Wildwood (Wildwood Chronicles 1)

The rat paused and spat out a loose bit of food.

“What’s up?”

“What are you chewing on?”

Septimus raised his eyebrows and looked at Curtis sideways, as if the question had never occurred to him. “What I’m chewing on? You mean these old things?”

He was holding a ring of keys.

“Where did you find those?” asked Curtis frantically. They looked incredibly similar to the ones that the warden carried.

The rat held the ring of keys at arm’s length and studied them, as if for the first time. “Gosh,” he said, “I don’t rightly remember.” He paused and thought, his tiny index fin

ger poised at his chin. “Now that you mention it, I think I got them from the warden. Ages ago. He had two sets, see, and I figured he wouldn’t miss ’em.” He nodded and looked down at Curtis. “They feel really good on my teeth.”

Curtis let out a jubilant laugh, which he quickly tried to suppress, looking out into the chamber. “Give them here, Septimus!” he whispered to the rat. Septimus dutifully dropped them down into Curtis’s cage.

“A lot of good it’ll do us,” said Seamus, above. He was watching the proceedings intently. “We get out, sure, but we’ll drop to our deaths.”

Curtis waved him away impatiently. “Hold on,” he said. “I’m thinking.”

He stood up and looked over at the long, spindly ladder that was leaning up against the cavern wall. It was too far to leap—even from a swinging cage. Curtis gauged the distance carefully. To his eye, the closest cage to the ladder—Angus’s—at its farthest-out swing would allow too much of a gap for even the boldest jumper to clear. If there were only some way of lengthening the rope, maximizing the swing . . .

He struck on something. “You guys!” he hissed. “I think I can get us out of here!”

The bandits, forgetting their earlier disagreements, all scrambled to attention.

Prue’s father arrived at the reunion sopping wet. He’d been out in the rain, and his yellow slicker was clinging to his wet skin. In his hand, he carried a stack of papers, matted with water. Made hastily on their home computer, the sheets featured photos of Mac and Prue above supplications for help printed in a large, bold typeface that was now smeared from rainwater.

Like her mother, Prue’s dad had hugged her tightly until she’d been forced to push him away by the nagging pain in her rib. On discovering that his son was still gone, he sat down heavily on his reading chair and held his head in his hands. Prue and her mother looked on helplessly. Finally, her mother spoke.

“I suppose you should tell your father what’s happened,” she said.

And she did. She told him everything, as she’d told her mother moments before. It all spilled out of her in a fountain of regret and sadness. She finished this fantastic monologue, compulsively, by saying, “And now I’m just so tired. So very, very tired.”

When she finished, both parents were completely silent. They gave each other a quick, meaningful glance—Prue, in her state, was unable to read it—before her father stood and, walking toward her, said, “Let’s get you to sleep. You’re exhausted.” And Prue had crushed her face into her father’s chest, feeling his strong arms lift her into a cradled position. Prue’s father walked her upstairs, shushing her like a small child, and she was asleep before she’d reached her bed.

When she woke, it was dark. She felt the familiar softness of her goose-down pillow against her cheek, the cocoon of her down blanket nestled closely around her body. Cracking one eye open, she lifted her head from the pillow to see what time it was. The clock at her bedside read three forty-five a.m. She kicked her legs out, stretching her weary hamstrings, and realized the poultice at her ankle had been removed. In its place, her parents had wrapped a conventional gauze bandage. She turned over, shutting her eyes again, but then realized she was desperately thirsty.

Getting out of bed, she quietly opened the door and walked out into the upstairs hallway, testing the strength of her ankle as she went. She was in her pajamas now, though she had no memory of putting them on. She climbed down the stairs, mindful to avoid the particularly creaky steps—she didn’t want to wake her parents. She couldn’t imagine what emotional turmoil they must be in. However, once she’d made the ground floor, she was surprised to see that a light was still on in the kitchen.

Sitting at the kitchen table was her father. He cradled a glass half full of water and was staring at a small black container, the size of a large jewel box, resting on the table’s surface.

“Hi, Dad,” Prue whispered as her feet hit the cork of the kitchen floor. She squinted at the overhead light.

Her father startled on hearing her approach. He looked up, surprised, his eyes tired and glazed over. It was clear he’d been crying. “Oh, hi, honey!” he said. Initially, it seemed as if he were going to feign normalcy, put a brave face on things, but he soon lapsed back into despair. “Oh, sweetheart,” he moaned, his eyes downcast again.

Prue stepped forward. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice freighted with sadness. “I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know what to say. This whole thing is crazy.” She scooted out one of the four red chairs that surrounded the table and sat down. “I know this whole thing is my fault. If only I’d taken better—”

Prue’s father interrupted her. “No, it’s not your fault, dear. It’s ours.”

She shook her head. “You can’t blame yourself, Dad, that’s crazy!”

Her dad stared at her, his eyes puffy and red. “No, you don’t understand, Prue. It is our fault. It’s always been our fault. All along. We should’ve known.”

Prue’s curiosity was piqued. “Should’ve known . . . what?” She reached over and took a sip from his glass of water.

Her father rubbed his eyes and blinked rapidly. “I guess . . . ,” he began, “it’s best that you know. What with all you’ve been through. We should’ve told you earlier, but it just never seemed like the right time.”