toys of this level of quality, I’ll see about giving you a job. We sure could use the help.”

We open the trunk and spread all the toys out across the table. There are Elven dolls with intricately sewn clothing, little stuffed teddy bears in suits, and a marvelously carved Noah’s Ark. The largest toy is a complex kind of machine with cogwheels that interconnect to make little animals move and pop in and out of windows and doors. It makes a wonderful ticking noise as the pieces spin around, ponies, birds, and giraffes all dancing in a joyful rhythm.

“Where did you get these?” I ask, squinting in the back to examine the complex inner mechanism.

“I found this lot in the Greylands, through a private collector. They are unmarked, but I’m pretty sure they were all made by the same person,” Patrin says, watching a row of tiny wooden cats swayed back and forth on a little rail.

Mook is everywhere, unwrapping things, looking at drawings and studying the toys. He is halfway though a game of checkers against Chimka when a bell strikes the hour. Fingering the frayed hem of his apron he says,

“I’m in for it now! Well, I best go back and take my medicine. Thank you so much for letting me be here. I can’t tell you what this has meant to me, more happiness than I've words to describe.”

He bows quickly to Patrin and says, “Please sir, let me work for you, I’ll do whatever you need, polish the floors, mop the dishes. Please, just give me a chance, I promise I won’t disappoint you.”

Mook bobs his head once more and darts out the door.

“Well! I hope he doesn’t get into too much trouble for being late,” Patrin looks concerned as he tidies up the toys. “I’ve seen the Kitchen Master and I’d hate to be in his path if he were angry.” He checks his gold wristwatch and jumps up,

“Sweet spinning stars! Speaking of late, we’d best hurry! We must get there before the Council.”

Chapter Eight

Chimka rolls the car to a stop in front of the most dismal, drab looking building imaginable. Walls of beige cinder bricks block out the sun. A row of small second story windows break the expanse of cold concrete, but look too dirty to let in light. Scrawny, tired looking shrubs line the front walkway. Against the building dust covered rosebushes wilt in the morning shade.

“Welcome to the heart and soul of Blocksbury, the Council Hall. Herein lies the hopes and dreams of its citizens and our future as well,” Patrin says, hopping out of the car. “Not the most imaginative place I’ve ever worked.”

The big metal door opens with a rusty creak and we step into a lobby, a great shadowy room with a wide stone stairway climbing a slate covered wall. The beige linoleum floor, slick from years of wax polish, reflects the dim light like a frozen pond. Hanging above the stairs are portraits of serious looking men and women that glare down with disapproval. In the middle of the drafty room at a spindly wood table and chair, a scowling woman in a brown uniform stamps papers with extreme determination. She glances up at us and says,

“Good afternoon, Mister Busby. What have we here?”

“Good afternoon,” Patrin greets her with forced cheerfulness. “You know Chimka. This is Miss Clio Halina.”

“I see. Toymaker.” The woman looked at me severely and pulls out some paperwork from a file on her desk.

“Here are your cards, identification badges, meeting agenda, map of the building and a food voucher. Let me know if you need anything else,” she says without warmth. Patrin grabs the stack of papers and I follow him up the bleak staircase.

After winding our way through a maze of windowless hallways we enter the Blocksbury Council Chambers. A large shiny conference table takes up most of the room, making it hard to walk around. One wall has shelves with wooden blocks spaced in neat rows. They all look pretty much the same to me but each block has a label and a light shining on it like some relic in a museum. The musty air smells vaguely like dried polish and old food. Just as I sit down, the door flings open, and the Blocksbury Toy Council arrives.

A crowd of people in gray suits sweep into the room, clutching binders to their chests and moving with purpose. They find their places behind chairs with efficiency, then looked expectantly at a large red-faced man with a bristly mustache.

"Welcome to Blocksbury Toy Council meeting number 8,437.” The red-faced man clears his throat and says, “We have a guest with us, brought by our distinguished Toymaker, Mister Patrin Busby. Mr. Busby, would you please do us the honor of the introductions?"

"Why certainly, Mister Shishka. I’d be delighted." Patrin stands up and bows.

"This is Clio Halina, Toymaker from the Greylands. Miss, may I present Burgermeister Bolshia Shishka and the Blocksbury Toy Council. Patrin rattles off a string of names that I can’t remember and I shake a lot of hands.

“Don’t forget our two junior members, Master Prent Galtwell, and Miss Morna Charmian.” Mister Shishka says, “These two have been picked to be apprentices for their exceptional abilities and attention to detail. They were selected from hundreds of applicants, the best students in Blocksbury. I’m sure they will be happy to show you around, Miss Halina.”

I think they seem anything but happy to meet me. The boy is my age, with thick dark hair slicked across his forehead and puffy blue eyes. The girl is a year or two older with wavy red hair pulled back into a neat bow. She limply clasps my hand without much enthusiasm and elbows Prent. He rolls his eyes. I check to make sure my jacket isn’t buttoned up funny and my pants are zipped up.

We take their seats and Mister Shishka pulls out a stack of papers. He clears his throat with a blubbery rumble.

“I’d thought it would be good to start out, for the benefit of our guests, by reviewing the history of the block making process. Here are a few handouts, pass them around, some charts and a tentative time schedule for the year’s activity. As you can see this year’s B series has been very successful. It compares to the great Oblong Collection in popularity. Now that takes us back...”

Mr. Shishka proceeds to lecture on the history of blocks, the theory of block design and a side lecture on wood varieties for three hours. He then pursues a tangent on the superiority of wax finishes as opposed to varnish to lengthen the life of the block and increase stability.

I’m trying not to fidget, but I don’t understand half of what Mr. Shishka is saying. I doodle in my notebook to try to keep from nodding off. The red haired girl, Morna, keeps peeking at Patrin, but he seems to be hanging on every word of the Burgermeister’s lecture.

Finally, after an hour of explaining every award that Blocksbury had ever been given, there’s a soft tap at the council room door. A rush of people in white uniforms pushes in with rolling carts. They spread out trays of things to eat and drink. I catch Mook’s eye and he winks at me. His friend, Augwun, nervously places silverware on a rack with intense speed. A huge bald man stands with his thick arms crossed over his chief’s jacket, observing every movement of the kitchen staff.

“Is that the Kitchen Master that Mook was talking about?” I whisper to Patrin, “I wouldn’t want to mess with him.”

A girl with long dark braids struggles to carry a heavy silver tray piled with fruit. The Kitchen Master’s eyes narrow as she stumbles, almost dropping it. Augwun’s hands shoot out and smoothly sweep the loaded tray onto the table. The servant girl smiles gratefully and they continue their work. Within minutes an extravagant banquet is laid out, gleaming crystal, polished silver and white candles, and the servants are gone as quickly as they came.

The Burgermeister continues to lecture for another ten minutes as delicious smells fill the air. When he pauses in his speech for a moment to take a drink from his water glass Patrin leaps right in.

“Excellent information, Boss. Superb! You’ve given us so much to think about.”

Mr. Shishka looks a little confused for a moment and then beams back.

“Well then, I’m glad to be of service. My! Look at the time! Shall we continue our meeting tomorrow? Mr. Busby, could you say the Words over the food? Must observe traditional Toymaker protocol and all that.”

“I hate this part,” Patrin whispers to me. “I can never do it as well as… as….” He puts his hand over his mouth and thinks hard. “Huh! Lost it. Oh well, it will come to me later.” Everyone in the room stands up and looks expectantly at Patrin.

“I’d like to welcome everyone here tonight,” he says cheerfully, “at least I think it’s night time since I haven’t looked outside in a while. But my stomach tells me it’s time to eat. So, let’s enjoy this good food and each other’s company. And we’re really glad to have both.” Patrin stands with his palms facing each other about shoulder height and closes his eyes. He claps his hands together and a flash of light flies up from his fingers flittering around the room for a brief moment. The Council nods their approval and crowd toward the buffet table.

“Bouncing Bunnies! I’m glad that worked,” Patrin tells me. “I’m never really sure exactly what’s going to come out. I used to know someone that was really good at it.” He shakes his head as if to dislodge a thought, “Although I can’t remember exactly who it was. All Toymaker’s are asked to say the Words before food from time to time. Anyway, you must be famished. I know I’m ready for a little portion of something or other.”

I put together a plate of food. When I get back to the table, I find Prent and Morna leafing through my sketchbook.

“These are your drawings?” Morna the red haired girl asks me.

“Yeah,”

“Well, they’re not very good,” says Prent.

“Yes, these sketches are quite amateurish. I can’t believe that you haven’t burned them,” Morna giggles. “We have children in Kinder that can draw better than this.” She hands the sketchbook back with two fingers as if it were covered with germs.

“You’d better take your work a lot more seriously if you think you are going to get any respect from the Council,” she smirks. “Just a bit of advice, unless of course, you like being an amateur.” Prent and Morna laugh as they turn back to the food table.

I stand for a minute with only the pounding of my heartbeat and the feeling of air going in and out of my lungs to keep me company. Salt tears burn my eyes and there’s a little voice in my head saying, “Don’t let them see you cry. You can’t let them see you cry. Don’t let them get to you.” Through a hot fog I grab my sketchbook and slip quietly out the door.

I wander blindly down one musty dark corridor after another, until I find a door that leads outside to a back step. Maybe it’s the insults from the two kids, maybe because I’m lost in a strange place with no one I can trust, but I just sit with my head on my knees, swallowing the tears. The night air feels good on my face. I take my sketchbook and throw it high into the starlit sky. The book flutters through the air like a wounded bird before landing on a pile of trash by a fence.

“That’s where my stuff belongs, in the garbage.”

From around a corner a merry whistle breaks the silence and Mook appears hauling a bucket of scraps for the dustbin.

“Miss Clio! This is a surprise! And what would you be doing here of all places?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I reply, hoping that my voice doesn’t sound weepy.

“How did the Toy Council treat you? Well, I hope. Hey now, what’s this, tears? Did they get to you, those arrogant windbags? They’re so full of themselves.” Mook wipes off my face with a towel he has tucked in his apron strings.

“Mr. Shishka does like to talk,” I say, managing the smallest of smiles. “But I didn’t understand half of what he was saying.”

“I don’t think anyone does, but why the tears, friend?” Mook asks, sitting on the step next to me.

“No, it’s, it’s just that I’m so stupid,” I blurt out. “I mean, I can’t believe I was so stupid to bring my sketchbook to the meeting. I can’t believe I even thought that I was any good at all, because I’m not! I can’t draw!” My words come out in a rush. “And I’m never ever going to draw anything ever again because no matter how hard I try I’m never going to be somebody serious, just an, an, an ama, ama…shure.”

“Miss, wait, slow down for a minute, “ Mook says, “Do you mean amateur? If you do, then there is no shame in that. An amateur is one who does something for the love of it, not for the money. We draw because it gives us pleasure, and even though the lines on the paper don’t match the picture in our heads, that’s all right, it takes lots of practice to be able to make a hand draw what the mind is seeing. Don’t worry that it’s not perfect, whatever that means, just keep doing what you love to do.”

“But he said my drawings were so awful! And the girl said that I should burn them all and she’s right. ” I feel my eyes get hot and tearful again.

“Now who would say all that nonsense?”

“The kid in the meeting and the red haired girl.”

“You mean Prent Galtwell and Morna Charmian? Those two little toads?” Mook laughs. “They must’ve really been very rattled by you, Miss Clio. Normally, they won’t even speak to people their own age. You’d think they were part of the Royal Family. They're so jealous of you that you’re lucky they didn’t try to scratch your eyes out.”

“Mook! Mook!” an anxious voice comes through the darkness. “Koshka Mookael, where are you?” Mook stands up, suddenly on guard.

“It looks like my keeper has found me. Augie! Over here!” Mook steps out in the light to meet Augwun carrying another load for the dustbin.

“What in the name of Saint Jacks are you doing?” Augwun scowls at him. “ If Kulak catches you lazing about again, I’ll not be able to stop him. Don’t give him any reason to be angrier than he already is.”

“I’m sorry, Augie. I know you’ve already covered for me once today. It’s just that I…”

“Please, Mister Augwun,” I say, “It’s my fault. He was talking to me. Please, don’t let him get in trouble.”

“That’s what we’re trying to avoid. Here take these.” Augwun pushes the buckets at Mook. “Tell Kulak that one of the Council members wandered off and asked for directions. That’ll explain a good amount of time right there. I’ll take care of the young miss. Keep your eyes open and your head down. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Mook empties the buckets then runs back toward the kitchen. Augwun grabs my wrist and practically hauls me up the stairs.

“Hurry,” he says, “You’ve no idea how much trouble Mook is in.”

I run down the shadowy hallway to keep up with his long strides.

“I’m sorry, Mister Augwun,” I gasp between breaths, “I didn’t mean to gunk everything up.” He slows his pace a little.

“Of course you didn’t. It’s not your fault.” He lets go of my wrist and adds, “And by the way, miss, I’m not ‘Mister’ anybody. I’ve no title. ‘Mister’ is reserved for important people like Council Members.”

“You’re important to Mook,” I say, still trotting to keep up with him. “He’s your friend and you look out for him,”

“Ah.” This strange man lets out a tired sigh. “That may be. If I can protect him from his own foolishness then I may be more important than I realize.” He drops down on one knee, his gaunt face softening for just a moment.

“You must try and help Mook do his job too,’ he says, “Don’t let him spend time playing when he should be working. If he loses this job he’ll be sent back to the Factory or even to the Mines. Can you help him be more responsible, please?”

“I’ll try,” I promise.

“And watch out for yourself too, miss. I don’t have time to take care of two Toymakers.” The corner of Augwun’s mouth twitches up in a ghost of a smile and he stands up. “Around this corner, down the hall and through the double doors, you’ll see the Council Room from there. Now on your way.” He is gone before I can say thank you. I turn the corner to find Patrin running toward me.

“Clio Halina! Where have you been?”

Chapter Nine

Patrin’s tie is loose and his face flushed. “I’m glad I found you. I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Where you lost?”

“Um, Yes. I went for a walk and kind of got mixed up.” I hope my tears are dried and he can’t tell I’ve been crying.

“Well then,” Patrin says, “Let’s go home.” A wave of loneliness breaks over me.

“My home isn’t here,” I mumble. Then again, I don’ t have a home anywhere.

“I am so, so sorry. I didn’t think when I brought you here.” Patrin gives my hand a squeeze. “Please forgive me. I promise to get you back to the Greylands and help you look for your mother just as soon as I can.”

We walk silently down the big staircase to the front hall; our footsteps the only sound in the vast emptiness. The lights are dim and the lone reception table is cleared of papers.

Patrin looks exhausted as he opens the door to his car. I slump into the backseat and stare into the night sky.

Once inside Quad Hall we make their way to the workroom and settle into the chairs near the fireplace. Mrs. Hogar is waiting with steaming mugs of cocoa. Chimka busies himself by pulling plates of tea sandwiches and cookies out of the food box. I lean forward on the edge on my chair.

“Patrin, how come you’re lying to me? You don’t want to make a toy tree because the Council wants to give your Queen blocks for her birthday.”

Patrin puts his cocoa down.

“I don’t?”

“No, you don’t. The only thing I learned from that stupid meeting was that this town’s been making nothing but wooden blocks for gazillions of years. Why should your Queen person or anyone else expect anything different? If Blocksbury actually sent other toys it would cause a riot. What are you really doing?”

“I can’t tell you.” Patrin sits with his hands clasped between his knees. His voice hardly a whisper, “If I did you’d think that I was mad.”

“I already think you’re five kinds of crazy, so you might as well clue me in,”

Patrin stares into the glowing coals of the fire.

“Three years ago I started having dreams. Sometimes they were strange and terrible, other times ordinary and mundane. The odd bit was that other people in my family, my sister and brother, my parents, even my friends started having similar dreams. We all had visions of a man, a Toymaker, of skill and power such as has not been seen in many generations. It became hard to separate memories from fantasy. I started to write down these recollections in a little book. At first it was just a game. Then I started investigating unexplained inventions, toys, odd and glorious drawings, all with the same Griffin mark. The Fish Car, I believe is a creation of this Toymaker. Piecing the puzzle together, I realized that we were experiencing not merely dreams, but memories that had been stolen from us.

We don’t know his name. We haven’t been able to locate a picture or find a written record of him. We don’t know what he looks like, other than that doll that I showed you. We all feel this horrible sense of loss and sadness. I know that somehow I’m responsible for his disappearance. I can’t for the life of me remember what it was that I did but I just know that it was my fault… my fault.” Patrin buries his face in his hands, noticeably shaking.

He takes a deep breath and continues, “We’d about given up hope when I found those little wooden dolls hidden in the Royal archives. Then there was the phone call from you. I would have come to get you sooner but I was assigned here to Blocksbury. My parents sent a messenger down here in the Fish Car but he disappeared before I could send word back.

“But why make a toy tree?” I ask.

“I want to do something so spectacular that they let me come back to the Royal City. I’ve been, well, banished here. I think I was getting too close to finding out what happened. And if we can get back I can do more to help find your mother.

I was about to ask him if he knew where Otto came from when there was banging on the kitchen door.

Chapter Ten

Mrs. Hogar is already there.

“May I help you?” she asks, peeking through the glass.

“Please, ma’am, let us in. He’s injured,” a voice says. Mrs. Hogar swings open the door and Augwun half-carries Mook into the kitchen.

“What happened?” I ask, trying not to panic at the change in Mook’s appearance. His left eye is swollen shut and his right arm is clutched tight against his body. I can’t tell if he’s trembling from cold or pain, and his breathing is labored and heavy.

“Master Kulak went berserk as we were finishing the washing up,” Augwun replies, “I’ve seen him bully workers many times but nothing like this. His anger has been building all day.” He glares at Patrin. “You should never have let Mook in here this morning! You, of all people, should’ve known better, you’re the Toymaker for this town. You should protect your people. The Kitchen Master could be here any moment with the authorities. He’ll say that we were fighting, drinking, anything to throw the blame on Mook. Please, you must help him.”

“Yes, course.” Patrin springs into action. “There’s a storage room straight through here. We can lock you in if we have too. Come with me. Clio, go watch for visitors. Stall for time if you can.” They carry the half-conscious Mook out of the room.

Mrs. Hogar looks out the front door. “We may only have a few minutes. If anyone shows up say as little as possible. I’ll go and see if I can help them. I’ve a feeling they’ll need it.” She grabs a metal box off of one of the shelves and hurries back toward the storeroom. The minutes tick by and quiet settles over the night.

The clock strikes eleven and a little line of wooden cats in nightshirts, carrying candlesticks whirls out the front and back again. I stop pacing and head to the kitchen to see what was going on.

Mook is half resting in a feverish sleep on a worktable is covered with layers of blankets. Augwun stands at the stove in the kitchen brewing herbs in a black iron pot while Mrs. Hogar holds a compress over Mook’s swollen eye.

“He has internal injuries, cracked ribs, his eye is severely damaged,” Mrs. Hogar says. “I’m not sure if his arm is broken or not.” She lays the back of her hand against Mook’s ashen cheek. “He’s starting to run a fever.”

“Can’t we get him to a hospital? Why haven’t you called a doctor?” I ask.

“The doctors for workers here in Blocksbury are little better than butchers,” Augwun replies, carrying the steaming mixture into the storeroom. “It’d be signing his death papers.”

He dips one of the bandages in the herbs and wraps Mook’s swollen arm.

“I know Menders in Saint Puffins, good ones, if we only had a way to get him there,” Patrin offers.

“Could you heal him?” I ask. “Like you fixed my cut forehead. Could you do the same for Mook?”

“No, I couldn’t possibly…” Patrin stammers. “Th…that was small. This is beyond my skill…”

Augwun’s green eyes narrow behind the greasy hair that falls across his face, first in disappointment, then in anger.

“The famous Patrin Busby, you could mend him and you don’t want to?” Augwun shakes his head in disgust. “What would your family think?”

“No! Please! You mustn’t tell them.” Patrin looks at him wildly as if he had been slapped. “They think little enough of me as it is.”

“I don’t know what you guys are talking about,” I snap. “But you!” I glare up at Augwun. “Leave him alone! What has he ever done to you? And you,” I say turning back to Patrin, “if you can help Mook then, well… well, you should.”

Patrin nods, all the color drained from his face.

“I’d rather be alone to make the bandages, if that’s all right.”

“Let us know if you need anything.” Mrs. Hogar ushers Augwun and me out of the storeroom to wait in the kitchen. She leans against the cool stone of the sink counter, looking very old and frail. Augwun stands with his arms wrapped around his ribs, rocking back and forth, staring at the closed door.

“You’re worried about him, aren’t you?” I ask.

“Why should I worry about a Mender?” he replies, not taking his eyes off the door. “This is his calling, what he was born to do, not pretending to be a Toymaker stirring up trouble.”

“I meant Mook, not Patrin.”

I wait as the haggard man collects his thoughts. After a long silence, he says,

“I could see it all gathering like storm clouds on the dark sea. Usually, I can keep Mook out of harm’s way, Kulak’s not hard to distract when he starts throwing things, but this time was different. It was if some other force possessed him. He locked me in the icebox. By the time I broke out, the Kitchen Master had gone and Mook was lying on the floor. I thought that he was dead.”

“I’ve served Patrin’s family since before both of you were born,” Mrs. Hogar says, “and they still manage to surprise me.” She glances over to see Augwun put his hand to his forehead.

“Hey now, what’s this?” Mrs. Hogar reaches up and pushes a stringy lock of hair away from his face, revealing a long cut across his temple.

Augwun’s eyes widen with such a look of animal fear that she jerks her hand back.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters.

“Then it will be nothing to get it cleaned up,” replies Mrs. Hogar. “Here, sit down. How do you expect to carry the weight of the world if you get a nasty infection?”

Augwun sits stoically in the chair as she washes away the clotted blood and cleans the wound.

“What hit you?” I ask.

