Before we get to this, let me explain something about myself. I’ve been many things in my life. Student. Spy. Sacrifice. Potted plant. However, at this point, I’m something completely different from all of those—something more frightening than any of them.
I’m a writer.
You may have noticed that I began my story with a quick, snappy scene of danger and tension—but then quickly moved on to a more boring discussion of my childhood. Well, that’s because I wanted to prove something to you: that I am not a nice person.
Would a nice person begin with such an exciting scene, then make you wait almost the entire book to read about it? Would a nice person write a book that exposes the true nature of the world to all of you ignorant Hushlanders, thereby forcing your lives into chaos? Would a nice person write a book that proves that Alcatraz Smedry, the Free Kingdoms’ greatest hero, was just a mean-spirited adolescent?
Of course not.
I awoke grumpily that next morning, annoyed by the sound of someone banging on my downstairs door. I climbed out of bed, then threw on a bathrobe. Though the clock read 10:00 A.M., I was still tired. I had stayed up late, lost in thought. Then Joan and Roy had tried to say good-bye. I hadn’t opened my door to them. Better to get things over without all that gushing.
No, I was not happy to be reawoken at 10:00 A.M.—or, actually, any A.M. I yawned, walking downstairs and pulling open the door, prepared to meet whichever assistant Ms. Fletcher had sent to retrieve me. “Hell—” I said. (I hadn’t intended to swear, but a boisterous voice cut me off before I could get to the “o.”)
“Alcatraz, my boy!” the man at the doorway exclaimed. “Happy Birthday!”
“—o,” I said.
“You shouldn’t swear, my boy!” the man said, pushing his way into the house. He was an older man who was dressed in a sharp black tuxedo and wore a strange pair of red-tinted glasses. He was quite bald save for a small bit of white hair running around the back of his head, and this puffed out in an unkempt fashion. He wore a similarly bushy white mustache, and he smiled quite broadly as he turned to me, his face wrinkled but his eyes alight with excitement.
“Well, my boy,” he said, “how does it feel to be thirteen?”
“The same as it did yesterday,” I said, yawning. “When it was actually my birthday. Ms. Fletcher must have told you the wrong date. I’m not packed yet—you’re going to have to wait.”
I tiredly began to walk toward the stairs.
“Wait,” the old man said. “Your birthday was … yesterday?”
I nodded. I’d never met the man before, but Ms. Fletcher had several assistants. I didn’t know them all.
“Rumbling Rawns!” the man exclaimed. “I’m late!”
“No,” I said, climbing the stairs. “Actually, you’re early. As I said, you’ll need to wait.”
The old man rushed up the stairs behind me.
I turned, frowning. “You can wait downstairs.”
“Quickly, boy!” the old man said. “I can’t wait. Soon you’ll be getting a package in the mail, and—”
“Stop. You know about the package?”
“Of course I do, of course I do. Don’t tell me it already came?”
I nodded.
“Blistering Brooks!” the old man exclaimed. “Where, lad? Where is it?”
I frowned. “Did Ms. Fletcher send it?”
“Ms. Fletcher? Never heard of her. Your parents sent that box, my boy!”
He’s never heard of her? I thought, realizing that I’d never verified the man’s identity. Great. I’ve let a lunatic into the house.
“Oh, blast!” the old man said, reaching into his suit pocket and pulling out a pair of yellow-tinted glasses. He quickly exchanged the light red ones for these, then looked around. “There!” he said, rushing up the stairs, pushing past me.
“Hey!” I called, but he didn’t stop. I muttered quietly to myself, following. The old man was surprisingly spry for his age, and he reached the door to my room in just a few heartbeats.
“Is this your room, my boy?” the old man asked. “Lots of footprints leading here. What happened to the doorknob?”
“It fell off. My first night in the house.”
“How odd,” the old man said, pushing the door open. “Now, where’s that box…?”
“Look,” I said, pausing in the doorway. “You have to leave. If you don’t, I’m going to call the police.”
“The police? Why would you do that?”
“Because you’re in my house,” I said. “Well … my ex-house, at least.”
“But you let me in, lad,” the old man pointed out.
I paused. “Well, now I’m telling you to leave.”
“But why? Don’t you recognize me, my boy?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“I’m your grandfather, lad! Grandpa Smedry! Leavenworth Smedry, Oculator Dramatus. Don’t tell me you don’t remember me—I was there when you were born!”
I blinked. Then frowned. Then cocked my head to the side. “You were there…?”
“Yes, yes,” the old man said. “Thirteen years ago! You haven’t seen me since, of course.”
“And I’m supposed to remember you?” I said.
“Well, certainly! We have excellent memories, we Smedrys. Now, about that box…”
Grandfather? The man had to be lying, of course. I don’t even have parents. Why would I have a grandfather?
Now, looking back, I realize that this was a silly thought. Everybody has a grandfather—two of them, actually. Just because you haven’t seen them doesn’t mean they don’t exist. In that way, grandfathers are kind of like kangaroos.
At any rate, I most certainly should have called the police on this elderly intruder. He has been the main source of all my problems ever since. Unfortunately, I didn’t throw him out. Instead, I just watched him put away his yellow-tinted spectacles, retrieving the reddish-tinted ones again. Then he finally spotted the box on my dresser, scribbled-on brown paper still sitting beside it. The old man rushed over eagerly.
Did he send it? I wondered.
He reached into the box, taking out the note with an oddly reverent touch. He read it, smiling fondly, then looked up at me.
“So, where is it?” Grandpa Smedry—or whoever he really was—asked.
“Where is what?”
“The inheritance, lad!”
“In the box,” I said, pointing at the package.
“There isn’t anything in here but the note.”
“What?” I said, walking over. Indeed, the box was empty. The bag of sand was gone.
“What did you do with it?” I asked.
“With what?”
“The bag of sand,” I said.
The old man breathed out in awe. “So, it really came?” he whispered, eyes wide. “There was actually a bag of sand in this box?”
I nodded slowly.
“What color was the sand, lad?”
“Um … sandy?”
“Galloping Gemmells!” he exclaimed. “I’m too late! They must have gotten here before me. Quickly, lad. Who’s been in this room since you received the box?”
“Nobody,” I said. By this point, as you can imagine, I was growing a little frustrated and increasingly confused. Not to mention hungry and still a bit tired. And a little sore from gym class the previous week—but that isn’t exactly all that relevant, is it?
“Nobody?” the old man repeated. “Nobody else has been in this room?”
“Nobody,” I snapped. “Nobody at all.” Except … I frowned. “Except Ms. Fletcher.”
“Who is this Ms. Fletcher you keep mentioning, lad?”
I shrugged. “My caseworker.”
“What does she look like?”