“I think it was a ladle. I’m usually better at dodging things,” he says as Mrs. Hogar blots the cut dry.

“What color would you like, green or orange?” I ask, holding up two medicine bottles. “I don’t understand the labels.”

“The green one, miss. The orange one is cough syrup.”

“There, all done. That wasn’t so…” Mrs. Hogar is interrupted by a shriek of pain coming from the storeroom. I rush inside to find Patrin curled up on the floor shaking, with Chimka chattering wildly beside him.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” stammers Patrin. “Just give me a minute. Ow! That was really something!” He laughs and sits up on his knees. “Did it work?”

Pulling himself up, he grabs the edge of the table to keep from toppling over again. The swelling around Mook’s eye is gone and he’s in a deep sleep. Mrs. Hogar puts her hand on Mook’s forehead and says that his fever is gone.

“What happened?’ I help Patrin into a chair. “You look like you ran a marathon.”

His face is flushed and his blue eyes sparkle.

“Just give me… a moment, I need to… catch my breath. His injuries were much worse than I realized. He had a fractured wrist and some ligament damage I think in one leg. That one really hurt. This is the first time I’ve tried anything this complicated before. Usually my Mum takes care of injuries of this nature. She’s much better at it than I am.” He stretches his shoulder a bit and feels his ribs.

“All there! See! No worries!” Patrin slumps back in his chair looking extremely pleased with himself.

“How do you do that? How did you heal him?” I ask.

“My family are Menders. It’s a gift. We can make bandages that pull the pain out and through our bodies, sort of like a transfusion. If you know what you’re doing then it doesn’t hurt so bad; I’m not very experienced.” He looks over to where Mook is sleeping. “There are plenty of extra rooms on this floor. In a minute we can move him to a bed and he’ll be ship shape by morning. Good as new!”

Off in the front hall we hear a soft chiming sound. “It’s rather late for visitors, one would think,” Patrin says. “Quick, we’ll hide these two. Clio, whoever it is, send them away.”

Chapter Eleven

I crack open the door to find Mister Shishka, standing on the terrace, an anxious grin forced across his flushed face.

“I apologize a hundred times over for the intrusion. I know that it’s horribly late, but I wanted to check and make sure you were safe,” he says, his overloud voice echoing in the night air, “Two workers were seen drinking and causing trouble. I was worried that they might be bothering you.

“Thanks, but we’re okay,”

Mister Shishka glances around nervously and takes a step forward. “May I come in?”

“It’s kinda late.”

“Please, it will only take a minute,” he whispers. He leans in toward me. “You’re in danger. I can’t explain but be careful. Don’t trust anyone. You’re being watched.” The Burgermiester glances around and says in a regular tone. “Again I apologize for the hour of the call but you know how workers can get out of hand. We’ve had problems before with this type of riffraff.”

“I’ll tell Patrin you came by,” I say in my best polite young lady voice. “Good night. It’s been a really long day.”

“Yes it has!” Patrin pitches in. “Mister Shishka, what a pleasant surprise! So glad you stopped by! Would you be so kind as to escort these two workers to the Bunks? We’ve just finished interviewing them; we need more staff around here and these two are prime candidates. Please, take my car. Chimka can drive. Here’re the keys. There’s a good fellow!” He pumps Mister Shishka’s hand enthusiastically and chatters on as he presents Mook and Augwun for his approval, “See that they get through the gates without any problem. I’ll negotiate the purchasing of their contracts with the Warden in the morning. Don’t let anything happen to them!”

I’m astonished to see them both on their feet looking tired but uninjured. Patrin escorts them out, thanking Mister Shishka a few more times and closing the door.

“That was close! A few more minutes and we’d all be sent to the Sugar Mines!” Patrin laughs.

“Don’t say that, even in jest!” Augwun says in a stern voice. I turn and he’s standing behind me. I look to Patrin for an explanation.

“Doppledolls! I love those things!” Patrin explains with a grin. “We couldn’t risk moving Mook, so I copied them. I’ll retrieve and deactivate the dolls tomorrow.”

The clock strikes midnight and a row of carved mice sleeping in twelve little wooden beds twirl out of the clock front and back again.

“Mrs. Hogar will help you get settled,” Patrin told him. “I’m sorry that we got your friend in trouble. Let’s hope we can straighten things out in the morning.”

“Yes, thank you.” Augwun looks relieved and follows Mrs. Hogar down the hall.

As I’m getting ready for bed, I go to close my curtains. In the garden below, behind a shadowy clump of bushes, are two clowns. They stare motionless at the house, so very still that at first I think they might be statues. The big one is the clown I met in the park the night before, his face frozen in a perpetual sneering smile. The smaller clown’s curly white hair waves like smoke above her high forehead. The blue circles painted around her eyes and flat nose make her half skeleton and half baby doll.

I pull away from the window hoping that they haven’t seen me. When I finally get the courage to look outside again, the figures have vanished.

“It’s okay,” I tell myself. “They’re gone. Deep breath.” After checking the lock on my door, I crawl into the bed and leave the light on, too scared to sleep.

Chapter Twelve

As soon as it’s light, I make my way downstairs to the workroom. Patrin is already there drawing. I start looking through some sort of Toymaker yearbook. I can’t read the words but there are plenty of watercolor drawings of toys and inventions, teddy bears, tree houses, wind-ups and tops. I come across an interesting picture of a group of people that I study for the longest time. One of them looks just like Patrin, only younger. There are people of all ages, dressed in every color of the rainbow. In front of them is a row of stuffed toys. I keep my finger tucked between the pages and carry the book over to Patrin to show him. When I open to the page the picture is gone.

“This is so weird,” I say. “It was right here.” I flip through the whole book again trying to find the drawing.

“What was it?” Patrin asks.

“There was a picture in this book of a big bunch of Toymakers with their Friends and one looked like Chimka. One kid in the picture looked like you. But I’ve looked through the whole thing three times and I still can’t find it.”

Patrin gets very excited and grabs a handful of blank paper.

“You actually saw a picture of the Toymakers’ meeting! This is incredible! Now think very carefully and tell me everything that you remember from the picture, no! Draw it before you forget.”

“But the picture’s right here in this book. I know it is!” I say.

“It isn’t there now. Trust me, I know. All pictures of the Annual Toymaker’s meeting have been erased. I’ve haven’t seen one in ever so long. I remember being there, having the drawing made, seeing it in the Yearbook, but it is not there now. Clio! Do you know what this means? This is marvelous! You can draw it for me!” He hands me a box of colored pencils.

“Now start with the humans, do them first.”

“I can’t draw people.” I say, remembering the mean comments that Morna and Prent made the night before.

“How about you tell me what you remember and I’ll draw the picture. How would that be?” he says. Describing the picture sounds doable so I start talking.

“You were there, only younger, standing next to this guy in a white suit, a white suit, like the wooden doll. There were about ten people on each row.”

“How many rows?” Patrin sketched out the rough figures.

“Three, I think, and a row of stuffed animals in the front. There was a big yellow winged thing here.” I point to the center of the row.

“Was it a griffin, like this?”

“Yeah! And an elephant, then a polar bear. I remember a giraffe. Chimka was there, on this end.” Patrin sketches the red monkey sitting on the steps.

“The guy in the white suit, what did he look like?”

“You couldn’t see his face, it was covered by his hat,” I think hard. “There was a young woman here with long blond hair, and an older one here. This man had a bird; I think a blue jay on his shoulder. They all had different colors of suits. Yours was red.” I grab a bunch of crayons and shade in a few of the jackets. And here…” I point to an unfinished face on the paper. “Give me a minute… Dang! It was right there on the tip of my tongue.”

“Don’t try to remember,” Patrin says. “It’s one of the effects of the erasure. It hides your memories, steals them away.”

“No, I remember. It was Mook.” I pick some more colors. “He stood here in a dark purple suit and he had a cat printed on his scarf. I knew that it would come to me. How could anybody forget a purple suit?” I do my best to sketch a rough picture of Mook’s wavy dark hair and wry grin.

“A cat? Then Mrs. Hogar was right, he must be from Catsport. That would place his accent,” says Patrin. I chew on the end of my pencil for a minute.

“There was an old guy with a white beard like Santa Claus,” I say. “This grey haired woman in an orange robe thing was really tan with a long walking stick in her hand. I can’t remember anything else.”

“This is astonishing!” Patrin says. “Perhaps our theory that erasure doesn’t effect Greylanders is true. This is wonderful news! Do you know what this means? It means that if you actually saw the missing Toymaker that you might recognize him.”

“Slow down! You think that he’s just going to walk up to the door here in Blocksbury?”

“Not to worry! If we finish this Toy Tree we’ll be so famous that they’ll have to let me back to the Royal City,” Patrin adds with certainty. “From there we can start a kingdom wide search. I suggest that I convince the Council this afternoon that we need a few weeks to do research. Remember, if we find the missing Toymaker then he’ll know how to recharge the Fish Car and take you home so you can find your mother. Until then you are stuck here.”

The clock strikes noon and a row of twelve squirrels dance out of the clock, each one carrying a silver tray with carved foodstuffs upon it. A mechanism in the clock pumps out a little puff of steam from one of the trays to give the illusion of hot food. It plays a merry tune and then is silent.

“Lunch time already!” Patrin says “Clio, I saw Augwun down by the lake earlier. After last night I gave him the morning off. Could you see if he’d like something to eat?”

“Sure, no problem.” I need a walk outside.

I stop on my way down the winding gravel path toward the lake to check where I’d had seen the clowns the night before. I found a line of giant footprints mashed in the mud. “These shoes must have been some kind of huge,” I think. Why they were staring at my window is a scary thought that won’t fade away. I decide to learn as much about clowns as I can and go to find Augwun.

A breeze blows across the lake, warming my face. An old boathouse sits on a stone dock stretching across the sparkling water. Seabirds circle idly in a cloudless sky. Sitting at the end of the dock, Augwun reclines in a wicker chair, engrossed in a book. He looks much better in clean clothes, more like some country gentleman than the nervous kitchen worker I remember. His work boots stick out over the railing, crossed comfortably. Freshly washed and stripped of grease his dark hair is pulled back showing the fiery red scar, now beginning to heal, across the side of his temple. I stop and wait, afraid to disturb this strange, grim man.

Without looking up from the book he says,

“It’s not polite to stare, you know.”

“Uh, sorry,” I reply, embarrassed that he caught me watching him. “I didn’t want to bother you. I mean, I hate it when I’m in the middle of the story and somebody calls me. So… um, what’re you reading?”

“A Catlandian Folk Epic. I started reading it a long time ago and always wondered how it ended. Books are a bit scarce where I’ve been lately.”

“Any good?” I ask, curious to know what he thinks.

“I’ll let you know when I get to the end.”

“Well, I hope you like it,” I say. “Oh, and Patrin says to tell you it’s lunchtime,”

Augwun immediately stands up, prickly at the mention of Patrin’s name.

“Would he like help with the serving, miss?”

“No. I think he wants you to eat, not work. Can I get you a sandwich or something so you can finish your book?”

“That is very kind of you,” Augwun replies. He starts to say something else, but is interrupted by the sound of a tinny motor winding up the road. A brightly painted car stops with a screech. Augwun runs toward me, dropping his book.

“Saint Portia protect you! If they find you they will take you!” he says frantically, “I never thought they’d come here, not in daylight. Clio Halina, you must hide. Hurry!”

He picks me up and carries me into the boathouse. Before I can scream he lifts me up into the rafters and shuts the door.

“Be quiet if you want to live. They can’t look up,” he tells me, “Please, for the love of all things good, don’t make a sound, no matter what happens. I’ll do everything I can to…

At the sound of squeaky footsteps, Augwun drops to his knees, pressing his forehead to the ground. The old painted door creaks slowly open. A gloved hand sticks a bamboo cane in and pokes his shoulder.

“Yuk, yuk, yuk! What have we here?” a high-pitched voice says. “ Haven’t seen you in a while, bucket scum. Want to play a little game?”

It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the dim light streaming through the shutters in the boathouse windows. I figure the odor of old sweat and grease paint belongs to Big Happy, the clown I met in the park when I first arrived. The skeleton faced clown I’d seen the night before I left smells like dead things.

Augwun rises to his feet and stands absolutely still.

“Gotcha! Ha! Ha! Ha! Did you think that we had just forgotten about you? How long has it been, kitchen trash? “ Big Happy’s singsong voice breaks the silence. He squeezes a rubber horn in his pocket as he circles around Augwun like a shark.

“Eleven months, three days, five hours, and twenty-six minutes,” Augwun says lifelessly.

“And how many stripes on my collar?”

“Three, two red and one blue.” The tall clown stands behind him and whispers in his ear.

“And... how many pleats?”

“Twenty six,” Augwun replies. Big Happy spins his collar around to count.

“Woohoo! So there are! It seems our favorite pupil hasn’t forgotten his lessons. You look almost respectable today, Sillywilly. Say hello to Dolly. You remember her, I’m sure.”

“Good to see you again, Captain,” he says automatically.

“What’s wrong, my dear? Too shy to shake a lady’s hand?” Her voice is raspy and low, grating the air. Augwun slowly raises his hand. Dolly has a buzzer in her palm that sends a powerful shock up his arm, knocking the wind out of him and forcing him to his knees. I bite back a cry as the clowns laugh hysterically.

“Gets them every time!” Big Happy giggles, wiping a fake tear away with a big rainbow colored handkerchief. “Stand up in the presence of a lady, you stupid slob. You’ve forgotten your manners after all. See, Captain, the easy life in the kitchen has made him slow on the uptake. Perhaps he needs a little bit more schooling back at the Grotto.” Augwun struggles to his feet helped by the bamboo cane of the larger clown looped around his neck.

“Unfortunately we don’t have time for that. We need him to do a job for us now,” says Dolly. “Other, more pressing matters must be taken care of. We’ve been watching the new Toymaker and it has come to our attention that some subversive activities are about to take place in Quad Hall. What do you know about that location?”

“The Toymaker Patrin bought my contract to serve in the Hall,” Augwun replies.

“Who is living there now?” asked Dolly.

“A Greylander and another kitchen worker.”

“What is their purpose? Why are they here? And speak the truth, you dimwitted half brain.” The clowns skip around him in a circle.

“They are Toymakers,” he answers.

“We know they’re Toymakers!” Dolly hisses. She grabs his ear and pulls his face very close to hers. “Listen to me and listen to me good. I’m going to give you two weeks and you are going to make me a list of every activity that goes on in that house. I want to know about every mark that is made on every piece of paper and all their plans. If you so much as leave out one toy I’ll make you wish that you were back in the mines. We plucked you from there and we can send you back for the rest of your short and miserable life. Do you understand?” Augwun nods mutely.

“In two weeks they will have created enough illegal toys to have them convicted by Jester Control.” She smiles and I can see her multicolored teeth gleaming red, green and blue in the dim light. “And then a big bonfire. We’ll burn the lot! And you know who will be on that bonfire if you fail me, won’t you, Obedient One? Find yourself a job in the workroom, and get in thick with them. Do you think that a brainless idiot like you can manage that?”

“But I don’t make toys,” he answers.

“Of course, of course you don’t, fool, but you’ll find a way. The Greylander girl seems soft and stupid. She might even try to teach a pathetic creature like you how to draw if you groveled for her. I bet she thinks she’s quite the clever one.” Dolly chuckles a dry sound. “We owe Kulak a favor; we’ll give her to him as a scullery girl. That is, after we are done rehabilitating her.”

Both clowns clap their big white gloves together and laugh as if this was the funniest idea they’ve had in a long time.

“Speaking of treats, Captain,” says Big Happy, “Why don’t we give some yummy yum fun to our good ol’ pal here?”

“Yes, excellent idea! Want some candy, garbage boy?” She takes a paper box out of her pocket and shakes some brightly colored shapes into her hand. “Candeeze! Here is a whole two weeks worth in advance. Something to make the little voices in your thick head go away for a while. You know you want it, go ahead, take it.”

Augwun slowly takes the pills making a fist around them. The sound of the bamboo cane whipping through the air makes him jerk to attention.

“Aren’t you forgetting to thank the nice lady? “ Big Happy walks around behind him and whacks him sharply between the shoulder blades.

“Never mind, Big Happy,” rasps Dolly, patting Augwun’s expressionless face. “He can make it up to me later. Let’s get out of here. Remember that we’ll be watching you, so don’t slip up. Toodles!”

The sound of squeaky shoes grows faint and the clown’s car starts up in the distance. My feet are asleep and my hands ache from clutching the edge of the beam. Augwun stands frozen beneath me, unmoving. I wait for him to speak. After the longest time Augwun’s fist loosens and the handful of colored tablets scatter across the floor, breaking the silence. He lets out a shuddering sigh as if coming out of a trance and looks up.

“May I help you down, miss?”

“Uh sure.”

He carefully lifts me to the floor and opens the door

“Do you want me to pick up your pills?” I ask, “I mean, don’t you need them?”

“Please no,” Augwun says, kicking the colored candy drugs into a dark corner. “It’s horrible stuff, makes people stupid and weak.”

I blink as we step out into the sunlight. A flock of quick-legged birds run up and down the shore pecking and scratching while one lone crow digs at a shell in the sand.

“They’ll come back, won’t they,” I ask.

Augwun nods as he bends down midstride to swoop up the book where it had fallen. He dusts it off and continues up the hill as if nothing has happened.

Chapter Thirteen

“That was blessedly short,” Patrin says as he comes up the front walkway to Quad Hall. I’m sitting in the workroom, trying to figure out if I should tell Patrin about the clowns.

“I think the meeting set a record for brevity.” Patrin continues, “I was at a Council meeting once where the building caught on fire and it still continued longer than the one today.” He takes off his red jacket and slings it over his shoulder. “Did you have a chance to work up the design plan like I suggested?”

“Yeah, sort of.... It took a bit of figuring out but it should work. I just wish that you had a printer. I had to copy everything by hand.”

“You should have had Chimka do it for you, it’s just one of things that makes Toymaker’s Friends so useful. They’re excellent at copying things. Although, Chimka hasn’t left Mook’s side all day. He’s usually standoffish with strangers. Oh well,” Patrin says with a shrug. “This looks great! Let’s gather everyone together and get to work, shall we?”

We all assemble around the biggest worktable, Patrin at the head, me on one side and Augwun and Mook with Chimka on the other. Patrin passes out the project plan and says,

“Our goal is to create the largest number of toys possible. Each toy will be shrunk to fit into a wooden block and be part of the tree. This is a grand opportunity to put Blocksbury on the map. Miss Clio has been kind enough to devise a work schedule dividing the time into categories such as dolls, puzzles, games and so on.

“Who’s going to provide the documentation?” Mook asks, his eyes growing wide as he looks over the plan.

“I thought that we could all pitch in and do our own,” answers Patrin.

“What’s documentation?” I ask. It sounds like homework, but less fun.

“A project of this size is required to be registered in the Royal Archives. This insures that the toys are safe to play with, that ideas aren’t stolen, that credit is given where credit is due. It’s a detailed drawing of the toy and the purpose and thought behind it,” he explains.

“So, where would everybody like to start? Clio, what is your pleasure?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something easy like a ball or something. I’m not good at drawing stuff,” I say, staring at a blank piece of paper. After the nasty comments of the two Council members, I’m pretty sure I’ll never enjoy drawing again.

“Ah, piffle! I’ve seen your illustrations and they’ll do just fine. You’ll be amazed how basic the sketches have to be to work. If you are not happy with your sketches then just have Chimka redraw them for you. I’m sure that he’ll be pleased as Ping-Pong balls to rework anything you come up with. How about I put you down for animals? So far you’ve shown exceptional talent in that area!” I shrug and Patrin continues, “Mook, how about you? I bet you’d like to work on games. You definitely have an affinity for them. Where would you like to start?”

“Anywhere you say, sir,” Mook replies beaming. “It’s all good to me.”

“Then games and puzzles it is.” Patrin writes a few lines into a notebook and goes on. “This is wonderful! We’ll have a great variety of toys in no time! Augwun, where do your strengths lie?”

“I worked on the sanding assembly line at the Factory.” he offers.

“So you want to sand things?” Patrin asks, studying the design plan as if a toy sander was on the list.

“Augie has good handwriting. Don’t deny it. I’ve seen you write the food records. He kept all the inventory books for the Kitchen,” Mook says with good humor. “Make him do the documentation. He’s a quick enough study when he wants to be.” Augwun shoots him a withering look but Mook just grins.

“What would you like to work on?” Patrin asks.

“It’s your decision, sir,” he replies.

“Well,” says Patrin, “let’s have you start with paperwork until you get a feel for what it is that interests you. You can change anytime. OK, that’s all set. Let’s get to work!”

The next few hours pass as the most wonderful and most terrifying of my life. Patrin is everywhere at once, encouraging, teaching and offering advice. Chimka drags out a trunk full of all kinds of fabrics and lace and started sketching dolls in elaborate costumes. Mook works out a plan for a wooden puzzle that starts out as a flat picture but by moving the pieces around it stacks into a miniature castle complete with little people on horseback and towers with flags. When he completes the sketch he passes it on to Augwun who starts the documentation. Mook takes the drawing and scratches at the corner of the illustration. I watch in amazement as he peels the finished toy right off the paper.

“You see! It’s easy! Just think through the toy from all sides and there you have it. Miss Clio, what are you working on?”

“I don’t know what to do,” I confess. “Where do I start?”

“Here, start with something simple, say marbles. He pulls a small coin out of his pocket and traces it on a piece of paper. Mook grabs a handful of colored pencils and smiles,

“Pick a color, any color, miss.”

I pick a deep shade of blue.

“Excellent! Now color the circle and ‘think marble’ as you fill it in. Think about the coolness of it, the weight of it, how it will feel when you hold it.” I carefully color in the small circle and even adds a little shading so it looks round. Then Mook puts his hand over the drawing and closes his fingers into a fist. When he turns his hand over and opens it, a clear blue marble sits in his palm, sparkling like a jewel.

“Wow! How the heck did you do that?”

“It’s easy, just see the marble in your head. Try another one.” I pick a rich dark red color and fill in another circle. Mook wraps his fingers around the back of my hand and places it on the drawing.

“Now, pick it up, miss” he urges. My fingers close around something solid. I unfold my fist and there’s a cold, smooth marble, dark as blood, in my palm. I hold it up to the light and it glows inside like a burning coal. I draw another marble and doodle a picture of Wilber with some grass and trees. I peel it off the page. Inside of the marble is a little dragon flying over a sunlit field.

“Ahhh! Beautiful!” Mook tells me, “Now! Here! Color a few more and you are on your way. Here’s a bowl to put them in when they are complete.”

The minutes turned into hours as we worked in silence as the toys take on form. The workroom clock strikes eight and a little line of dancing squirrels spin around to a spirited waltz.

“Can you believe it’s eight already and us with no supper?” Patrin says stretching. The workroom door opens and Mrs. Hogar sweeps into the room. Mook and Augwun immediately stand up.

“Not had dinner!” the old woman says, “This will not do at all.”

“Mrs. Hogar, I’ve hired Mook and Augwun to help us with our work.”

“Very good, sir.” She looks up at Augwun, “I’ll be expecting you to help with the cooking and cleaning.”

“Of course, ma’am. May I help you with in the kitchen now?”

Mrs. Hogar looks to Patrin for approval. He nods ever so slightly. She purses her lips together in a thin line. “Very well, come with me. You too, Catlander,” she adds, pointing to Mook.

“Mrs. Hogar,” I ask, “Can I help with anything?”

“Yes, clean up this lot,” she commands, “And make sure that you wash the paint off your face before dinner.” Mrs. Hogar sails out of the room followed by Mook and Augwun. Patrin lets out a sigh of relief.

“Are they going to be okay?” I ask.

“Of course! They’ve hit it off splendidly. Not to worry, Mrs. Hogar’s a strict one but I can tell that she’s already taken quite a shining to them. She won’t work them too hard. She may even fatten them up a bit.”

Chapter Fourteen

We finally sit down to dinner after a big argument I get into with Mrs. Hogar. She thinks that Mook and Augwun, being servants, should eat in the kitchen. I think if that’s true then we should all eat in the kitchen because we’re all working on the same project. Then Mrs. Hogar tells me that if Patrin wants everyone to eat as a group then we could possibly eat together in the formal dining room as long as Mook and Augwun sit at the opposite end of the table. I say that I should be able to eat wherever I want to. Eventually we all, including Mrs. Hogar, end up sharing pizza and salad in the workroom because Chimka has already set the places and we are all too tired to care.

I can’t remember the last time I actually ate dinner at a table with people. Otto wasn’t much for conversation. We sit around telling stories that continue on long after the food is gone. Mook talks about his village in Catsport and the cats that run sailing ships back and forth to the continent. Patrin tells a very funny story about a group of poodles that entered the annual kite flying competition in Saint Ives, the Royal City and how the kite that they had built was so big that it pulled their entire team into the harbor. Augwun spins a scary story about being caught in the Forest of Houndes Berk on a Hallowsday many years ago, which leads to Mrs. Hogar talking about fighting in the Wars of Chaos, riding in a cavalry regiment across the Northern Wastelands to Beargarden.

After dinner I settle in by the fireplace in the library and page through the Toymaker’s Annual one more time, trying to find more information about this mysterious missing Toymaker that Patrin keeps talking about. The chair is soft and comfy, combined with the warmth of the fire and a full belly I nod off. When I wake up I’m alone in the big room. Far away thunder rumbles on the other side of the lake as a soft summer rain starts to fall. Outside on the porch railing I can see a book that looks like my sketchbook. I wonder if Mook found it and brought it back. Unlocking one of the porch doors, I run out to bring it in before it gets wet. As I reach for it something moves in the bushes and a white glove grabs my wrist.

“Gotcha, you little witch.”

I try to yell for help but I’m yanked up and over the railing. I fall into the mud and a giant red shoe steps on my shoulder hard, pinning me down. I can hardly breathe.

“Hidy-Ho, little girl.” Big Happy leans over at me, so close I see the stubble on his chin poking through the greasepaint. “I found your stupid book in the trash. I’ve added a message for that brat, Patrin.” He yanks me up by my jacket collar and dangles my sketchbook in front of my face. There’s a crude drawing of Patrin crying cartoon tears, a hangman’s noose around his neck. Under his feet Patrin teeters on a giant beach ball that’s slowly deflating.

“Make sure he gets it,” he says. With a shove he pushes me backwards onto on the porch. I scramble inside and lock the door. Peeling off my muddy jacket, I curl up next to the fire, shaking, too scared to move.

“Miss, what happened?” Augwun comes in, wiping his hands on a towel. “Mrs. Hogar said that she heard a noise and has gone to investigate.”

“Big Happy,” I say, the words not coming easy, “he’s outside. He found my sketchbook and, and gave it back.” I let out a nervous laugh. “Nice of him, don’t you think?”

“Did he hurt you?” Augwun asks, kneeling down beside me. He’s using that matter of fact voice that grownups use when they are upset but don’t want you to know.

“He stepped on my shoulder.” I move my arm and stretch. “Dang, he’s big.”

“I’ll fetch, Mister Patrin. He will mend it for you.” He pulls a blanket off the couch and wraps it around me.

“No wait, don’t leave, please,” I say, “Nothing’s broken or anything. Mostly, he just scared the crap out of me. It’s not like I got zapped by one of those buzzer things like you did.” I point to a burn the size of a half-dollar on his palm. “Look, you should put some medicine on this before it gets infected. Who are these clown people?”

Augwun stares for a moment at the blistering red mark on his hand.

“I don’t think they are people,” he says, quietly. “Mrs. Hogar will scare them off. She’s fierce. Don’t let her small size fool you. She’s one of the Fair Folk, you know.” A faint grin flashes across the shadows of his serious face. “You stood up to her at dinner. If you knew more about her you might not have been so bold.”

“Well it wasn’t fair, she should be nicer to you and Mook.”

“Show a little mercy, miss. Mrs. Hogar has many worries to carry. It’s no small job protecting Patrin.” Augwun says, all the while watching the windows. “You didn’t tell anyone that I’m an information gatherer for Jester Control. Why is that?

“Well, you didn’t hand me over in the boathouse and I don’t think that these… these… whatever they are control you as much as they think that they do.” I stare out into the darkness too, listening for any sounds in the night.

“Eleven months since what?” I ask.

“Since I last had the pleasure of being interrogated by Jester Control. Captain Dolly is the Head of Intelligence and Big Happy is one of her guards. They hate toys and think playing is a waste of time. The worse part is that they’re willing to do horrible things to reach what they think are noble ends. If you listen to them long enough it almost starts to make sense. They’re totally misguided, of course,” he adds quickly, seeing the disgust on my face.

“But why do you work for them?”

“I don’t have much of a choice. They came through the mines one day, bought up a dozen workers and took us to a place that they called the Grotto. We were trained as information gatherers. I was fortunate to survive.”

“They bought you?” I ask, wrapping the blanket tighter around my shoulders.

“It happens,” Augwun shrugs. “It’s impossible to get work without a contract in this part of the world and sometimes papers are sold without warning. I was held there for six months. It wasn’t an experience I’d care to repeat,” he says lightly, as if he had seen a disappointing play.

“Why did you have to know how many pleats?”

“Part of the training… We were always set up for failure. We developed our powers of observation to avoid punishment. Jester Control would ask anything, how many squeaks on those infernal horns of theirs, how many green dots on the left sleeve. Most of the guards were not particularly intelligent, merely cruel. Captain Dolly, on the other hand, is a taller piece on the chessboard. She is a formidable adversary.” He shivers and pulled up his bony knees to his chest, “After graduating I was moved to Blocksbury to work in the Factory. When I thought they’d forgotten about me, that it was just an unpleasant dream, Big Happy appeared out of nowhere. He told me that a Toymaker had been erased and they wanted to get their hands on him.”

“And you think that Mook’s the guy that they’re looking for?” I ask.

“Perhaps. He was hopeless from the start. Always trying to change things, think up better ways to get things done. He stuck out like a tree in a wheat field. If I hadn’t got us transferred to the kitchen he’d have been discovered for sure.”

“Why don’t you just run away? I’m sure Patrin would let you go if you asked.”

“I’d be caught in a matter of days. Jester Control is everywhere.”

“Honest? Not for the drugs or whatever it was that they gave you? Did you take them?” I ask, watching his eyes in the dim firelight.

“No!” he says, then in a sadder voice murmurs, “There was a time that I would have. All the miners were addicted to it; they put it in the food. It’s beastly stuff, makes you stupid and soft.”

I ponder this for a while, tracing the seam on my jeans with my fingernail.

“What are you going to do, miss?” Augwun asks me.

“Don’t know,” I reply, “Do these clown things have any weaknesses? If you punched one of them would they go down or just explode or something?”

“I’ve never tried it myself. The library here is quite extensive,” Augwun says looking up at the tall shelves of books; their embossed bindings flickering red in the firelight. “There is an even larger library upstairs on the third floor. There has to be more than a few books related to Clown culture and its offshoots.”

“I can’t read these books. They’re written in a foreign language.”

“It’s not a foreign language here,” he replies dryly. “You’ll need a Friend to translate them for you, Chimka can do it. You should know that.”

“Where I come from no one has even heard of a living stuffed animal,” I tell him.

“Then you’ll have to study more. I’ve never been to the Greylands, but here in the real world no one has ever heard of a Toymaker without a Friend,” he says in a tone that makes me feel like I went to school in my pajamas.

“What about Mook? He’s a Toymaker. What happened to his Friend?”

“Unless he managed to smuggle his to safety before he was erased, it was most likely unstuffed.”

“Unstuffed! That’s sick! How could…” I stop midsentence. On the porch, right outside the window, Captain Dolly is pressing her nose against the glass. She grins at Augwun and rolls her face on the glass leaving a white streak of greasepaint and a smear of red lipstick. She reaches for the door handle but then stops, staring behind us. With a snarl she steps back into the dark.

Mrs. Hogar appears behind us, silhouetted in the hallway, dripping wet. A grim smile stretches across her face, showing her pointy teeth. In one hand she’s carrying a long staff with a hooked blade at the end, in the other she’s clutching a fistful of a giant flowering plant with big blue leaves, pulled up by the roots.

“Jolly’s Bane.”

Chapter Fifteen

“Jolly’s Bane,” says Augwun, “Quite a rare find, ma’am. It‘ll keep the clowns away for a while.”

“There were clown footprints around the house,” Mrs. Hogar says. “But I didn’t get a clear look at brutes. If I knew what they looked like I’d be able to tell more.”

“Maybe I can draw them.” I take a piece of paper off of the library table and find a fountain pen. Then I try to draw a picture of the clowns we had seen in the boathouse. My wobbly lines look like stick figures.

“With your permission, miss. I know these faces all too well.” Augwun takes the pen and pulls out a fresh piece of paper. His hand shakes as he starts to draw, slowly at first and then with more intensity. I watch in fascination as lines quickly cover the page creating the faces of two clowns. He captures the looming wild-eyed grin of Big Happy and the smug evil smirk of Captain Dolly. Mrs. Hogar snatches up the picture and let out a hiss that sounds like an angry badger. She studies it a moment more and carefully burns it in the fire.

“Jester Control. I thought they were destroyed years ago. When Master Patrin told me that you’d seen clowns I didn’t want to believe it. You say they are in the area? How many?”

“Just the two that I know of,” Augwun answers.

“There’ll be more,” said Mrs. Hogar, “We’d best be careful. Tomorrow we’ll set up some defenses around the house. Here laddie, come with me and we’ll find something to put on that hand of yours.” Mrs. Hogar leads Augwun off to the kitchen like a small boy and I follow behind.

Once in the kitchen Mrs. Hogar gets the medicine kit and pulls out a chair for Augwun. Even sitting down, he is taller than the tiny woman. When she pushes back his shirt cuffs, I can see rows of old scars that wrap around his wrists.

“You’ve had a rough time of it, eh?” Her voice is thoughtful as she mixes up a salve. “You’ve been to the Grotto.” She takes his hand in her gnarled fingers and applies a generous amount to the wound.

“Yes, ma’am.” His shoulders slump forward and Mrs. Hogar waves me off. I stop outside the doorway and peek back, half from curiosity and another half from not wanting to be alone.

“I’ve seen the inside of the Grotto too,” she goes on. “Not one of my happiest memories, let me tell you. I managed to escape after a few miserable days. That’s well nigh thirty years ago. How long were you there?”

“Six months, I think, ma’am. I was trained to gather information.”

Mrs. Hogar lets out an impressed whistle between her teeth.

“You’re lucky to still have your wits about you. Those clowns were evil on earth, they were.” She pulls up her sleeves to show the same rows of scars. “I was able to squeeze between the bars. Being small has its advantages from time to time. I hid in an ash can for two nights before it was taken to the trash heap. From there I was able to make my way back to what was left of my regiment.”

She finishes wrapping a soft bandage around his hand. “Your hand will be good as new in a few days, lad; the rest of you will be too, though that may take longer.” Her weathered face looks up kindly at him. She pats his arm and says gently, “You poor, wee thing.”

Augwun crumples over the table, hiding his face in his arms and shudders uncontrollably for a long time.

Chapter Sixteen

I wake up to find Mrs. Hogar setting a small breakfast tray on my nightstand.

“What time is it?” I yawn, trying to sit up and look more awake than I feel. I can’t even remember going to bed and I’ve slept in my clothes.

“It’s almost lunch time, miss. I thought you could use a bit of nourishment. How’s the shoulder?” Mrs. Hogar pours me a mug of hot tea.

I feel like I’ve been used for piñata practice.

“I’ll live.” I rub my collarbone and find someone has put a compress on it. It smells of eucalyptus and lavender.

“The others are getting ready to take some toys to the Bunks. It’s not enough that the Catlander was mended by Mister Patrin, now he’s talked him into giving toys to all the worker children there. The very idea!” she said in a way that meant she thought it was a very good idea indeed.

“I like the way he thinks,” I manage a smile. “Any more clown visitors last night?”

“No,” she says, “The plantings this morning were very effective. Jolly’s Bane is quite the clown repellent. They won’t be able to come within fifty feet of the house. Carry some with you when you leave the Hall. You’ll need to take a bodyguard with you as well. Clowns have been known to enlist the aid of ruffians to get what they want.”

“Everybody should get a handful of this ‘Jolly’s Bane,’” I say, “especially Mister Augwun. Captain Dolly said she’d be back for a list of all the toys that we’ve made. They’ll try and get him in the next week or so.” A curious uneasy feeling swirled around my insides. “Mrs. Hogar, do you think that we should be trusting Mister Augwun? I mean, he’s the one writing everything down. You don’t think that he’d give the clowns the list of toys, do you?”

“Time will tell, won’t it?” Mrs. Hogar says, straightening things that don’t need to be straightened, her mouth thinning to a knife’s edge. “The man’s been through more than you or I can imagine. There is something about him that I find unsettling. I’ll watch over him for you, miss, and the Catlander boy too.” She pulls open the curtains and beams of sunlight stream into the room. “May I tell Mr. Patrin that you will meet the others upstairs shortly?”

“Yes, sure, thanks,” I nod as Mrs. Hogar sweeps out of the room.

The stairs of Quad Hall seem to go up forever. On the top floor is a huge, open attic with dormer windows. Other than a pile of crates and a table, it’s a wide-open space and reminds me of a skate rink. Mook and I start out enthusiastically using the Doubler, which looks like a cross between a red metal raygun and a blunderbuss, on the boxes filled with toys that Patrin gave us to copy. I find it hard keep working when there are so many interesting things to look. Rainbow colored fish puzzles swim around on the floor until they’re put together. There’s a set of rabbit toy explorers in colorful uniforms. Each adventure rabbit has a backpack full of tiny equipment, a tent, a mess kit and climbing gear. The wooden box lid says in flowing letters, “The Amazing Adventures of Florimel the Magnificent”

Mook opens a long box and takes out a folded up pogo stick in the shape of a jaguar. When unpacked, the upper paws become handles and the lower paws and tail make a tripod that bounce the rider up and down the room. We take turns bouncing around for until we are exhausted from laughing. The weird thing about the jaguar pogo stick is that even if we try to fall off or hit something we couldn’t. I experiment with trying to crash into the wall but no matter how hard I jump, a cushion of air keeps me from hitting it.

Mook pulls out one toy after another and his enthusiasm is infectious. Every toy is more amazing than the last.

My favorite toy turns out to be one with wind-up frogs that jump through rolling hoops. It is so funny that we both have tears rolling down our faces after playing it for only a few minutes. The comical song that the frogs sang is half music and half croak. High and low, deep and squeaky, each frog made a different noise that blended together to make a funny rhythmic tune. We keep trying to catch the windups to put them away but the musical croaking of the frogs in the storage box start us laughing and the game starts all over again. When Patrin comes upstairs we’ve barely unpacked half the toys.

“See here, what is going on?” Patrin angrily snatches the box of frogs away from Mook. He pushes a button on the side of the box marked “Clean Up” and all the frogs immediately hop into the box and are silent.

“I hate frogs,” he says.

“Why’s that?” I ask.

“Nasty, stupid things,” he replies, tossing the frog game down. He turns his back and starts sorting through the boxes. He pulls several stacks off to one side and starts using the Doubler to methodically copy the toys without looking up. Mook stands around awkwardly for a few minutes before taking an armful of toys downstairs.

“What’s bugging you?” I ask.

“Nothing, it’s just that I don’t care for frogs,” he says.

I pick up the frog game and studied the box. On the underside is a small griffin logo embossed into the wood. Puzzle pieces start to fly together in my head.

“This has something to do with your lost Toymaker, doesn’t it? Why is it that this game bothers you so much? Be honest, what is your deal with frogs? Do you remember anything at all?” Patrin shakes his head and says,

“I often have bad dreams about exploding frogs. I told you, they’re my worst nightmare. People rushing about, children crying, somehow, although I’m not sure exactly how I caused such a disaster.”

“Did you play a trick on somebody when you were a kid? Something that got nasty?”

“I honestly don’t remember. I try and I try… but nothing.” Patrin sinks down on the trunk with his hands between his knees.

“Maybe you’re trying too hard. Think about this afternoon. That should cheer you up, seeing all those kids getting these very cool toys. These are his toys, the missing Toymaker’s work, aren’t they?” I point to the tiny griffin marks stamped on all of the boxes.

“Yes! They’re really something, aren’t they? This is just a tiny sampling of what we have back home. We’ve collected warehouses full, hundreds of containers all with his mark. Do you think that he’s still alive?” Patrin looked like a small child needing reassurance.

“Anybody smart enough to make all this can easily survive anything that you mess up, Patrin Busby.” I tell him. “Go get some lunch, I can finish up here.”

After Patrin leaves, I copy the rest of the toys, resisting every temptation to play with any of them. When I finally get everything duplicated and stacked in crates I can’t help but check out one toy in particular, a small wooden box with a picture of a laughing sun painted on the top. A little window has an arrow pointing to the opening. I look inside to see a miniature scene of gray mice running around a tiny furnished mouse house. They wear quaint little outfits and seem to be preparing for a large mouse party complete with food and costumes. I become so interested in watching the party that I barely hear the door open. Inside the box the curtain closes and Mook’s standing by the door watching me.

“I sorry, I didn’t hear you,” I say, “Been waiting long?”

“No, miss,” he says, smiling at me. “Mrs. Hogar sent me up to fetch the rest.”

“Well, look at this. Have you ever seen anything like it?” I hold up the curious mouse toy.

“A Sun Box, I haven’t seen one of these in ever so long. There’s not many Toymakers that know how to make them,” he says, sitting next to me.

His face lights up as we watch the little mice pantomime unfold with party guests arriving with tiny baskets of grain and berries.

“Ah, Mr. Nettlebalm seems to be all in a bother over his daughter’s choice of suitors.”

“Which one is he?” I ask, peering into the box.

“He’s the portly fellow in the green waistcoat. His daughter Pansy seems to be quite taken by a certain schoolmaster mouse standing by the window. She is clearly snubbing Branford, the son of Squire Peaseblossom, the young tan fellow by the buffet table. Good for her!”

“Oh look!” I say. “He’s put down the cranberry and he’s going over to talk to them. I wish that I could hear what they were saying.”

“There are words up at the top. See, up there.” Mook points up to a little space at the top where shapes kept flashing.

“Aaugh! I hate not being able to read.” I turn the Sun Box around in my hands and find a small griffin mark etched into the side.

“What happened to your Friend, Mook? You had one, right?” I ask, hoping I’m not getting too personal.

“I…I think, at least I’m pretty sure that I hid him somewhere safe. Yes, that’s what I did! I think that someone is watching him for me.” Mook looks a little confused as he tries to remember something difficult. “My memory is not what it used to be. Too many whacks on the head from Master Kulak, I guess. Thank you by the way for letting me stay here, Augwun too. He may not have said anything, but we’re both very grateful to be able to work here.”

“And Mrs. Hogar would be more grateful if some work actually got done." Augwun ducks his head in the door. "She’s asking for you downstairs. Chimka is bringing the car around.” He stares at the cartons of toys for a moment and says, “You're short sixteen toys. There are 187 children and you've only 171 boxes counting the ones downstairs.”

“I never thought about how many toys we’d need," I say. “Are you sure about how many kids live there?”

“Augie always knows those kinds of things. He’s got an abacus for a brain,” Mook laughs. He picks up a load of copied toys and heads toward the door. “Let him figure out the numbers,” he says behind an armful of boxes. Augwun nods and picks up the Doubler to make more toys.

“How about we make some more of this one?” I suggest, handing him the Sun Box, “It’s the best.”

Augwun takes the toy in his long spidery fingers and turns it, studying it carefully for a moment. He seems a little puzzled by it, so I show him the little window and explain about the mice party going on. He watches intently for a moment and says, “Yes, I suppose that there might be a few children that would be interested in this.”

“Might? Really!” I say, “You don’t think kids will love this?”

“I’m really not an expert, miss,” Augwun replies, handing the box back to me.

“Do you even remember what it’s like to be a kid?” I ask. “Would Patrin mind if I made a copy for myself? Is that allowed?”

“I don’t see why not, that is, if you really want one.” He looks at me like I’m moon crazy. “If you think that this is an engaging toy than I’m sure that it will be very well received.” He uses the Doubler to make me a copy and hands it to me solemnly.

“I can finish up here if you like,” he adds, swiftly making copies of toys and stacking them in piles. I sit lost in watching the mice perform a country waltz. “Hmm? Oh, OK. Thanks,” I manage to say, watching Branford the tan colored mouse try to cut in on Pansy’s schoolmaster beau. I go to put the Sun Box away in my room. When I get back I get the idea that someone has opened and inspected the contents of each and every box.

Chapter Seventeen

It’s mid-afternoon by the time we get all the boxes of toys loaded in to the car.

On the way to the Bunks, I search for evil clowns hiding in the bushes, fingering the little bag around my neck of Jolly’s Bane. Mrs. Hogar promised that it will keep any clowns from coming near us but I don’t know. As we drive along a dirt road I think I see things rustling in the underbrush or glimpse painted faces staring out of farmhouse windows. I can’t be sure if it’s clowns or just my imagination. I glance in the side mirrors from time to time at Augwun sitting stoically in the back seat watching for clowns as well.

We drive through the front gates and the men in the guard booth snap to attention. I wonder if the guards are there to protect the people living inside or to keep them from getting out. A gray metal sign with rusty lettering hangs over the archway, swinging back and forth in the afternoon breeze. I ask Patrin what it says and he say, “Welcome to the Bunks.” I don’t feel welcome. A high wall of faded red and yellow blocks surrounds the buildings. Old sheets of plywood patch holes where parts of the fence have fallen in.

The main courtyard is deserted except for a few toothless old men sitting on crates in the shade. At the sound of our roadster crunching on the gravel driveway, it’s as if a strong wind gusts in. Doors and windows open and close and a stream of children winds down the rickety stairways.

The screen door to the main office squeaks open and the Bunk Warden comes out to greet us. He’s a shrewd young man in an ill-fitting suit who seems a little too eager to please. He exchanges pleasantries with Patrin and shakes hands with everyone, even with Augwun and Mook, though I notice that he wipes his hands on his pants after he does. Patrin gives him a fine toy merry-go-round with little owls and storks carved in it. The Bunk Warden is beside himself with gratitude and offers to show us around but Patrin shakes his head.

“No, thank you, I don’t want to take up any more of your time.” Patrin pumps the Bunk Warden’s hand enthusiastically. “You’ve been more than helpful and I’m sure that the children here can help us as well. You see, we’re doing research on some of these inventions and want to distribute a few things in exchange for being able to study the effects of toys on overall health. So with that in mind, let us continue in our work, shall we?” By this time our shiny blue car is surrounded in a sea of grubby children. They all seem to know Mook and Augwun. They swirl around them pulling on their jackets and holding their hands.

“You sure are popular,” I yell to Mook over the chatter of little voices. He looks embarrassed but pleased with all the attention. He nods and stoops down to talk with a group of youthful admirers.

“These kids deserve better than this dump,” I think, looking over the bleak housing, the peeling paint and the boarded windows.

Patrin tells the children to line up and calls them forward, taking great delight in selecting a present for each one. Soon the courtyard transforms with the sound of children laughing and scurrying about. I chase a ball between two buildings and see a young girl with long dark hair peaking out a window. She ducks back in behind the tattered curtain in a flash. I grab the ball and go to find Patrin,

“I think I saw a little girl who didn't get a toy,” I tell him. “What’s left?”

Patrin rummages through the trunk and pulls out a doll cottage. Augwun offers to carry it and follows me back to where I’d seen the little girl. An elderly woman with green eyes cracks the door open and stares blankly. She mutters something in a language that I don’t understand. To my surprise, Augwun answers her in the same weird language. It sounds melodic and rough at the same time with throaty sounds that rolled off the words like a cat growling. The old woman gestures for us to come in. She makes a greeting motion by touching the back of her hand to her forehead and Augwun does the same and bows. The woman turns and disappears toward the back of the house.

We walk down a dimly lit hallway with bare cement floors and sleeping nooks off to each side filled with snoring night shift workers. Augwun has to duck down to pass through the low doorways. I feel awkward intruding into somebody’s home but I don’t have much time to think about it because we are soon in the kitchen. The small room is cluttered with laundry in metal tubs and dirty pots on the wood burning stove. The little girl from the window huddles in the shadows under an old table. Her pale green eyes stare out at us, wary like a cat. Augwun puts the package on the floor and crouches down to talk to her. His voice is quiet and calming as he speaks this odd cat language. Soon the little girl is standing next to him pouring her heart out. Between sobs she explains something at length and ends by burying her tearstained face into his shoulder.

Augwun makes a shushing noise as he wraps the crying girl in his long arms and whispers a few words making her look up. Dipping into his jacket pocket he holds both his fists out and she taps on the back of one. He turns it over and slowly opens an empty hand. She taps the other hand and he opens it, but there is nothing. Augwun reaches over and pulls something from behind her ear. She peels his fingers open to reveal a small carved polar bear. It’s smooth, plain wood, yet just the right size to fit nicely in a child’s palm. The girl’s eyes widen as she takes it from him with obvious delight. She pulls another one just like it from her apron pocket and clutched them together in one small fist. Reaching up she pats his rough face and darts off to show the old woman. Augwun touches his forehead with the back of his hand. He gives the old woman the doll cottage with a few more words and turns to go. The little girl runs up to me as we are leaving, pulls me close and kisses my cheek.

When we get outside I ask, “Is that your family?”

“No, miss, I…” Augwun looks back at the door, “I lost my family a long time ago. These folks are Catlanders. I’m a bit rusty with the language; I’m part Catlander on my mother’s side. Mook speaks it much more fluently, being from Catsport. They usually don’t travel this far south.”

“That little girl was really scared about something.”

“She thought that you’d come to take away the bear that I’d given her. I told her that it might be possible to have more than one toy and the dollhouse was a gift from you,” he says. “I started carving animals out of old scraps of wood when the children here didn’t have anything to play with.”

“So you do know toys,” I tell him.

“Hmph?”

“Because out of all these fancy toys she wanted that little polar bear from you more than anything. She really loves you. Do you think Patrin would let you make some toys, in addition to doing all the paperwork?”

Before he can reply, a circle of excited children surrounds us, wanting to show off their new toys, kaleidoscopes, jump ropes, dish sets and sailboats. By the time we finish admiring each one it’s time to go. On the way to the car I see a flash of brightly striped clothing through a hole in the fence. A grease-painted eye looks through a knothole, then disappears. Augwun’s sharp nose twitches as he sniffs the air.

“They are close. Very close,” he says.

“Who’s close?” asks Mook, looking confused.

“Jester Control, the clowns that I told you about,” says Augwun. “They were drawn here by the toys. They hate them and will try to take them away as soon as we are gone.”

“No!” I say, “There must be something we can do to stop them.” I reach under the seat and pulled out the Doubler.

“Will this work on the Jolly’s Bane?” I ask pulling off my amulet from around my neck.

“It’ll work if we make it fun.” Mook takes the Doubler and quickly makes a huge armful of necklaces. He gathers the swarm of children around him.

“We’re going to play a game. ‘Knights and Dragons’ it is called,” he tells them as he passes out the amulets, two to each child. The strong citrusy fragrance of the Jolly’s Bane fills the air as the crowd of children put the little bags of dried leaves in their pockets and around their necks.

“Up in the trees, under the floorboards, the more out of the way the better!” he tells them, excitement building in his voice, “This game,” he pauses and they lean forward to hear what he’s going to say next, “will bring us luck.” The group of older children look at each other with anticipation. They disband and weave their way across the courtyard.

“The rest of you listen closely. Your job is to find and hide the bags again. Each time you find a necklace take a tiny bit of a leaf out and leave it there and hide the bag again in a new spot. Keep track of how many you find and when I come back next week we will see who has found and hidden the most necklaces. Remember to keep one with you at all times. One is to keep and one is to hide. Now go, and good hunting!” The rest of the children nod and scamper away.

“There!” says Mook, “That should take care of them for a while. There must have been thirty pounds of Jolly’s Bane. We should have every inch of this place covered with the stuff by nightfall.”

“I’d be surprised if there is a clown left within twenty miles of here. You’ve given them quite a snootful,” Patrin laughs. But Augwun just shakes his head.

“It may work for a short while. But they’ll find a way to get what they want. Jester Control is not so easily put off, you see.”

“What did Mook mean?” I ask, “The game will bring us luck.” Augwun picks up a rock and pointed the Doubler at it. When he pulled the switch nothing happened.

“He is clever, that one,” he says quietly, with a nod at Mook. “Toy Doublers only work on toys, not on other things like food or clothes. By turning this into a game he was able to replicate all the Jolly’s Bane he needed. Those children think that this is all for fun. The only reason that he was able to copy all those amulets is because he believes that everything is just a game. And a game well played can bring good fortune.”

“And you? What do you think?” I ask as he closes the trunk of the car and turns the big wind-up key for the ride back.

“I believe the stakes are higher than you think, miss,” he says after a moment. He gives the key one last turn and opens the door of the car for me.

Chapter Eighteen

A week goes by without even the tiniest shadow of clowns, and then another and another. The hot summer days fall into a rhythm. Mrs. Hogar decides that I need “improving” so she takes me out on long walks in the morning, lecturing me about “etiquette” and history. From nine in the morning until the afternoon Patrin, Mook and I sit together in the workroom making toys. Augwun creates stacks of meticulous paperwork that soon fill a whole shelf of binders. As we draw, Mook tries to teach me bits of a dozen different languages; Catlander, monkey, ocelot, dragon, brownie, puppy and teddy bear. In the afternoon Mrs. Hogar trains me in something called the War Arts, weapons, kicks and punches. Augwun and I spend our evenings in the library searching through hundreds of volumes for information on clowns. Patrin suggests that I start carrying around Wilber with me everywhere I go to try to animate him, but my little velvet dragon never shows any signs of coming to life.

“Good Afternoon, Miss Halina.” Morna, the red haired girl smiles and looks almost friendly when I answer the door. She’s wearing a grey wool suit in spite of the heat. Prent the dark headed kid stands behind her, fanning his flushed face with a paper fan.

“Hey,” I reply. I’ve just finished training with Mrs. Hogar and I’m dirty and tired, desperately hoping their visit will be short.

“Yes, hello, just grand to see you again. How are you getting along?” Prent offers his hand. I just stare at it. He’s also wearing a grey suit and I wonder how they feel about being so dressed up on a hot day. Prent stretches his neck like prairie dog trying to get a peek inside the house.

“You want something?” I ask, wondering why they are being so nice to me all of a sudden.

“The Council asked us to pay you a visit and see if there was anything that you needed,” Morna says, trying to look official. “Is there anything that we can help you with?” Her mouth forms a perfect white smile, insincerity trickles out the side.

“No.” I reply with an equally fake smile. “Thank you.”

Morna appears flustered and looks at Prent for help. He runs a hand over his shiny hair and says,

“We heard that you were creating some marvelous toys here. Is there any chance of us seeing some of your work?” I felt flattered for a moment until I remembered how mean they had been at the Council Meeting.

“Well gee, let me think about it. Um, no,” I say closing the door. I’m pretty sure that they were there to spy on us. I’ve almost got it closed when Mrs. Hogar swooshes by me carrying a tray of refreshments.

“Mister Patrin is inspecting the factories today but he should be back soon,” she tells them. “You must be thinking that your visitors would like some lemonade on the veranda while you get cleaned up, miss.” I’m thinking this is the last thing on my mind but I’ve learned not to argue with Mrs. Hogar when she wants something.

“Yeah, sure.” I shrug. “Why don’t you guys sit outside and relax for a bit. Have some punch and cookies… outside.” Mrs. Hogar ushers them out onto the porch and gets them settled. When she comes back in I whisper,

“Jeez! I was just getting them to leave and you had to ask them to stay for snacks?”

“What have I been teaching you? Don’t fight; guide them where you want them to go. If you send them away too quickly they will only get suspicious and come back again,” Mrs. Hogar explains calmly. “Now quick, go make yourself presentable and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Please tell me I don’t have to wear one of those suits.”

“Oh no. I would recommend something… unexpected,” Mrs. Hogar says heading toward the kitchen.

Upstairs I stare at the clothes box. Unexpected? Why not? I open the lid and take out a sleeveless short dress, made of green linen, the color of new leaves. I reach in the box again and pulled out a pair of light green sandals to match. I brush the grass clippings out of my hair and slip the dress over her head.

I find Prent and Morna sitting up very straight in wicker chairs on the veranda. Morna balances her briefcase on her lap. They both look hot and uncomfortable. Prent’s eyes widen a bit when he sees me and he stands up immediately.

“Um, hello. Welcome back, Miss Halina.” He says flustered, pulling up a chair for me.

“Hi. Did you get some lemonade?” I ask, pouring myself a glass. “Take off your jackets. It’s super hot today. “ Prent starts to take his jacket off but Morna gives him the stink eye so he stops. We sit like lumps for a while just staring at each other. I’m trying to think of something to say when Mrs. Hogar brings a large wooden disc to the table. It looks like a Chinese checkers game board with intricate wood inlay of cats that wrapped around a six-pointed star. The wood is stained in rich dark shades of green and amber. The drawer pulls are little mouse heads. I open one of the drawers inset into the sides of the disc to find sets of colored marbles.

“Have you ever played this before?” I ask. Morna bites her lips and says,

“Of course, we studied it in school. Students must know the rules for all the major games before they graduate.”

“That’s nice,” I reply. “Is it like playing checkers?”

“The Greylander game?” Morna looks smug and smiles at Prent. “Yes, of course. I wrote my eighth form paper on the history of it. But this is Cat’s Paw Checkers; you will find it a little more sophisticated than your primitive Greylander version. ”

I used to play chess and checkers with Otto all the time. It’s the one board game I don’t suck at so I’m thinking that this might be a level playing field. I open one of the drawers and start setting up the marbles.

“You in?” I ask. Prent and Morna nod and the game begins.

I silently thank Mrs. Hogar for picking this game. Prent wins the first round by one move, but I proceed to rapidly win the next four. I would have won the first game except that the board mechanically shifts every seventh move rearranging the marbles on the board. There is a pattern to the way that the marbles move and it takes me a while to figure out a strategy.

[pic]Patrin’s red windup car zooms up the long driveway and he hops out. After calling for Mook and Augwun to unload some boxes from the trunk, he bounds up the stairs, over the railing and plops down in a chair next to me.

“Hello! Cat’s Paw Checkers? I love this game.”

“Saint Portia’s ghost!” exclaims Mook, putting down a load of toys and staring at the game board.

“I haven’t played this in ever so long. Would it be at all possible if I joined you, miss?” he asks softly, kneeling down beside me. “I mean, I’ll understand if it’s not allowed.” His grey eyes are serious and sad.

“Of course! That’d be great!” I say. “There’s room for six people. Mrs. Hogar, come play with us!”

“Do say yes. Then we can play teams!” Patrin looks at Mrs. Hogar expectantly.

“Me? No,” Mrs. Hogar sharks her head. “Perhaps Augwun would fancy a game.” Morna sits back and crosses her arms. I know the thought of playing with servants will her more uncomfortable than her wool suit, so before she can say anything I run over to where Augwun is unloading the last boxes from the trunk.

“Do you know how to play Catspaw checkers?” I ask. “We need a sixth person.”

“I’m somewhat familiar with the game, miss.” He looks about as enthusiastic as Morna at the idea.

“Look, I’m just asking. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. It’s just that I think that they are here to spy on us or something and it would be good to have a grownup there, you know?”

He looks over at the others laughing over some joke that Patrin is telling and lets out a worried breath.

“I’ll do my best, miss.”

We choose sides by playing a chance game of hand signals called “Rat, Snake, Mongoose, Dog.” It is a lot like “Rock, Paper, Scissors” and so I show them how to play that. We end up with Prent, Patrin and me on one team and Mook, Morna and Augwun on the other. Morna is completely unhappy not to be on the same team with Patrin. Prent explains all the rules at great length to me, and quite a bit of history as well. Patrin offers all kinds of advice to everyone. Augwun whispers something to Mook who just nods, and surveys the playing board like it’s a battlefield. Once the game begins the competition becomes something fierce.

The porch lamps burn brightly in the warm night air. Mrs. Hogar passes around the buttery turnovers, then sits on the railing watching as we move our marbles across the board. Mook and Patrin place their pieces quickly, almost recklessly. Morna chats about her moves, looking to Patrin for approval. I slowly take my turn. Augwun casually moves one of his marbles, his pieces scattered all over the place. Prent’s pieces are grouped together and it looks like he is going to be the winner. Then the board clicks and whirls, shuffling all the marbles. To my surprise Morna’s pieces are all in line to finish first. She beams as she moves her last marker across the board and makes a little face at me. I finish next, then Mook. He moves his last marble and whispers something to Augwun. Prent just barely manages to finish when the board shifts again. The game is down to Patrin and Augwun. Patrin manages to get all but one piece across the board when the board shifts again, knocking his last marble all the way back to the beginning. His eyes grew wide in disbelief as Augwun moves all of his pieces across the finish.

“I won! I won!” Morna claps her hands and pokes at Prent. “Three Toymakers on your team and I won with two kitchen boys. Then again,” she pats my arm, “Clio’s just an assistant so I guess that you had your share of handicaps too. Maybe next time you’ll have better luck. Just kidding, Clio, dear. You played pretty well for a Greylander. Well, I guess we should be going. Thank you for a lovely game, Mister Busby.” She smiles at him as she picks up her briefcase. Prent shakes hands all around and tries to hug me. After they leave and the dishes are put away I find Patrin still sitting at the table staring off into the night sky.

“I can’t believe I lost,” he says.

“What do you mean? Everybody loses sometime.”

“I never have, at least not in a team competition in Cat’s Paw Checkers. I must be losing my touch. I can’t believe I came in last place,” he said again. I pick up the gameboard to put it away and notice a mark on the underside. There’s a small red monkey head embossed into the bottom.

“Hey, this looks like Chimka. Did you invent this game?”

“No. Let me see that.” Patrin turns it over to read the inscription. “Part of it has been worn off. ‘To Mookael the Elder, Day of Fathers from your bothersome son…”

“Perhaps you didn’t win this game because you were playing against the person who invented it. Mrs. Hogar mentioned a ‘Mookael the Elder’ when she met Mook,” I tell him. “Did you ever think that he might be the Toymaker that you are looking for?”

Chapter Nineteen

“Mook, the missing Toymaker? I find that hard to believe. He is too young.” Patrin shakes his head and stares at the maker’s mark on the game board.

“Why do you think that?” I ask.

“We’ve collected thousands of toys that belong to the Toymaker that we are looking for. It’s inconceivable that Mook could have created all of them.”

“Perhaps he had help. Or was a child prodigy. How old were you when you started making toys?”

“Pretty young, three or four. My parents were most upset by it. They didn’t want me to be a Toymaker. I’m the first person that I know of to be a Mender and a Toymaker. I’m not sure what made them change their minds.”

“So if Mook started making toys at age four, say five a day, how old do you think he is? Sixteen?” I scribble the numbers on a scrap of paper. “In twelve years you would easily have over twenty thousand toys. If he made only one a day for twelve years he would have had time to make over four thousand toys.”

“Well, then why is he here in Blocksbury?”

“I don’t know. There could be a million different explanations,” I say. “He came here, got erased or whatever it is you call it, and lost his memory. Have you noticed how he can remember some things and not others? That would explain why you couldn’t remember him from before. Don’t forget, I did see his picture in that book. He was wearing a dark purple suit.”

“What about the Griffin? Why is there a Griffin mark on all the toys that we found?” Patrin asks, pointing to the back of the game, “The maker’s mark on this toy is a Monkey not a Griffin. It could be he has more than one mark. It is done from time to time.

“If he is the Toymaker that we are looking for,” I ask, “then how can we get his memory back?”

“I’m not quite sure,” Patrin says. “Perhaps continuing to make toys will jog his memory. Let’s keep an eye on him and see what happens.”

Before I go back inside I walk down the drive a little ways to clear my head. It’s a cloudless summer night and a thousand stars stretch overhead. Fireflies dance and play tag in the warm air. Through the trees I see the shadow of something moving in the moonlight. As I run back toward the porch there’s a twanging sound and a twack inches from my head. Sticking in the door jam, there’s an arrow with a small bundle tied to the shaft. I pry the arrow out and take it back inside to show to Mrs. Hogar. She cuts open the bundle and unwraps a skinny rag doll made out of sticks and rags tied together with strips of leather. It has a scarecrow’s face painted on it and a few words scrawled across the chest in blood red ink.

“What does it mean?” I ask.

“It’s a warning, or a threat depending on how you want to look at it,” Mrs. Hogar says, “It says ‘Death to the Obedient One.”

“They mean Augwun. I heard the clowns call him that. They said that they would throw him on a bonfire if he didn’t give them a list of all the toys that we made. We have to do something. We can’t let them take him.” I stare at the hideous rag figure in Mrs. Hogar’s hand.

“Don’t trouble your mind, little miss,” Mrs. Hogar replies soothingly. “I’ve become fond of the man too. We may have a few tricks that those evil things haven’t seen yet. A little stone may turn over a great wagon.”

“We should show this to Augwun, maybe?” I say, unsure if we should or not.

“I think that he knows full well what path he has chosen, better than any of us. But he is with friends now. He is not alone. There is strength and comfort in that.” Mrs. Hogar goes to the fireplace and tosses the ugly toy onto the flames. As the doll burns I don’t feel any better.

The next morning we sit down around the big worktable to go over all the toys that we have made that week. Mook made a game with letter tiles that the players used to spell out words, but the board is made out of sand. The wooden tiles sink into sand and change the game. He called it Quicksand and I can hardly wait to play it. I’ve designed a windup cart I named The Lady Buggy. It looks like a giant ladybug that you can ride on with handlebar antennas. I also invented a hide and seek toy that, when thrown, blends into the color of whatever it hits. Although the first time I tried it we searched an hour for the invisible toy before Chimka finally found it by accidentally stepping on it. Patrin helped me make some adjustments on it so that it glows after five minutes, making it easier to find.

“Ok” said Patrin, making notes on the master list of toys, “We need a name for this new invention of Clio’s. Any suggestions?

“It’s like a chameleon,” offered Mook. “How about ‘Clio’s Hide and Seek Chameleon’? Not brilliant or clever I know, but descriptive.”

“That sounds good to me. What’s next? Oh, this… thing I made…” I wind up a comical looking creature that looks like a spiny ball with legs. It has a funny wide mouth and runs around the table chomping the air.

“It’s not quite finished,” I say. “I’m open for suggestions.”

“What if he ate something? He needs a reason to run around with that great gaping mouth of his,” says Mook. We all sit in silence staring at the whimsical creature.

“I’m all out of ideas,” Patrin says finally, slumping back in his chair. The only noise in the room is the clock ticking and the scratch of Augwun’s pen on paper.

“Bubbles,” Augwun says without looking up from the paperwork that he is filling out. “Have it chase bubbles and if the bubbles giggled then that might add a nice touch.” I shoot a look at Patrin, his eyes open wide with surprise. Augwun has never suggested anything before, let alone something so fanciful. Patrin studies the drawing of the toy, his face expressionless for a moment and then the corner of his mouth twitches up.

“Done!” He makes a note on the drawing.

“What if we call it the “Bubble Biter?” I suggest.

“Aces!” says Patrin, “So, what’s next?”

By the end of the day I’ve invented a Unicorn Toss game where the little wind-up unicorns run around and the players throw little gold rings on their horns. I’ve also finished a keyboard made of different kinds of mechanical dogs from a high-pitched Dachshund to a deep voiced Saint Bernard. Each dog howls a different note when its tail is pressed. Patrin made a Flying Fish sled. The front fins are like handlebars and the fins move to propel it over the surface of the water. Mrs. Hogar takes Patrin and Mook down to the lake to try it out before dinner. They are loaded up with a cartload of floating toys and a couple of Dolphin Lifeguards, which grow to be the size of real dolphins. The dolphins swim around and help out anyone who has trouble in the water. The Flying Fish sled works perfectly and through the workshop window I can see even Mrs. Hogar taking a turn at it racing against Mook in a small one-person speedboat and Patrin riding a Sea Horse.

I want to join them at the lake but I need to try something before I go. I find the set of dolls that Patrin showed me the first day I met him. I line them up on the table, the tall man in the white suit, the pretty lady in blue, the boy in red suit and the dark haired girl in green. Then I put Wilber on the table. After checking to make sure Augwun has his back to me and is steadily writing away, I pick up the little stuffed dragon and make him walk across the table and look at all the dolls. Then I put a cookie in a doll dish and pretend to have Wilber eat out of it. I feel pretty ridiculous doing this but Patrin told me if I want to animate the toy dragon then I need to treat him like he’s alive. But the only thing that happens is that I feel completely useless.

“This is stupid!” I say, tossing the stuffed animal across the table and sending the row of dolls scattering across the worktable. I bury my face in my arms and try to figure out what the heck I’m doing wrong. Why isn’t this working?

When I look up I’m surprised to see Wilber placed in front of me. Augwun is sitting across the table and without speaking he places his long fingers over my wrists and holds my hands so that they form a shelter over the toy. I can feel air moving under my palms.

“Breathe,” he tells me. I take a deep breath and let it out. The air under my hands grows warmer and offers more resistance until Wilber slowly yawns and stretches. His green tail twitches and he shakes out his ears. A feeble little chirrup comes out of his mouth, high pitched and happy. His chubby legs wobble a bit as he takes his first tentative steps. He walks over to the dish and nibbles at the cookie with his fuzzy lips. Then he snuggles into a pile of scrap cloth and goes to sleep, his velvet sides moving in and out with every breath. I’ve never seen anything quite so wonderful. When I look up Augwun is back to filling out paperwork.

“What was that?” I ask.

“You need a Friend to help you with your work,” he replies, not looking up from his drawing.

“No, that’s not what I mean. Where did you learn how to do that? Patrin says that making toys come to life is really hard. Even Mook can’t do it; at least I’ve never seen him.”

I pick up one of the forms that Augwun is filling out and to my surprise I can read it. All the details of the Unicorn Toss game are laid out on a page full of intricate, carefully inked diagrams. Looking across the table at the hundreds of complex drawings that Augwun has made, I’m stunned by the hugeness of everything he’s done. I pick up the little wood doll of the man in the white suit and an unexpected thought slips into my head.

“You, you’re the one that Patrin’s looking for, not Mook. You’re the missing Toymaker,” I tell him, looking at him as if for the first time.

“Why would he be looking for me?” he asks.

“I don’t know, something about an accident, an explosion involving frogs. He’s been looking for you for a long times now. He’s really sorry and wants to apologize. What happened? What did they do to you?”

“Nothing I didn’t deserve,” Augwun says.

“I find that kind of hard to believe,” I manage to say.

Augwun runs his hands through his hair, uncertain as to where to begin.

“It’s my own fault,” he says, stumbling to find the right words, “I… I erased myself.”

“But why?”

“Almost three years ago, on the eve of the Queen’s birthday celebration. Patrin was helping me put the finishing touches on a huge display of toys to be given to hundreds of partygoers. He thought it would be funny if some of the frog decorations would spit sparks on the court and add excitement to the festivities. I was rather short with him and told him no. He was only twelve at the time and I should have taken more time to explain how dangerous his idea was. It had taken quite a bit of negotiating with his parents to even let him be there but I had seen his abilities and believed in him. He was born a Mender, you see, of the Royal Family. But his mother, the Princess Atheni, is my sister, so I was able to persuade them to allow him to be my apprentice. ”

“Patrin’s your nephew?” I ask, trying to piece this all together. Augwun nods and continues,

“The next day at the celebration the frogs did explode. Patrin had gone back and changed them when I wasn’t looking. I’m sure he meant it to be a harmless prank. But the Royal Amphitheater was packed to capacity and it causes a panic. No one was seriously harmed, but it would have brought horrible dishonor on the Royal family if Patrin had been found out. So I pleaded guilty to negligence and was sentenced to prison. The Council of Justice wanted me to blame Patrin for the explosion to disgrace his family. They pressured me for days, no food, no sleep, but I wouldn’t give in. Then they brought in my family and threatened to hurt them. So I told the Council that I would confess the next day publically and resign my position. But that night I had Mrs. Hogar smuggle out my family and I erased myself.

“Can’t you undo it? “

“No. To unerase someone is simple; just write their name on their hand and all the books and people’s memories, change back to what they were before. But I can’t remember my own name… I thought I would. I remember everything. Augwun is just what they called me at Jester Control. They numbered me OG1 for Obedience Graduate One ,” he says. “Not that I would go back even if I could, it’s too late for that.”

“It’s not!” I tell him angrily, “People make choices. Do you have any idea what Patrin’s gone through trying to find you? He even said that there was a messenger down here to looking for you, that he’s disappeared and may be dead.”

“Oh, you mean Mook. He’s all right. I think he is swimming in the lake right now.”

“Did you erase him too?”

“I had to hide him fast and there weren’t many options at the time. I didn’t do a very good job of it. I only had a matter of seconds to make it work. It’s been wearing off for over a month now. Jester Control almost found him the first day he came to Blocksbury. They were going to take him. For someone who is as brilliant in game strategy as he is, one would think that he would’ve planned his search a bit better. His full name is Koshka Mookael the Younger. We were friends before, although I can’t imagine that he will be very happy with me when he finds out what I did to him.”

“You are his friend now and you protected him in the only way that you knew how. Mrs. Hogar knows who you are, at least she suspects, I think.”

“She’s known my family for several hundred years. She is one of the Fair Folk, although you might not know it to look at her. She could tell from my handwriting that I at least had some Toymaking experience.”

“Did you take my unicorns or was that Mook?” I ask, remembering the night I came to Quad Hall.

“The unicorns were made by someone dear to me,” Augwun says, “so I took them to study them closer. Sorry if I frightened you, little miss. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Maybe we can figure out what your name is,” I tell him, “There has to be clues. So this is you?’ I hold up the doll in a white suit. Augwun doesn’t answer so I get the other dolls and show them to him.

“Look, this is you and your lady friend. I show him how the man in the white suit and the lady in blue’s hands fit together.

“You said you had a family and you lost them. What did your kids call you? Maybe that will work.”

“I don’t know, I can’t remember,” he says, trying to figure out what I’m asking. “What did you call your father?”

“I called him nothing, I never knew him. He left when I was a baby.” I say, not wanting to go there. The silence piles up like snowdrifts, so I ask,

“How about whatever you called your dad? Father? Pops? Maybe it’s the same name.”

“My father?” he asks, puzzled.

“Yeah, what did you call him when you were really little?” I ask, digging for an answer. Augwun rubs the burn scar on the palm of his hand with his thumb, remembering some deep buried memory.

“Da,” he tells me after a long time. “I think that I called him ‘Da’”

I find a pen and take Augwun’s hand. “Well, a name’s a name. If you called your dad this, it’s possible your kids called you the same name. It’s a long shot but maybe it’ll work.” I write the word, “Da” on his scarred hand.

There was a moment of absolute silence as if all the air had been sucked out of the room, followed by the sound of thousands of books opening and shutting and papers rushing around in an invisible hurricane.

I take “Toymaker’s Quarterly” off the shelf and flip to a picture of a man in a white suit with an impressive looking Griffin sitting next to him. “Sir Wolfren Skye, Royal Toymaker.” Tucked in the pages is a photo of the same man pushing a little girl in a swing. They are laughing and look happy. I stare up at Augwun and down again at the picture. My face turns a deep red as I take the photo and shove the book at him, almost pushing him over.

“You lied to me. I can’t believe that you lied to me!” My words lashed out at him with a fury I didn’t know I felt.

“How could you? You lied to me!” I stammer again. “This little girl is me. Look here in this photo. And this is the park by my old house. You said that you’d never been to my world! Was it fun lying to me like that? You didn’t trust me enough to tell me you knew me?” I spit the words at him and turn to leave when I see the bewildered look on his face.

“Miss Clio, I was… am… your guardian. Please understand, I am trying to keep you safe.”

“Well, you’re doing a crappy job, Mister Skye, or whatever your name is.” I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth, but before I can apologize, Chimka comes in carrying a tray of paint pots.

“Aheeeeee!” Chimka screams and drops the tray, splattering paint everywhere. He ignores the mess and hops across the table to where Mister Skye is standing. With complete backflip, Chimka lands on the tall man’s shoulders and begins pulling his ears chattering loudly.

“Yes! Yes! I know,” Mister Skye answers. “It’s good to see you too. Not to worry, he’ll be right as rockets. Straight away, yes. I promise.” He nods seriously a few more times to the monkey’s jabbering lecture. Chimka leaps to the windowsill and vanishes toward the lake.

In a moment Mrs. Hogar runs into the room, dripping wet and carrying her boots in her hands. She freezes at the door for an instant as she stares at Mister Skye.

“Skyosh!” she cries and rushes to hug him.

“Doma!” He drops to one knee to greet her. “Do you remember me?” She throws her arms around his neck, then looks at him and hugs him again.

“It’s good to see you back to your old self, sir! I thought it was you but I didn’t dare hope. We’ve been searching for so long.”

“Forgive me, Doma. I’ve caused you such trouble.”

“No apology needed, sir. This is indeed a fortunate day!” Mrs. Hogar’s eyes mist up with tears.

“’Twas Miss Clio’s doing. She unerased me.”

“Unerased you? What’s going on?” Mook asks carrying Chimka with Patrin close behind. Mook picks up the photo on the table.

“Say, Augie, this picture looks more like you than anyone has a right to. I don’t understand. Didn’t you used to be the Royal Toymaker? I can’t remember why you never mentioned it before,” Mook says, looking lost.

“Close your eyes for a moment and it will all come clear to you.” Mister Skye takes the pen and writes Mook’s name on his hand. The thundering sound of flapping pages and libraries full of books changing rushes through the room again. Chimka is blown across the table and onto the floor. Mook rubs his eyes with his fists and laughed,

“Well, by the Box of Saint Jacks! Skye, my friend.” He salutes him by touching the back of his hand to his forehead just like I’d had seen the Catlander woman do at the Bunks. Mister Skye solemnly returns the greeting.

Patrin hangs back toward the door, biting his lip and looking very nervous. Mister Skye stretches out his hand, palm up, toward him.

“Forgive me, Patrin, my little nephew,” he said. Patrin just stares at Mister Skye’s hand for a long moment and then shakes it. He looks like he was about to cry and doesn’t speak. They both go out on the veranda and I can see them talking. Patrin’s face is pale as gravestones.

Mook comes over and sits on the table by me.

“Did you figure out that Chimka is my Friend?”

“Sort of, the Cat’s Paw Checkerboard had a little red monkey head embossed on the back. Patrin was really ticked that you beat him.”

“The real feat was placing our pieces so that Miss Morna won the game. But letting her win was the best way of keeping her out of trouble. She was so busy being pleased with herself that she didn’t have time to cause to cause any mischief,” he tells me.

“So Mister Augwun is really Patrin’s uncle?” I ask. “He’s the guy you’ve been looking for?”

“He is indeed,” Mook’s grey eyes shine as he talks, ”Sir Wolfren Skye, Royal Toymaker, the finest and best man I know.”

“He said that he erased himself,” I tell him.

“I imagine it was to protect the Royal family in some way. It must have been important. He lost everything, his family, friends, his home by doing it. I was sent down here to Blocksbury to check on Patrin a few months ago. Jester Control attacked me just as soon as I got here. I was lucky Skye erased me or I would have been taken.”

Over on the table the pile of rags moves. There’s a tiny chirp and a small puff of smoke comes out of Wilber’s mouth, The little dragon sits up and stretches before going back to sleep.

“Your dragon woke up,” Mook says. “This is a good day.”

Chapter Twenty

After dinner I wander into the kitchen to find Mister Skye at the big stone sink, elbow deep in soapy water, finishing up with the dishes. I start to back out.

“You are angry with me, Miss Clio?” he asks, not turning around.

“Wouldn’t you be?” I don’t feel much like talking. My brain is full of too many thoughts.

“Yes, that is understandable,”

“How can you be a Toymaker?” I blurt out. “Toymakers are supposed to be happy and make stuff. You’re never happy and I’ve never seen you make anything.”

Mister Skye dries off his hands and kneels down beside me on the stone floor.

“You’re half right. Believe me, Toymakers are not always happy. Our gift is not necessarily an easy one to live with.”

I’m about to get the nerve to ask why he knows my mom when Mrs. Hogar bustles in with some towels, a comb and a sharp pair of scissors.

“Don’t get up,” she tells me. “If we are returning to the Royal City you’ll need to look presentable.” In a flash of snips she trims my hair and bangs. “Now go start packing. We leave tomorrow at first light.

“I’ll start with the boxes,” Mister Skye says.

“Not just yet,” Mrs. Hogar yanks him down to a chair and wraps a clean towel around his neck. “I won’t have the Royal Toymaker looking like a wild thing. Now sit still.”

“You can’t! You can’t!” I hear a frantic voice say in the entrance hall. Morna is pleading with Patrin. “You can’t leave now. What will the Council say?” I tried to sneak upstairs unnoticed but Morna calls me back.

“Clio, darling! Come and speak some sense into our dear Patrin. He says that he’s leaving us for Saint Ives tomorrow.” She grabs my arm and pulls me over to where they were standing.

“Um, gee, I don’t know.” I fumble for something to say. “I guess it’s time for us to go.”

“You’re going too?” Morna spits the words out. Then I see a plan forming in her mind and her face changes back to pleasant.

“Patrin, you didn’t say that we were all going. Won’t this be a lark? The Royal City, I haven’t been there in ages! Send one of your kitchen boys over in an hour to pick up my things.” Morna says, picking an imaginary piece of lint off of Patrin’s shirt.

“They’re not boys, they’re grown men and my friends and you need to treat them with more respect,” I tell her.

“Oh please,” replies the red haired girl with a sneer, “They work in the kitchen.”

“Yeah! And so what? You are such a snob!” I’m sick of her crap.

“Patrin, perhaps you can explain how things work around here.” Morna appeals to him for help.

“It is not the fine coat that makes the gentleman,” Patrin replies, staring at the block pattern on the floor. Morna bites her lip in frustration and starts to say something when Mook enters the room. Her jaw drops at the sight of him and I get the feeling Morna recognizes Mook now that he had been unerased.

“Shall I start piling the boxes here, sir?” Mook asks cheerfully. “Evening, Miss Morna. Good to see you again,” he adds politely. He stacks a toy box and the Doubler on the table and then goes back upstairs for another load.

“Oh! Oh! Did you see that?” Morna clutches me and looks as if she was about to faint.

“What?” I ask, trying to peel her fingers off my arm, “It’s just Mook.”

“That’s Sir Mookael the Game Master. I heard him lecture once at the Academy. Patrin, surely you must recognize him! He’s a good friend of the Royal Toymaker himself!”

“I bet he gets that all the time,” Patrin says, laughing off her comment. “Well, look how late it is, eight-o-clock already. Better get back to work. Thanks so much for stopping by.” He takes her arm and starts guiding her to the front door.

“Couldn’t I stay and meet Sir Mookael? Please, Prent will be so jealous when he finds out that I saw him. At least let me shake his hand.” She digs her heels in and wouldn’t move. Then her eyes grow very wide and her mouth opens and shut like a fish gasping for air. Mister Skye is standing in the doorway brushing off his shoulders. His hair is cut like Patrin’s, longish on the top and shorter in the back but darker with a bit of grey. For the first time I can see a family resemblance in their sharp noses and cowlicks that flopped their thick hair over in their foreheads.

“Good evening, Miss Morna,” he says to the dumbstruck girl. She can’t speak and her face is flushed as she points at him.

“Do I meet with your approval, Miss Clio?” he asks me.

“You look, um… different.” I give him a nod as he goes upstairs to help Mook with the boxes.

“That was, that was, that was HIM!” Morna finally gasps. She clasps her hand to her mouth to stifle a small squeal and runs the room in panic.

“What’s her problem?” I ask as the stained glass door slams behind Morna’s retreating shadow.

“My uncle is sort of what you might call a celebrity. Think of the most famous person that you can and multiply it times ten and you might have an idea of how well known he is,” Patrin explains. “You’ll see when we get home, and you’ll like Saint Ives. It’s a wonderful place!”

“Whatever,” I say. “I just hope we don’t run into much trouble getting there.”

Chapter Twenty One

The next morning I woke up to see Wilber sitting by my bed, holding a small book. His green velvet tail wags energetically as he hands me the book. I’m happy be to be able to read the title, Practical Clown Essentials.

“Thanks for the book,” I tell him. “Although I doubt I’ll need it. We’re moving to Saint Ives and I’m pretty sure that we’re not going to have any problems with clowns there.” I scratch him behind the ears and tuck the little book in my backpack just in case.

Downstairs everyone is moving stuff like crazy. All the furniture’s covered with white sheets and mountains of boxes are stacked on the veranda. The hall clock strikes six and a line of bathing hippos twirls by with scrub brushes.

“Has anyone seen the Toy Doubler?” Patrin asks, carrying an armful of pencil cases and stuffed pandas. I shake my head as Mrs. Hogar hands me a cup of cocoa and an oatcake.

“Sorry there’s not time for a proper breakfast, miss,” she says. “We’ll leave as soon as Mister Skye gets back from fixing the Fish Car. He should be back any time now. “ I gulp my breakfast and start wrapping the toys I made in tissue paper and putting them in boxes.

“Don’t forget your Lady Buggy,” Mook tells me, so I take it outside to fold it up for traveling.

The garden looks like the last day of school. All Mrs. Hogar’s vegetable beds are trampled and her flower garden is trashed. At first I think maybe a herd of deer has helped themselves to a good breakfast, but then I notice that all the Jolly’s Bane has been torn up. Every last leaf, stem and root is gone. I stand there, trying to figure out what happened when I notice the sound of voices down by the lake and the even softer sound of whimpering. I back up and run into the workroom.

“Mrs. Hogar, something weird is going on in the boathouse,” I say. She rushes outside and I follow.

Mrs. Hogar swings the boathouse door open wide and I immediately wish she hadn’t. Inside two huge clowns are tying ropes around Morna’s wrists. Her face is bruised and puffy from crying. The rainbow haired clowns’ red and blue smiles turn to snarls. One lunges at Mrs. Hogar but she moves into his attack, clotheslining him with her arm. His green and yellow giant shoes flew up into the air as he falls heavily to the floor.

The other clown reaches down to grab me. Remembering one of the punches Mrs. Hogar taught me, I bash him on the nose. He immediately freezes with his eyes open. The other clown swings at Mrs. Hogar with an inflatable baseball bat. She twists his wrist and throws him into the wall. As he wobbles to his feet she backhands him and he falls to the ground paralyzed as well.

“Remind me never to make you angry,” I say as we struggle to untie Morna.

“What are you doing here?” Mrs. Hogar glares at Morna. She sits silent for a moment before bursting into howling tears.

“It wasn’t my fault! She said that it would impress Patrin if we borrowed it and he would take me with him. I didn’t know that she wanted to use it to make clowns!”

“Who told you to take what, you silly child? Get a hold of yourself and tell us what happened,” Mrs. Hogar asks, not long on patience.

“The little white clown, Captain Dolly, said that if I snuck in and borrowed the Doubler thing that she would show me how to make some toys for Patrin. Please don’t tell him. I only wanted him to like me. Then she forced me to copy a roomful of clowns, all night, more and more. It was awful.”

“How many clowns did you make? “ Mrs. Hogar grabs Morna’s arm and shakes her.

“I don’t know,” she manages to whimper, terrified by the look on Mrs. Hogar’s face.

“Hey, Mrs. Hogar, come on,” I say. I’m no fan of Morna’s but she looks like she’s in pretty bad shape. Through a tear in her jacket sleeve, I can see a bunch of burn marks from Dolly’s Buzzer. “Give her a second.” I help her to a bench and ask, “Did you make copies of more than one at a time?”

“Yes, whole lines of them, like an army.”

“And for a long time, say an hour, or more, perhaps five hours? Think back. What time was it when you showed Captain Dolly the Doubler?”

“Late, about two in the morning. She was angry that it took so long for me to get there. Then she turned mean and hit me. She told me to make copies of the clowns or she would have me arrested for stealing. I didn’t want to do it!”

“If she made copies at ten per minute for four hours that would be over two thousand clowns.” I say, adding the numbers up in my head. “Where did they all go?”

Mrs. Hogar pulls Morna to her feet and hauls her back toward the house. “Did you tell anyone that Sir Mookael the Game Master and the Royal Toymaker were here?” Mrs. Hogar asks impatiently. The miserable girl shakes her head.

“Good, at least you did one thing right,” snaps Mrs. Hogar. Patrin and Mook come running to meet us.

“What happened?” Patrin asks.

“Thousands of clowns have invaded Blocksbury,” I say, and Morna bursts into sobbing again. Patrin helps her to the steps and sketches a bandage. He gently wraps it around her arm, mending her burns. He sits back with his fists clenched, trying to hide the pain so I look away.

“We need to get to the Bunks with any Jolly’s Bane we have,” Mook says, “It’s the safest place in Blocksbury.”

“No! We need to tell Mister Skye,” I say, “If they find him they’ll kill him.”

“We’ll stop by on the way, but don’t worry,” Mrs. Hogar says. “He’ll be fine. He’s the Royal Toymaker. Now find your dragon. We don’t have much time.”

I grab Wilber and my backpack. Just as I get to the top of the stairs I hear a window break. The front door smashes open and a swarm of clowns stream in, like ants out of an anthill. Captain Dolly follows behind and goes straight for Patrin, grabbing him by the hair and pulling him to the ground. Off in the workshop I hear Mrs. Hogar yelling and the sound of more glass shattering.

“Run, miss!” Mook shouts at me as he disappears under a sea of bright colors.

I lock myself in my room and climb out the window. Hanging from the windowsill I drop down to the arbor below. It’s covered with wisteria that somewhat cushions my fall. Wilber bumbles down besides me, his stubby wings flapping frantically. I remember what Mister Skye said about clowns not being able to look up and hope it’s true. Across the garden my Lady Buggy is tipped over but appears to be all in one piece. I shimmy down the arbor and run to it. Wilber helps me push the Buggy back upright. I turn the crank and the wings start to flap. As I pull back on the antennas the Buggy takes off. I’m only hovering ten feet off the ground but as the swarm of clowns reaches the backyard they don’t seem to notice me. I don’t wait around to see if that changes and head off toward the airfield.

Wilber clings to my backpack as we zip along. Everywhere below people are running and screaming as masses of clowns ransack the houses one by one, breaking windows and throwing furniture out on the lawns.

The Lady Buggy swooshes over Blocksbury as the clockwork turns. The only thing that I can think of is to find Mister Skye and that somehow he can save us. The streets are deserted as the wind blows swirls of trash and leaves underneath me. I’m making good time zipping in and out through the narrow alleyways. Turning a corner, the airfield stretches out before me and I breath easy for a second.

That is until I see a large circle of clowns surrounding Mister Skye. Another tall figure pours something around the Fish Car. As I fly closer I recognize Kulak the Kitchen Master with a large can of kerosene. I hesitate, unsure of what to do.

“If the Fish Car gets destroyed I could be stuck in Blocksbury forever,” I think, zooming in closer. The Kitchen Master sees me flying toward him and laughs. His hands are covered in a blue sap from pulling up the Jolly’s Bane.

“What a joke,” he says, setting the kerosene can down. The huge man seems amused by me flying to attack him.

“Leave now and I’ll let you, um, leave now.” I know I sound stupid but I’m concentrating on looking for an opening. Kulak is well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and massive arms. He jumps up and tries to grab the Lady Buggy.

“Come here, girly.”

“Don’t tempt me!” I shout back, circling around him trying to put some space between me and the oil soaked asphalt. My heart is pounding hard and I force myself to breathe trying to focus.

Kulak pulls a box of matches out of his pocket. He casually lights one without looking at it and tosses it to the ground. I watch as the wind blows out the flame before hitting the ground. As Kulak reaches for a second match I ram the Buggy into the back of his knees, knocking him over. He hits the ground and the matches scatter everywhere. Lumbering to his feet Kulak lunges at me, enraged. I zip barely out of reach and he crashes hard onto his side. He bellows in pain then struggles to his feet. Before I could get out of the way Kulak shoves me off the Lady Buggy, knocking the wind out of me as I slide across the rough asphalt. The Lady Buggy crashes into a crumpled heap. He tries to backhand me, but I manage to dodge his fist and roll out of the way. Wilber swooshes in and bites Kulak’s pant leg and pulls hard, throwing him off balance. Kulak flips flat on his back and his head hits the pavement with a sickening crack. Further down the runway I hear the sound of rubber horns honking.

“Clio Halina!” Mister Skye’s voice travels over the sound of the horns. “Get out of here! Please!” I can see Mister Skye’s tall figure through the bobbing clown hats and multi-colored hair. His face is calm but his eyes burn with a strange intensity as if he’s fighting a battle in some other place. The clowns swarm around him careful not to get too close. He holds a small bag of Jolly’s Bane in his hand and as he turns around the crowd moves away as if repelled by a strong stream of air. The clowns keep trying to attack him from behind. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of fire darting along the pavement. Fear sucks the air out of my lungs as the circle of clowns close in around Mister Skye, pushing him to the ground.

“Get away from him!” Without thinking I rush toward the ring of clowns and push through with animal-like fury. I break through the ring and started shoving one clown after another. I feel like a thing possessed. They shriek and scatter like birds across the runway. I grab Mister Skye by the hand and help him to his feet.

“We have to GO!” I yell, pulling him with all my strength. He pulls back, looking puzzled.

“Come on!” I point to a group of clowns playing with the matches, laughing and throwing them at each other. Another lit match hits the oil soaked ground and the flames encircle the Fish Car.

Mister Skye lets go of my hand so that I can run faster. We almost make to the edge of the runway when I hear the explosion behind me.

The blast from the Fish Car stings the back of my neck and almost knocks me down but I manage to stay on my feet and keep moving. I glance back at Mister Skye to see if he’s still behind me. He’s stopped to help a terrified family that is running towards the Bunks.

“They say that people are gathering there and that it’s a safe haven,” the frightened woman tells him.

“Here take this. It will protect you.” Mister Skye gives the family his little sack of Jolly’s Bane and we continue back toward Quad Hall.

Halfway back, as we run through the deserted neighborhood, there is the sound of glass breaking and loud laughter. Mister Skye turns and runs towards a tree.

“Hurry!” he says, swinging up on a limb then extending a hand to pull me up. “Keep still until they pass.” Wilber lands on a branch next to me and hides his face. Soon a squad of clowns combs the street, dressed in orange and purple striped jumpsuits labeled Jester Control Sanitation Department. A large group of them stop right underneath us. Slung on their backs they are carrying dozens of children trapped in mesh net bags.

“Where should we take this load of scum?” one of the clowns asks.

“To the Big Tent. Captain Dolly has planned a show for tomorrow night. Should be fun, there’s going to be a toy burning. We’ll show these silly-stupids who’s running the show now.”

Mister Skye covers his mouth with his hand and I can see that he’s trying to decide what to do.

“If we can get back to the Quad Hall,” he whispers. “I want you to escape by water. The lake runs into Grendel’s Sound, which connects to the open sea. It will at least get you away from this place.”

“What about you? I can’t go alone.” I’m overcome with a feeling of helplessness, still watching the mob parade through the streets below.

“You must try, little love,” Mister Skye tells me, “I wish I could go with you but I need to stay here and try to find our friends. So many innocent people are in danger. You must trust me to do my best to rescue those dear to our hearts.” He puts his callused hand on top of mine and grips it tight. “I promise, we can save them. I swear it by all the Cats of Saint Ives.”

After the group of clowns moved further along the block, we climb down the tree and continue toward the lake. As we run along, Mister Skye catches a handful of oak leaves that are blowing through the air and puts them in his pocket. He also picks up a few twigs and bits of wood as we run, never slowing his pace. We manage to escape notice until we get to Quad Hall. Mister Skye ducks down behind a stone bench and motions for me to stay close. I wrap my arms around Wilber and hold him still. An entire unit from Jester Control dressed in black and red uniforms tramples the garden. The ghastly faces of the clowns are painted in stark white with black eyebrows and mouths. Their shaved heads each have one single tuft of red hair sticking up like a horn. The only sound is the swish bamboo canes through the air, striking down flowers and leaves as they search the underbrush. One of the biggest clowns carries a large black bag that contains something alive. The bag thumps and twists so he drops it and gives it a kick. The bag lets out a muffled groan.

“Saint Portia, protect us,” Mister Skye murmurs under his breath. “I’ll need a few minutes to get a boat ready to sail. Then we’ll need to get closer to the water, on the other side of the boathouse.”

“We’ll need a distraction to get even that far.”

Mister Skye grabs a small lump of earth and rapidly works it into an animal shape.

“That part I think I can do.” He tosses the bit of mud toward the clowns. It grows as it soars through the air and turns into a large wolf made out of clay. Mister Skye’s fingers fly as he makes a few more mud animals and releases them along the path. The squad disbands in terror as the snarling shapes run toward them. Wilber flies toward the bag and unties it. He pulls it open and Patrin spills out. He opens his eyes weakly but doesn’t move.

“Come on,” Mister Skye says. “It won’t take long for them to figure out that the wolves are made of mud. Quickly!” Mister Skye throws Patrin over his shoulder and carries him to the boathouse. I bar the door by threading an oar through the curved handles inside. It’s oddly quiet after the loud shouting and destruction of the streets.

Skye pulls a small knife out of his pocket and starts to rapidly carve a small scrap of wood into the shape of a boat. He bores two holes into the top and fixed straight twigs into them. Then he attached the oak leaves from his pocket for sails. He whispers frantically as he works.

“Masthead, boarding ladder, jib coils, rudder, cabin, hatches, foredeck, main sail, galley, berth, water barrel.”

The squeak of big shoes and the honk of rubber horns sound outside the door. A white painted face pokes in the window and says, “Looky! Looky! Our little friends are hiding in here. Want to come out and play?”

I throw a marlinespike at his nose and the clown shuts down. The oar strains as the clowns push at the door. Wilber and I brace for another attack as they slam against the wood in unison. The pounding is like being inside of a giant heartbeat. Mister Skye stands up and leans against the door still mumbling and carving. He reaches over to where I’m holding the door and pulls a few hairs from my head.

“Ow!” I cry. “What was that?” I brace for another jolt from outside.

“I’ve heard that a single hair from the Fairie Queen’s head can save a drowning man. I’m counting on yours to be just as strong.” He ties the strands of hair to the fragile toy boat and hands it to me.

“Miss Clio, I am going to ask for you to do something impossible,” Mister Skye says, serious as a last breath. He takes a small wooden block from his pocket and squeezes it until it’s the size of a piece of confetti. Then he takes my hand and places the tiny square on my thumb, pressing hard. He rubs it until it’s barely visible on my nail.

“Keep it safe,” he says, then he flicks his hand and a small sealed envelope appears out of nowhere. “I need you and Patrin to get this letter to Saint Ives to warn the Queen. Tell her to send aid.”

“What? I can’t do that,” I reply. “I have no idea where that is, or how to get there.”

“You must try. There is always a way.” Mister Skye hands me the envelope and I stuff it into my back pocket. “I’ll hold them off as long as I can.”

I shove Patrin over the windowsill as the oar breaks and the door bursts open. The room fills with clowns, their Jester Control uniforms covered in mud. I jump through the window and help Patrin stagger to the end of the dock.

“Go to Griffinsgate, under the fireplace, Spark, she’ll help you,” Mister Skye yells, struggling to get through the window. “Jump in the water, now!”

I thread my arm through Patrin’s belt and pull him with me over the railing into the lake. The toy boat flies into the air and I feel the rush of cold water and bubbles surround me as we go under. The light of the sun is blocked out by something looming up above as we’re pulled toward the surface. We shoot out of the water and a line swings us down to a deck. A fast moving schooner appears underneath us. I wipe my eyes and see sails the color of oak leaves. A magnificent griffin carved into the bow crests through the waves as the ship speeds away from the shore. I cough up water, and haul myself, dripping and unsteady to the railing. The furious squad of black and red clad clowns has demolished the boathouse and the last thing I see is Mister Skye’s lifeless body being dragged up the hill.

Chapter Twenty Two

Wilber’s head pops up through the hatchway. I wrap a blanket around Patrin and help him get down below. He stumbles onto a bunk and lies down with his face to the wall. I start to help him take off his wet shoes when he says,

“Just leave me alone,” he says without moving. I start to say something but think better of it, and head back on deck.

Grey green leaf colored sails swell in the steady ocean breeze. The massive schooner appears to be self-sailing and not need a crew as we hurtle across the lake. I try to wring the water from my shirt. The sun is starting to burn off the morning haze as Blocksbury shrinks smaller and smaller in the hills behind me.

The wind picks up, pushing us into a wall of dark clouds across the water. Salt spray mists the deck and the air turns bone cold. Wilber brings me a blanket and we sit watching the coastline change as the schooner leaves the river to the open sea. We snuggle together and I fall asleep.

When I wake up a white shroud of fog surrounds the schooner. I walk around the deck, stamping and slapping, trying to get some feeling back in my frozen hands and feet. The boat makes a sharp turn and I can make out two shapes through the mist. Two giant marble griffins stand in the water at the end of a dock, their arched wings forming a shelter over the landing. The boat slowly floats up to the edge and comes to a stop. I go back down below deck to check on Patrin and find him still with his face to the wall.

“Patrin, wake up. We’re here, wherever here is.” I say, shaking his shoulder. He rolls over and his face is grey and his eyes sunk back into his head like a skeleton.

“Dude! What happened to you?” I ask, trying not to panic. “ Captain Dolly, did she poison you or something?’

“No,” Patrin says, “she just talked to me.” I pull him up and put my arm around him. He’s shaking and cold.

“Well, whatever she told you really got inside your head. It’s making you sick.”

“She… she said, thank you for making everything so easy, for bringing the Toy Doubler to Blocksbury, for finding my uncle for her. I can’t believe I was so stupid. They’re going to burn all the toys that I made because they were so worthless that no one would take them for free.”

“That’s a bunch of crap,” I say. “Your toys are awesome. Think about the kids at the bunks, they were so happy to get all those wonderful things. You know Dolly’s poisoning you with words so you won’t fight back.” I feel a drop of ice water fall on my neck. Seawater is seeping in through the cabin walls and puddles around my feet. It’s almost like the boat is starting to dissolve. Patrin shakes his head.

“Look,” I tell him, “if you hadn’t shown up at my school, those clowns would have got me and I’d be dead right now. You can worry about a lot of things in life but being stupid isn’t one of them.” The water is up to my ankles. “Now let’s get out of here before I take that back.” I shove Patrin up the ladder and on the deck. The sails are in tatters and one of the masts has fallen over. I look over the ship’s railing. It’s a four-foot drop and the boat sways in the dark water.

“Hang on,” I say. “We might be going for a swim.” We manage to flop over the side and roll onto the landing. Patrin slumps against one of the pylons, his breathing is ragged and uneven.

“Where is this place?” I ask. A loud splashing noise makes me spin around. The schooner folds up and sinks into the water, collapsing into a shuddering heap.

There’s nowhere to go but up the stone stairway through the haze. It takes forever to get to the top. I half carry Patrin as we crawl up the steps. At the top through the pine trees we find a wooden lodge built low with redwood beams and gray green shingles. Wind chimes hanging from the grey trees make eerie mournful sounds. I lean Patrin against a tree and walk up the gravel path towards the front of the house. The massive door, inset with amber glass squares, swings open easily.

I hear scurrying when I step inside. A few large rabbits scamper out the back then the house is silent. Sunlight filters in the wood paneled room through small mullioned windows. The polished oak floors are covered in worn carpets beautifully faded to soft greens and reds and the air smells like orange oil and cedar. I wander into a great room with a massive fireplace. A griffin motif is carved into the jade green tiles.

“This must be Mister Skye’s house,” I think, remembering what he said, “Griffinsgate, under the fireplace, Spark, she’ll help you.” I take an iron poker and pry at the base of the hearth. A green tile pops up, underneath is a metal box with a curious padlock on it.

I take the box outside to get a better look in the sunlight. Wilber hovers nearby, and points to the lock. He grabs my thumb and places it on the padlock. It slides apart easily and the box pops open. Inside, on a white velvet cushion, sits a shabby stuffed toy. The fur is almost completely worn off in places and the joints are loose. It looks a little like a griffin with boney clockwork wings and jeweled eyes. I put the threadbare toy on a flat rock and place my hands over the faded gold velvet. I try to remember what Mister Skye showed me and breathe deep.

Warm air swirls under my hands. The old toy springs up and twirls in space, growing in size with every spin. Bits of light like hot coals fly out in a swirl of feathers and fire as the animal comes alive. A shimmer of stars covers the ground when the griffin shakes out a pair of magnificent pair of golden bat wings. The creature howls a fierce shriek and a stream of fire shoots up from her beak, dropping cinders with a hiss. The animal lands in front of me, glaring at me with glowing green eyes. Her lion’s tail lashes angrily back and forth.

Wilber zips in front of the giant griffin. He honks a warning and then spits out the tiniest jet of fire. He honks some more and gestures wildly pointing to me and Patrin. The huge griffin sits up and looks me over.

“Hmphff?” She sniffs a puff of smoke out of her beak and reluctantly extends a paw.

“Are you Spark?” I ask, gingerly shaking a sharp claw the size of a butcher’s knife. The griffin nods slowly. “Mister Skye asked me to find you. He said you’d help me get this letter to some Queen person.” I pull the little envelope out of my pocket and hold it up. It’s damp but fortunately the ink isn’t smudged.

The griffin cocks her head to one side and studies the letter with one glowing eye.

“Can you help us? Clowns have captured my friends. Please?”

Without warning Spark slurps the letter out of my hand and takes off into the air, holding it in her beak. She swoops down and grabs Patrin with her claws. With a few flaps of her bat wings she is over the tops of the trees and gone from sight. I stare after them, feeling like the loneliest person in the world, as Wilber takes my hand and leads me back inside.

Chapter Twenty Three

I wander aimlessly around the lodge. There’s a small kitchen and a sparsely furnished dining room. I climb a stairway to an observation room with large windows that look out over the cliffs to the sea. Bronze lanterns with yellow glass give a golden glow over the fine wood paneling and mahogany floors. On an oak writing desk there’s a picture of Patrin with a few other people that I don’t recognize. I’m guessing they might be his family. A few empty frames are piled in a corner. The backs of the frames are missing as if someone removed the pictures in a hurry. A battered violin case lies on a shelf with some folios of sheet music. I open the glass doors to a cabinet containing a collection of oddities, shards of crystal, brightly colored river stones, carved boxes inlaid with pearl, and porcelain cups filled with strange coins. There are only a few funny little toys and windups, most with inscriptions to Mister Skye from the makers. I find it’s odd that there aren’t more toys in the house. One cabinet has a collection of peculiar little pots and baskets. Tucked in the back behind them looking out of place is a tiny painted clay dragon.

“Hey,” I say taking it out and turning the lumpy thing over in my hand. It looks like the work of a kid. “I bet you could tell me a story,” As I’m returning it to the case, I hear a soft rustling noise behind me. A large coffee-colored rabbit wearing a gray blue vest is standing discreetly by the door.

“Greetings, miss,” he whispers.

“Hi, I’m Clio.” I kneel down, extending my hand.

The rabbit shakes it with both paws and says in the same quiet voice, “I am named Hopkins. I speak the words of humans, more or less, not good. The Tall One sends you, yes? You need things. Food? Clothes? You want to sleep?” He twitches his nose and looks at me expectantly.

“Actually, is there a place where I could wash up?” I ask, making a washing motion with my hands. “Water?” Hopkins thinks for a moment and bobs his head up and down.

“Yes! The water room. We had thoughts you might want cleaning. Here! Now!” He turns and hops away. He stops halfway down the hall and thumps a message with his foot. A soft pounding noise replies and he motions to follow. We continued down a spiral staircase to a bathroom built into the rocks. In a few minutes a line of rabbits appear carrying little buckets of hot water that they pour into a big wooden washtub in the corner. Sunk into the rocks was a clear pool of cold water filled by a waterfall that rushes down one wall. The air in the room is hot and full of steam. On a wood bench lay a few homespun towels and a pile of clothing that a grey rabbit called Mrs. Wiggles is smoothing with her paw. The gray housekeeper rabbit whispers instructions to Hopkins, which he translates. It is hard for me to hear because of the sound of the falling water but I finally figured out that Mrs. Wiggles wants to wash my clothes.

“Okay, yes. Thank you,” I tell him. My jeans and shirt reek of oily smoke from the explosion of the Fish Car. Mrs. Wiggles hands me a basket for my dirty things and a bar of pale green soap that smells like lavender and parsley. The rabbits finish filling the tub and close the door behind them.

I skinned my knee and arm up pretty good when I fell off the Lady Buggy and my clothes stick to the new forming scabs. I manage to peel them off and wash away the grit. Once I get cleaned up I inspect the pile of clothing looking for something that‘ll fit. I settle on a blue flannel dress. It’s a bit too big, but soft and comforting somehow. On one of the pockets there’s a tiny unicorn embroidery. When I get back upstairs Hopkins apologizes for the poor fit.

“We have no human girl clothes here. We are sorry. These clothes be good for you?” he asked, nervously pulling on one of his long brown ears.

“Yes, this is fine, thanks,” I tell him. Hopkins shows me back to the great hall and I curl up on the sofa. They bring me cherries and a little earthen bowl of vegetable soup, followed by a small pot of peppermint tea with some cheese crescents and chocolate meringues. The rabbits watch me eat as if all their happiness depended on it so I try a little of everything. After they clear the dishes away, I’m left alone in the big room to wonder if my friends are okay. I try to tell myself that they are still alive; at least they will be until tomorrow night when the toy burning is supposed to take place.

I’m too worried to sleep so I dig into my backpack and find the copy of Practical Clown Essentials. It’s mostly stuff I’ve already learned except a chapter on deviant clowns. It explains that rogue clowns are essentially toys created by Hosmer the Troublemaker long ago and the best way to disengage them was a good sock to the nose. It talks about a place called Circusland created by the Toymaker that replaced Hosmer. Circusland seems like a sort of paradise for toy clowns. There’s a drawing of a tall man in a white suit holding open a rainbow door for happy looking clowns. I read the chapter over three times more.

As I watch the flames in the big fireplace dance and pop, a plan starts to form in my head. I fall asleep with Wilber curled up at my feet.

When I wake up Patrin’s lying on the rug by the fire, wrapped in a gray wool blanket, his sides rising and falling in the breath of deep sleep. I pull myself up on one elbow and study his face in the firelight. Spark is curled up in a large basket by the hearth; dozing with one eye open. The formidable griffin walks over, her claws making a clicking noise on the oak floor. She nudges Patrin with her beak until he sits up and stretches.

“Hey,” I say. “How’re you doing?”

“Better, thank you,” he says. He doesn’t look much better. His face is still grey and his bouncy energy is gone.

“Did you get the letter delivered?”

“Yes, the Queen’s guard should get to Blocksbury tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I say. “That’ll be too late. The clowns are going to burn all the toys tonight. Captain Dolly said she was going to burn Mister Skye too. What about Mook and Mrs. Hogar? We have to help them.”

“But what can we do? Even Spark is no match for two thousand clowns. And they have half the town held hostage.”

“I have an idea that might work,” Patrin and Spark listen intently as I show them the chapter on Circusland and explain my plan.

“If we can get this book to Mister Skye, he can make a door to Circusland and all the clowns will go through. We can wear clown costumes and sneak in. You can mend him.”

Patrin stares at the ceiling for a long time.

“With the ship gone, can we even get back to Blocksbury? I ask.

“I brought a fast car with me,” he says. “We could go over land.”

“Spark, what do you think?” I ask, “Shouldn’t we at least try to save them?”

Spark sits on her haunches and stares at me. She raises a lion’s paw the size of a dinner plate and pats my cheek. Her soft fur smells like candle wax and warm sugar cookies.

“Little daughter,” she rasps in a low growl that sounds like a ship’s hull scraping against rocks, “so like the Woman of the House… brave.”

Chapter Twenty Four

It doesn’t take long to get ready to go. Mrs. Wiggles gives me my clothes back clean and mended. She also gives me a long overcoat of soft blue wool. Wilber packs my backpack with pads of paper and pencils, paints and scissors. Part of my plan is to be able to make things once we get there. I thank the rabbits for their kindness and go sit on the front porch to wait for Spark. The dawn is just starting to warm the horizon and the crisp smell of pine needles and damp earth fill the woods.

Patrin comes out of the lodge wearing a grey duster and goggles. He takes a battered looking farm truck out of his pocket and places it on the ground. Then he pulls on the old toy, expanding it until it can easily seat two people. Half a dozen rabbits in overalls appear with brushes and wrenches. They set to work checking the spoke tires and sweeping out the wooden flatbed. A cracked and faded wolf crest is painted on the faded white side door. Two rabbits run around to the back to wind it up.

“What the heck is this?” I ask.

“I brought a car to drive us back to Saint Ives,” Patrin says, checking under the hood and inspecting the gears. “But today, it’s taking us to Blocksbury.”

“This is your ‘fast car’? How many days will it take to get there?” I ask.

"Days? We should be there in a few hours if all goes right."

"But it's hundreds of miles!" I blurt out and immediately wished I hadn't. Patrin takes a step back, clearly wounded by my disbelief.

"My great-grandfather won the Saint Tortuga races four years in a row in this," he says, pointing to the battered truck. "And it's my favorite!" he adds as if that explained everything.

"Well, okay then." I say, trying to imagine this thing going faster than ten miles an hour.

"You'll see. We'll get to that horrible place soon enough."

Spark lands on the gravel path and climbs into the back of the truck. The wheels sink a little under her weight. She tucks her wings tightly around her body as the rabbits throw a tarp over her and tie it down.

“Who’s going to drive?” I ask, getting a sinking feeling in my gut.

“You drive. I’ll make bandages,” Patrin says, opening the door for me. He sounds tired and defeated. “And I’ll need to rest, there’s a lot of Mending ahead of me.” The bunnies have adjusted the pedals so I can reach them and put a cushion down on the seat to boost me up.

“But, I’ve never driven a car before,” I say as the bunnies push me into the driver’s seat. Patrin and Wilber pile into the passenger’s side.

“Easy,” Hopkins whispers, snapping the seatbelt for me. “Go.” He points to a green pedal. “Stop” he points to a red one. “And turn.” He touches the steering wheel. Go, go!” His bunny nose twitches up showing two front teeth, which I take to be a smile. The bunnies all wave goodbye as I gingerly press the green pedal and the truck starts off down the gravel path.

Mile after mile passes by as I speed down the road. The truck is surprisingly fast. We have to stop every couple of hours to wind up the truck’s engine. After making a pile of bandages, Patrin nods off and sleeps through it all, up hill and down. Wilber does a good job of navigating as we roll through little farm towns with names like “Merry-Go-Round” and “Sandy Town” Finally after hours of driving I see a sign that says “Blocksbury = twelve leagues”

“We’re getting close,” Patrin says.

We stop on the outskirts of town and hide the truck in bushes. Spark shakes out her giant bat wings and stretches as we sit down to draw. First I draw a popcorn wagon and a horse costume for Spark. It fits kind of lumpy and Spark doesn’t seem too happy as I zip up the brown velvet hood around her neck. Patrin makes Wilber a clown costume that he can control from the inside. The legs are stilts and he’s as tall as Patrin when he wears it. For me I design an oversized flowered dress and patchwork pinafore. I draw some greasepaint and smear my face white with a red smile and big eyelashes. I finish off my disguise with red braids.

“So how ‘bout me? Am I styling?” I ask, twirling around and showing my neon yellow bloomers and ladybug spotted leggings. Wilber in his robot clown suit gives me a creaky thumbs up.

“If we weren’t in such a pickle I’d be laughing myself into a stitch right about now,” Patrin actually manages a grin as he hitches up the skinny trousers to his gold and red striped tuxedo. “How do I look?”

“You really want to know?” I’m trying not to bust out laughing at Patrin’s clown makeup. His bright blue hair sticks straight up and his painted eyebrows give him a surprised look.

“Actually, you look kind of awesome.” I put my hand over my mouth to keep from collapsing into nervous giggles again. Going back to Blocksbury seemed like a better idea this morning when we were safe and hundreds of miles away. Now, I’m not so sure. With our big pockets full of pencils, pads of paper and Patrin’s bandages, we climb up on the popcorn wagon and head off.

Chapter Twenty Five

The only thing moving in the deserted streets of Blocksbury is the occasional crow picking at garbage. Calliope music plays off in the distance so we head in that direction. On the airfield, next to the burned out hull of the Fish Car, the clown army has raised a gigantic black and red circus tent, three stories tall. The fields are packed with thousands of clowns milling around and playing carnival games. Spark pulls the wagon backwards with a lurch and I smack the reins, urging her forward.

Jester Control officers sit on bales of hay, drinking something out of a barrel. They block the road and glare at us when we try to pass. One of them staggers over to us.

“What do you want?” he asks. “What’s in the wagon?”

“Special load of popcorn for the Captain,” Patrin says. “So direct us to her tent.”

“How about a free sample?” he says, leaning into me. He smells like stale beer and the red paint on his lips is smeared.

“I can make Captain Dolly wait if you can,” I tell him. “I’m sure she won’t mind.” The clown backs away and waves us through.

We park the popcorn wagon behind a hotdog stand, close to the big tent. Patrin unhooks Spark from the wagon. She shakes her head angrily and smoke seeps out of her mask.

“Keep it together, Spark. Just a little while more,” I tell her. “We need to find Mister Skye okay?”

As we make our way slowly through the crowds we pass a line of brightly painted animal wagons. One of them contains a dozen poodles wearing pastel ruffled collars and tiny cone hats. The smallest one barks urgently at us as we pass and Patrin stops. He barks a few times back.

“Wait,” Patrin says. “They’re asking for our help. He says, um, his name is Bon-bon, son of Truffles, War-king of the eaters of flesh.”

“Really?” I ask, skeptically.

“We can’t leave them here,” Patrin says. The other dogs go wild barking and jumping against the walls of the cage. “They say they are War-Poodles. They may be able to help us.”

“Tell them to be quiet. They can come along if they can keep their yaps shut.” I whisper. Patrin barks a few times softly and the dogs all sit down in a row, motionless except for the vibrating of their pom-pommed tails. I unlatch the door and the dogs take off in twelve different directions. So much for being helpful.

A tinny voice over a loudspeaker says, “Hurry, hurry, step right up, the show is about to begin.” The clowns start shoving toward the entrance. Spark and Wilber get lost in the crowd. I grab Patrin’s hand and try to find them as the crowd pushes into the tent.

“Turn around! You’re going the wrong way!” A short stubby clown says in a gravely voice. “The show’s about to start. Hurry or you’ll be late and miss the opening ceremony!” Patrin nods and we blend in with the group. After a few minutes of almost being crushed we are funneled into a large arena. Thousands of clowns fill the bleachers. The noise is deafening as the audience hoots their horns and sings rowdy songs. We manage to grab seats close to the aisle. In the back there’s a special section where hundreds of children sit huddled together. I’m guessing every child in Blocksbury is being forced to attend. In the front row I can see Prent slumps with his arm around Morna. She stares off at the crowds without blinking. A clown orchestra comes out the stage in the center arena and starts tuning their instruments.

On the stage is a big black podium with the Jester Control logo on it, a white circle with a red slash for the mouth and red horn of hair. In front of the stage stretches an open trench filled with burning logs, throwing a wall of smoke and flames into the air. Off to the side are piles of wooden boxes, hundreds of them. I recognize some of the labels. They are all the toys that we made and more.

The band plays a march and the audience quiets down, more or less. A battalion of Jester Control officers comes marching in and forms twelve straight rows. Tall and muscular, they look intimidating in their black and red uniforms. Their red hair stands up like spikes and their white faces scowl at the audience. A murmur of fear rolls through the crowd. Frightened whispers replace the rowdy merrymaking as Captain Dolly enters the ring. Her white hair and face are a stark contrast to her skin-tight black uniform with blood red epaulets. A small roll of white rubbery fat spills over the stretched waistband of her pants. Red and white striped knee socks squeeze her legs like sausage casings. She pauses for a moment to check her rainbow colored teeth. After picking a piece of popcorn out of her mouth and flicking it on the floor she slowly climbs the stairs to the podium.

A velvet-covered cage lowers from the ceiling and dangles high above the ground. As the covers are pulled away under the bright lights I feel Patrin squeeze my hand. Inside the cage Mook sits cradling Mrs. Hogar in his arms. Chimka huddles next to them looking miserable.

As the cage slowly gets closer to the ground, some of the clowns throw bottles and cans at it. Mook glares at the crowd and turns to shield Mrs. Hogar.

“Tonight only,” the loudspeaker voice says, “a death match between Mookael the Murderer and Hogar the Hated vs. The Twin Tigers of Farnip.” Clowns roll a bigger open cage into the arena. Inside, two giant tigers lunge at the bars, trying to jump out the top. Their roars sound like screams as they pace back and forth.

“But first, our guest of horror, Clowns of Blocksbury, welcome our very special enemy… Sir Wolfren Skye, the Royal Toymaker himself!”

In the other ring a squad of clowns drag in a giant jack-in-the-box. Six tall clowns on stilts carry long staves with ropes that feed inside the box. A Jester Control officer turns the big crank and a broken version of “Pop Goes The Weasel” plays off key. The box bursts open and the tall clowns pull on their staffs. When they do Mister Skye staggers to his feet controlled by the ropes. They yank the ropes again and he does a grotesque bow to Captain Dolly. They’ve dressed him in a black skullcap and a white Pierrot costume that hangs off his lean frame like a shroud. His head’s been dipped in white paint and splashes of black ink drip from his eyes and mouth.

“Hello!” Dolly says with mock friendliness. “Wave to the audience, puppet.” One of the tall clowns uses his staff to make Mister Skye’s arm wave up and down.

“So glad that you could make it,” Dolly says, grinning wide. “Are you ready to see what happens to the disobedient?” The clowns on stilts jerk the ropes to make Mister Skye nod and do a grotesque dance.

Captain Dolly points to the open trench and Big Happy grabs a stack of the games and throws them into the fire. I look over and tears are running down Patrin’s cheeks. We watch helplessly as the Jester Control officers bring out the toys that we had made and throw them on the blaze. Patrin is not the only one that is crying. Down the silent rows many of the clowns were in tears. All the rowdiness has gone out of the crowd as we watch the destruction. Some of the clowns even try to leave and the Jester Control Squad bullies them back to their seats. Others clutch each other and muffled sobs can be heard all through the arena. A black uniformed clown throws the Jumping Jaguar on top of the fire with a box of Swimming Fish puzzles. Toy after toy disappears in the flames as the fire roars higher and higher.

Captain Dolly rubs her gloved hands over the blaze and says, “Thank you, puppet, for providing us with such warmth.”

“Dolly, you need to stop,” Mister Skye says, his voice dry and raw as sand.

“You going to make me? Put the puppet back in the box.” Captain Dolly gestures and the tall clowns force Mister Skye back into the box and close the lid. Dolly turns and tells Big Happy, “Punch his teeth out. We can’t have him talking and spreading his lies.” Big Happy claps his hands together and the squad pushes the box into the wings.

Captain Dolly takes her place behind the podium. A sly grin splits across her face, as if it’d been slashed ear to ear. She looks across the sea of greasepainted faces and waves to the crowd in triumph.

“My Fellow Clowns! Today we have conquered those who would enslave us. No longer are we the playthings of the Toymasters. Today we are strong! Now we are the ones pulling the strings; no longer are we puppets controlled by our makers. Today we are free! Long have we planned and fought to overthrow the tyrants. I see that some of you are crying but this is no cause for tears. We destroyed these evil toys because they are treacherous. They cause chaos and disorder. No longer will the world be distracted by these wicked pastimes. Do not be weak or you will be crushed as well under our giant shoes of destruction. They deserve everything that they get. We must be ruthless in our efforts to create a better world.” Captain Dolly’s voice echoes across the arena.

“We need to get out,” I whisper to Patrin. He nods grimly.

“I’m ready,” he whispers back.

I drop to my knees and slip down between the bleachers. I motion for Patrin to follow and he manages to squeeze under the seat. It’s strangely quiet as we make our way through the scaffolding to the side exit, picking our way through hot dog wrappers and empty beer cans.

“Where do you think you’re going?” A Jester Control officer stops us at the door.

“My friend ate too many candy apples, we need to find a bathroom fast.” I put my arm around Patrin and give my best “please hurry” face. “You shouldn’t have eaten that twelfth one.” Patrin looks sick enough to be convincing so the clown waves us along toward the outhouses. As soon as the guard turns away, we race toward the side entrance.

As we are turning the corner I hear Big Happy’s high-pitched voice say,

“Careful, we can’t have him bleeding all over everything. Hold his head. One of you sillies find me a rock”

“I’ll lead them away and you mend Mister Skye,” I tell Patrin.

“I only hope that I can,” he says. I sketch frantically and make a green squirt bottle. After giving Patrin a quick hug, I walk around behind the box.

There’s a crowd of Jester Control Officers pinning Mister Skye down as another clown hands Big Happy a sharp rock. He raises the rock to strike. I run up behind him and pull on his suspenders as hard as I can. I’m hoping to pull him over but instead I feel something grab me and the suspenders let go with a snap. I drop the bottle and struggle to get away, my legs kicking.

“What do we have here?” One of the Jester Control Sanitation Clowns holds me by my arms. Big Happy stands up and lumbers over.

“You owe me an apology for all the trouble that you’ve caused, little twerp.” Big Happy steps closer and pinches my cheek hard.

“Let’s play dentist,” he says. “Hold her still while I put a smile on her face.” The other clown lifts me up against his chest and I flail in the air. Big Happy slams the rock toward my mouth but I twist out of the way and the rock hammers into the clown holding me. He squeaks in surprise and drops me to the ground.

“Get back!” I say, grabbing the squirt bottle and aiming it toward them. “This is Clown Freeze and I’m not afraid to use it.” Actually I’m terrified because I have no idea whether it will work or not.

Two clowns lunge at me and I spray them in the face. They freeze with their hands clawing the air like zapped bugs. I spray the other clowns like crazy and they stop moving, still as statues. Big Happy drops the rock and disappears back into the tent.

Mister Skye is lying on his side, his eyes closed, still as stone. With all the white paint on his skin it’s hard to tell if he is even alive. Patrin kneels on the ground next to him, staring at the pile of bandages. He’s managed to get the ropes off Mister Skye’s hands and feet but that’s all.

“Patrin, come on!” I tell him. “Don’t just sit there. Big Happy will be back with more soldiers any second.”

He nods but doesn’t move.

“It’s just that,” he says, “what if I can’t mend him?”

“Well at least try, please. You can do this.”

Patrin looks at me hopeless, frightened.

“Here, let me help you. We’ll do this together.” I hand him a bandage. Patrin takes one end and we wrap it slowly around Mister Skye’s hand.

“It’s not working.” Patrin says. We keep wrapping the bandages and Patrin starts crying, softly at first, and then more and more until great sobs wrack his body. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” Then finally he sits back and gulps air like he’s been underwater for a long time.

Mister Skye opens his eyes.

Chapter Twenty Six

“The letter,” Mister Skye asks Patrin, slowly pulling himself up to his knees, “did you deliver it?”

“Yes, sir,” Patrin answers, “The Queen’s Guard should arrive tomorrow.”

“Miss Clio, what are you doing here?” Mister Skye asks, seeing me for the first time. With his face painted white and black ink dripping around his eyes and mouth he looks like some hell demon. “I sent you to Griffinsgate for safekeeping.”

“I came back to save you,” I tell him, angrily. “I can’t find my mom if you’re dead.”

“Miss Clio has an idea and you weren’t returning our calls.” Patrin butts in. “She found Spark. Please, sir, just listen.”

I explain my plan, sketching a map of inside the big tent.

“Can you do it?” I ask. “Open a door to Circusland? The book said that it’s supposed to be a paradise for clowns and they’d all want to go.”

“It is possible,” Mister Skye replies, “I’ll need a moment to think it through.” He rubs his hands together and trails of blue light drip from his fingers. His face seems to glow as well. Tangible energy radiates from his palms, filling the air with static electricity. The hair on the back of my neck feels prickly. I back away, a little frightened. He stands up and sniffs the air.

“There are children inside. They could be hurt if things got out of hand.”

“How about Patrin and I smuggle the kids out?” I say. “The Jester Control guys guarding them are busy watching Dolly’s speech.” I hold up the bottle of Clown Freeze.

“Go then, “ Mister Skye says, laying his hands on our shoulders, “May the light of the World Maker protect you.” As he does, I feel safe and warm for just a moment.

Patrin and I wind our way to the back of the big tent. We crawl underneath the canvas and hide underneath the bleachers. There in the middle of dropped trash and spilled popcorn we start sketching small bottles of Clown Freeze and Doppledolls.

“Here, start passing these up to the kids in the front row,” I say. “And wait for my signal.” Patrin nods and I start drawing faster than I’ve ever drawn before. When every kid has a Doppledoll, we climb up into the bleachers and take a seat at the front. A solid wall of Jester Control Officers stands at attention with their backs to us, listening to Captain Dolly’s speech. I motion for the kids to raise their squirt bottles and fire. They do and the clowns freeze, forming a barrier between us and the rest of the crowd.

“Tell them to keep them slip out and run as fast as they can to the Bunks,” I whisper. One by one, the kids copy themselves and squeeze between the bleachers then crawl out the back of the tent. Prent forces Morna to move and they drop into the darkness. As the last few kids escape, I look out over the crowd and wonder where Mister Skye is.

“Why are you weeping, my brothers? “ Captain Dolly’s voice over the loudspeaker jars me back to reality. “Some of you have asked me ‘why was this necessary’? I tell you that you should not worry about such trivial things. These toys were evil! These toys were bad! They promote wasted time; time that should be spent on more serious pursuits. No more shall children squander their childhood playing with silly toys with no meaning or purpose! We will not only conquer these Toymakers that make such frivolous things but we will exterminate them! We are working day and night to wipe them out to make our world a safer, happier, more productive place.” The crowd moves uneasily in their seats, as her harsh voice grew sweeter and more persuasive. “This is our Destiny! We will be glad that we made the sacrifices. We will look back on this day with pride! This is the dawn of a new age, a new revolution and we will crush all the filthy timewasters that oppose us!” She raises her arms over the crowd in triumph. “We will have freedom! Our lives will be our own to live as we see fit! We will run the Show forever!”

The band strikes up a stirring fanfare. The rows of Jester Control officers march in formation around the ring. Two clowns holding the ropes lower the cage with Mook and Mrs. Hogar into the tiger cage.

“Look!” Patrin points to Mook gathering Mrs. Hogar in his arms and getting ready to jump.

“We need to help them,” I say.

“No need,” Patrin says, actually smiling. “Watch.”

The clowns in black pull a lever and the bottom of the smaller cage falls open dropping Mook and Mrs. Hogar into the sawdust. The tigers crouch down ready to pounce when Mook stands up and brushes some straw off his clothes. He takes a deep breath and screams loud and fierce. The tigers roar back, then Mook roars again in return.

“Rawr?” one of the tigers says, taken aback.

“Rawrar,” Mook says, nodding. The tigers leap through the air and knock Mook down. They start nuzzling him and licking his face. Mook hops up and scratches them behind the ears.

“What’s happening?” I ask Patrin.

“You know Mook’s from Catsport. He speaks Tiger quite well.”

Mook walks over, reaches through the bars and opens the cage from the outside. The tigers bound out and run around the ring.

“Don’t let them escape,” Captain Dolly chases after them followed by her guard.

As soon as she leaves Mister Skye walks on stage escorted by Spark and twelve small poodles growling and showing tiny sharp teeth. When he takes his place behind the podium he somehow manages to make the white baggy costume look regal. The clowns all immediately rise to their feet. Mister Skye looks over the sea of painted faces and begins to speak.

“Good afternoon, Clownfriends.”

Captain Dolly and the Jester Control clowns rush the stage but before they can reach it, Spark and the poodles run to block their way. Spark flies high into the air then swooshes down, knocking over the soldiers like bowling pins. The little dogs hit the attacking clowns squarely in the nose, making them fall motionless to the ground, pinning Captain Dolly under a big pile of black and red uniforms. The poodles circle around, snarling and yapping. The clowns in the bleachers cheer their approval. Spark lands on the stage, and sits down next to Mister Skye. He pats the griffin’s feathery head and goes on.

“I apologize for not stopping the destruction of all these toys. I’m sorry for the distress that it has caused you. Be assured that they were copies and that the originals are safely in the hands of someone who will care for them. And yet I am saddened that these copies where not treated with more respect.”

The crowd murmurs in agreement. Most of the clowns in the audience are copies made by the Doubler and a wave of concern passes over them as they think about this idea. Skye pauses for a moment and continues.

“Many of you were weeping just now because you know in your hearts that the loss of one toy is a loss felt by all. All toys are important, not just the big ones or the beautiful ones.” A row of short little clowns nod and slap their hands together at these words.

“Each one of you is unique, it is your experiences that make you so. You may look alike but it is the thoughts that you think and things that that you feel that make you special.” A line of twelve identical green haired clowns looked at each other and giggle into their big spotted handkerchiefs.

“But don’t be sad. Captain Dolly was right about one thing; today is a special day, but not because it is a day for fighting and destruction. It is a day for play and fun. Play is not a waste or an evil. It is what gives us strength. Play is what gives us life.”

Mister Skye opens his hand, revealing an assortment of tiny boxes. He tosses them here and there around the arena. As soon as they hit the sawdust, the boxes start to grow and unfold, slowly spinning as they increase in size. A merry-go-round pops out of one of the boxes and a giant slide stretches out from another. Each box unfolds into a carnival ride. Roller coasters and loop-the-loops expand to fill the three rings before their eyes. Food stalls unfold too, filled with good things to eat. Mountains of hot cookies, cakes and pies are stacked on the tables.

“Today you are free to choose where you want to go and who you want to be. I know that you will choose wisely.” Mister Skye bows his head and turns. He makes a sweeping motion with his hands. A huge opening appears in the air and golden light shines out. Calliope music and the smells of caramel and cotton candy waft out into the air. The clowns give a cheer of happiness as they begin streaming into the gardens and playgrounds inside.

The band starts up a lively dance tune and the rows of clowns make their way down to explore the wonderful rides and toys that are scattered around the arena. Captain Dolly manages to extract herself from the pile of fallen clowns and pushes her way through the swarm. The crowds are too much for her and she is swept back towards the center ring.

The noise of crowd rushing past is tremendous. As the clowns run through the doorway to Circusland I wonder if I could be happy there too. The music is so relaxing and the colors soothing. I find myself leaving my seat and trying to get closer. The food smells so good that I want to try it for myself. I can almost feel the buttery crunch of caramel popcorn in my mouth. As I get closer to the entrance there is a dark ride called “House of Wonders” and I’m curious as to what’s inside. Far behind me I hear a faint voice yelling at me. I ignore it and move along with the crowd. I’m almost to the entrance when someone grabs my wrist.

I turn ready to punch whoever’s stopping me until I see that it is Mook. He’s caught up to me and he’s pulling on my wrist as hard as he can.

“Let me go, I just want to check it out ,” I say, trying to twist away.

“If you go, you can’t come back,” he says, “Come on, miss.” His grey eyes shine and he’s giving me his most winning smile. I can tell he’s trying to use that charm trick on me. I start to give into him then stop.

“There’s nothing for me here,” I say, prying his fingers loose. I can hear the music getting fainter behind me.

“That’s not true, miss,” Mook says. “There are hearts here that love you.” I twist my arm free but as I turn to go,

“Please, stay!” he says, stretching his hand out to me, “You don’t understand. Circusland is paradise for clowns but hellish for humans. Nothing is real there, you’d be lost forever.” Mook looks actually genuine for once. I let him wrap his arms around me and pull me close.

I sink to my knees and cover my ears until last clown dances through the opening and giant tent is empty. The only sound in the arena is distant laughter through the golden sunlight in Circusland. The sound fades away, becoming softer and softer until the arch changes to stone and only a sculpture of happy clowns dancing in a meadow is left.

I get up to see Mister Skye cradling Mrs. Hogar in his arms. He looks down, his face washed with sadness. Patrin stands nearby holding Chimka.

“She fought like all the Cats of Catsburg,” Mook says, going over to stroke the old woman’s hair. “We almost got away, almost.”

Mrs. Hogar’s eyes open and she rubs her head.

“It would take more than a few clowns to do away with me, youngling. I was just resting,” she says, sitting up slowly. “But thank you for the compliment.”

Chapter Twenty Seven

“Has anyone seen Wilber?” I ask, looking around. Patrin shrugs and says.

“He probably got stuck in his robot costume somewhere,”

“I’ll help you look for him, miss.” Mister Skye says, wiping the last of the paint off his face. We search everywhere, the arcade, the midway, the ticket booths, but my little dragon is nowhere to be found. I hear a faint honking. It’s coming from a purple tent with a banner that says “Madame Fortunata ~ Fortunes Told”.

I follow Mister Skye inside and find two long rows of Jester Control clowns standing at attention. At the back of the tent Big Happy waits next to Captain Dolly, fiddling with his bamboo cane. Captain Dolly clutches Wilber, his snout and paws tied tight with balloon animal handcuffs. She's holding a large pair of scissors open at his throat.

“Dolly, you know this is not acceptable,” Mister Skye tells her as if he was talking to a small child.

“Ooh, am I in trouble? What are you going to do to me? Make me stand in the corner? I’m so scared,” she taunts him. I stand as close as I can to Mister Skye and hang on to his sleeve. Wilber thrashes around and Dolly pokes the scissors point into his neck.

“Hey! Knock it off! You’re hurting him!” I cry. The lines of clowns move to grab Mister Skye but he holds a closed hand out and they hesitate. He opens his fist and a small yellow disc appears. He tosses it to the floor and we all stare at it as it grows into a large yellow trunk. Mister Skye opens the lid and sounds of merriment fill the room.

“Get away from it you fools!” Dolly snarls. “Can’t you see this is one of his filthy tricks?” The smell of burnt sugar and melted butter waft into the air along with the sound of faint carousel music.

“You don’t have to stay here,” Mister Skye addresses the soldiers. “You may go now and be free.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Dolly orders. “It’s a trap! Big Happy, give this ingrate a message that he won’t forget.” The lumbering clown walks over to strike Skye with his cane.

“Dolly, let the dragon go, you're trying my patience.” Mister Skye has an edge to his voice I haven’t heard before.

“That’s Captain Dolly to you, Augwun,” giggles Big Happy, flexing his cane in his white gloves. He whips it through the air and it makes a sick whistling sound.

“I wasn’t talking to you, and that is not my name,” replies Mister Skye.

Big Happy raises his cane to strike when Skye flips his bulbous nose with the back of his hand. The huge clown freezes instantly and crashes to the floor.

“I said that I wasn’t talking to you.” Several of the Jester Control clowns dive into the box at these words. “I’m not going to ask you again.” Mister Skye glares at the remaining clowns. “Either you go to Circusland with the promise never to return or I will dismantle each and every one of you. Have I made myself clear?” They blink their white eyelashes and look lost.

“Off with you! Before I change my mind!” Mister Skye tells them. They scramble into the box before Captain Dolly can object.

“I’ll get them out you know!” says Dolly. “And when I do this is what is going to happen!” She takes a big snip out of the velvet of Wilber’s neck. Cotton stuffing pops out and Wilber falls limp in her arms. I go to get him but Mister Skye holds me back.

“Dolly, give me the scissors,” he says. Dolly looks around for a way out, her head twitching back and forth in jerky movements

“No! I won’t! It isn’t fair! I'll never submit to you! Never! You are evil! Evil to the core, all of you Toymakers are!” she screams at him. She lunges at him with the scissors, dropping Wilber to the ground. I pick Wilber up and pull on the balloon handcuffs trying to get him free. When I look up, Mister Skye is holding Dolly by the wrist to keep her from pushing the scissors into his chest. A thin trickle of red stains his white tunic. He twists the sharp instrument away from her and it falls to the ground with a clatter.

“Shhh! It’s going to be all right. Don’t worry, little one.” Mister Skye’s voice is quiet and soothing.

“I won’t go, I won’t! You are a dead man! I’ll kill you!” The white haired clown thrashes around wildly. “Wait! I can get you anything, Candeeze? You know you want it! I can get you boxes of it. You could share it with all your friends!” Dolly bargains frantically. She runs her tongue across her red, green and blue teeth and waits for his reply.

“No, thank you. Dolly, you know it’s time to go.”

“No!” she shrieks. “This is wrong. You tricked me. You cheated! All that time and you could have stopped us and you didn’t. Why?” A thought flashes across the frantic clown’s contorted face. “You didn’t know you could. We got to you. We controlled you. Ha!” Dolly looks at her captor slyly and says, “You could have walked away at anytime and you didn’t. What an idiot. You’re so stupid.”

“You underestimate your powers, Captain,” Mister Skye tells her. He encases her wrists tightly with one hand and touches her greasy cheek with the other. “If it is any small comfort to you, I will hear your voice in my head for years to come. Every human that you ever came in contact with will remember you. Does that please you?” The clown’s eyes glint with triumph.

“Yes, Toymaker, it does. I hope you wake up in the middle of the night in pain. I hope you rot in your misery. You were weak and selfish.” She chuckles to herself.

“Yes I was, and I am sorry.” Mister Skye looks at her sadly. He pats her face with his hand then presses her nose with his thumb. She freezes and he lays her stiff body gently on the floor. I watch in horror as he unscrews her head and pulls out a few parts that he placed in his pocket. He does the same for Big Happy.

I sink to the floor with Wilber in my arms, his head sagging limply across my shoulder.

“She killed him. He’s not moving anymore.” I whisper, clutching Wilber’s soft velvet to my face.

Chapter Twenty Eight

“Let’s have a look. No need for tears. It can’t be bad as all that.” Mister Skye sits cross-legged on the floor next to me and pulls a needle out of his pocket. “I do have some small experience in mending toys you know.”

“But he’s dead! He’s not moving,” I say. Mister Skye produces a small spool of green thread out of nowhere and starts threading the needle.

“He’s not dead. He’s a toy. Toys never die as long as someone loves them. He’ll have no more than an interesting scar to show off.” Mister Skye deftly sews up the cut with tiny stitches, poking the stuffing back into the dragon’s neck as he goes.

“Mister Skye?” I hesitate as I watch his fingers fly with the needle.

“Yes, miss?”

“You know, you’re kind of a badass. I’m sorry that I didn’t believe you, that you could make toys and stuff.”

“Not to worry miss, I didn’t much believe it myself. I thought that I’d lost the gift. But it’s rather like making a bicycle, as you Greylanders say. Once you learn how to make one you never forget.”

“Don’t you mean like riding a bicycle?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never ridden a bicycle, only made them.”

“Really? You should really learn how.”

“I shall put it on my list of things to do,” he says with a small smile. Mister Skye snips the excess thread off with a tiny pair of shears and hands Wilber back to me. “There, you see, right as rainbows. Wake up, you lazy beast. Your mistress wants you.” He ruffles Wilber’s yarn hair good-naturedly and sits back. I feel Wilber’s sides move and watch as one eye pops open and looks at me. He lets out a big yawn and puts one paw to his throat to check the seam that is there. He licks my face with his velvety tongue, grinning cheerfully.

“You fixed him,” I say.

“‘Twas, nothing. He’s your Friend. It’s your belief in him that makes him real.”

“What about these guys?” I point to the headless bodies of Dolly and Big Happy. “What’s going to happen to them?”

“I’ve removed a few of their faulty parts. They’re inanimate. The Toy Guild will probably ask that they be destroyed.” Mister Skye gazes at them sadly and shakes his head. “We can’t have toys running around hurting innocent people. Yet they only wanted what any living thing wants, to be free.”

“Hey, you bleeding?” I point to the growing red stain on Mister Skye’s oversized white shirt.

“Hmm?” He pulls himself out of his thoughts and looks at his chest with interest. “So I am, It’s not very deep. Looks worse than it is.” Mister Skye unbuttons his baggy shirt to inspect the injury. I draw a square of soft cloth and hand it to him. Then I sketch some white tape to make it stick. Mister Skye applies the bandage and stands up.

“Thank you, miss. It feels better already.” He pauses for a moment, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “Actually it feels a lot better.” He peels back the bandage and the stab wound is fading.

“You are remarkable, Miss Clio. It is a rare Toymaker that has your talents. I hope you know that and use them wisely.”

Mister Skye carefully wraps the inanimate forms of the clowns in strips of cloth. Then he constructs two long iron boxes and places the bodies in them. He locks the lids tightly with several padlocks and embosses an official seal on each one reading, “Do not open, under orders of Sir Wolfren Skye, Royal Toymaker.” Mister Skye smacks the seal hard with his open palm and a blue glow incases the boxes.

“Are they asleep?” I ask.

“No, they are shut down. The boxes are sealed to ensure that no one accidentally repairs them or uses their parts for any foul purpose.”

“It’s kind of creepy to think about them locked up in there.”

“Yes, I know, ” answers Mister Skye. He shudders as we leave the boxes behind, glowing blue in the shadows.

Chapter Twenty Nine

The next few weeks are a whirlwind as the town of Blocksbury is put back together. The Queen’s Guard arrives and the whole town gets busy repairing all the damage. Mister Skye is everywhere at once, in Guild meetings, off traveling and supervising the reconstruction. Mook rebuilds the Factory and Patrin completely remodels the Bunks into winding streets of tidy houses and gardens. I’m in charge of creating a school for the children that live there. I go a little crazy on the playground equipment and put in a water park with slides, a swimming pool and a lemonade fountain. I even add a racetrack so kids can learn to drive.

A couple of days ago Mister Skye left real early, wearing in a black suit. Mook said that he had to escort the boxes containing Dolly and Big Happy somewhere. I still haven’t had a chance to ask anyone what is going to happen to me. Am I going back to the Greylands as they call my old home, or am I going to stay here? If I have to go back, what will happen to Wilber? I’m trying not to stress about it, but it’s hard, the not knowing.

“Clio, why aren’t you dressed?” Patrin finds me sitting on the veranda in my pajamas, finishing up the last of the new library design for the school. “Uncle Skye’s back. We’ll leave for Saint Ives as soon as he gets here. You’ll need a Toymaker’s suit, you are to be presented at court.”

Upstairs Wilber is rummaging through my clothes box. He’s laid a beautiful forest green suit on the bed. I’ve never worn anything like it; a pale gray green silk shirt with simple white embroidered edge around the cuffs, pants and jacket made of soft summer-weight linen. Shiny black riding boots sit next to the bed. I tuck my pant legs into the boots and stamp my heels down. When I check out my reflection in the mirror in the corner, everything fits perfectly.

“Hey! I look good! Thanks!”

Wilber looks me up and down. He digs around in the box a little more and pulls out a brimmed hat with a little dragon crest on the hatband.

“Is this you?” I ask, fingering the soft brim of the hat and staring at the silver of the crest. Wilber nods enthusiastically.

At the bottom of the stairs Patrin stands waiting with Mrs. Hogar. He’s holding a food box, she’s carrying a big picnic basket filled with fresh baked goods and they are arguing about what kind of food is better. My vote is for Mrs. Hogar. The warm smell of chocolate croissants and fresh peach turnovers wafts out of her basket. Mook hurries to join us, trying to button his cuffs as he walks. His suit is a dark plum color with little gold cats on the buttons. Chimka fusses and chatters as he buttons up his own matching jacket.

A familiar pocketa-pocketa noise comes in from the street. Through the front door I can see something huge filling the window and there’s a glint of gold scales in the sunlight. We run outside to see a shiny new Fish Car roll to a stop. A white flag with a griffin is flying off the fish tail. The door whooshes open and Mister Skye comes out dressed in a high collared white suit just like the pictures. I almost didn’t recognize him at first because he’s actually smiling. He puts a wide brimmed white hat on as he comes down the stairs.

“Everyone ready? I think that you‘ll like the improvements.”

Inside there are overstuffed chairs for everyone and we sit down to a delicious lunch. Mrs. Hogar asks Mister Skye to say the Words over the food. He thanks us for rescuing him and talks about what a privilege it is to be together as a family. When he claps his hands together little streams of light weave in and out around us where we stand. The ribbons of light connect us with each other and then fall away in a shower of sparks.

“You see,” Patrin whispers to me. “I told you that I knew someone who could say the Words better than me.”

Everyone bursts out talking all at once, sharing all the things we’ve been making. With Mook’s improvements, the new Block factory is a huge success and Patrin’s new housing for the workers is beautiful and clean. Everyone says nice things about my school design. I could get used to feeling like this, to be safe and happy. Spark and Chimka pilot the Fish Car smoothly and before I know it we’ve landed.

Mister Skye releases the door lever and says,

“Mrs. Hogar, Mook, Patrin, if you could go on ahead, I’d like to talk to Miss Clio alone for a moment.” As they leave the Fish Car I hear tremendous cheering.

“I haven’t had a chance to thank you for everything that you’ve done,” Mister Skye says, holding his wide-brimmed hat in his hands. “Your mother will be most proud when she hears how brave you’ve been. But please be patient, it may take a while to find her.” He hands me a creased photo of pretty dark-haired woman holding a little girl that looks like me. “She’s hidden in the Greylands as you were. I have considerable resources trying to locate her.”

“You created Otto, to protect me and get me someplace safe, to my mom, didn’t you?” I ask, trying to piece everything together. Mister Skye nods.

“And you know me?” I ask. “You know my mom?”

“Yes, I know both you very well, little love. But I couldn’t tell anyone that, not even you, for fear you would be used to blackmail me. I was so afraid that you would be hurt because of who I am. I’ve dealt with the Council, as well as received a full pardon from the Queen and backing from the Toy Guild. I’m in a position to keep you safe now.”

“So where are am I going to live?”

“Why, with me of course,” Mister Skye looks at me curiously, “in the Royal Workshop. I’m your guardian, you’re the daughter of my house.”

“Really?” I think about this for a moment. I suppose I should hug him or something but instead I totally lose it and punch him in the arm. “That is… awesome.”

I look at the photo of my mom again. “I wish she could’ve seen all the toys we made before they were burned.” Mrs. Hogar pokes her head back inside the car.

“They’re waiting, sir,” she says.

I follow Mister Skye down the steps into a large parade ground that is packed with people clapping and waving flags. Up ahead there is a covered pavilion and I can see Patrin with a bunch of people that I’m guessing is his family. Mook is surrounded by about a crowd of young women all waiting to talk to him and he looks very contented. Wilber points to me and waves. Sitting in the middle in a fancy gold chair is an old grey-haired lady and I’m betting dollars to dominos that she’s the Queen. The crowd is cheering and yelling.

Mister Skye takes my hand and carefully rubs my thumbnail. He peels off the tiny square and then unfolds it to be a small block. He spins it around in his hands until it grows to be the size of a building block. Then he walks to the front of the pavilion and sets it on the ground. He pulls a tiny watering can from his pocket and a stream of sparkles come glittering out. After a long silence the block pops open. A stem spirals up and square leaves sprout from each new branch. The whole tree keeps growing until it’s over ten feet high and the branches are hung with hundreds of square wooden blocks. Each one is labeled with the name of one of the toys we made. The Jumping Jaguar, my Bubble Biter, the Adventures of Florimel, and the Sun Box are all there.

Mister Skye picks a block off of a branch and tosses it to me. When I peel open the lid one of my animal marbles falls out into my hand. I hold it up and turn for the crowd to see. Inside of the marble is a little dragon flying over a sunlit field.

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