Chapter Nineteen
Number of hours I wandered around the mansion, going nowhere: 6
Number of secret passageways I looked for in the hopes of going somewhere: 27
Number of secret passageways I found that were actually still working: 1 (But it only went to the kitchen.)
Number of cookies I swiped while in the kitchen: 1 (Oh, okay, 3 - but they were really little cookies.)
Number of times I wanted to cry: 9
Number of times I changed my mind: 9
And so I just kept walking - through the library with its rows of books and dying fire, past the elevator that could no longer take me to Sublevel Two. The halls were quiet and dark, as if the mansion itself were sleeping - resting up for a new day. And then I stopped at the Hall of History and stared at the sword of Cava, realizing that for the first time since November, I was actually alone.
Well . . . almost.
"Hello Ms. Morgan." A deep voice cut through the darkness behind me.
Sure it was two in the morning on a school night, but somehow I wasn't surprised when I turned and saw Mr. Smith. Well . . . actually . . . the fact that he was walking around in slippers and one of those old-fashioned nightshirt did surprise me; the fact that he was awake did not.
"I . . ." I started. Somehow, even though I technically wasn't doing anything wrong, I felt like I'd been caught. "I couldn't sleep."
"It's okay, Ms. Morgan." He came to stand beside me in the warm glow of the sword's glass case. Protective beams rippled through the room like waves.
I glanced at my teacher. Maybe it was the hour, or the fact that one of us was wearing a dress (and it wasn't me), but I dared to ask, "So what's your excuse?"
"A seasoned operative should always check his or her perimeter at unexpected times and in unexpected ways." I glanced at Mr. Smith's nightgown - I mean shirt . . . nightshirt. If unexpected was what it took to stay safe, then Mr. Smith was going to be alive forever.
"You will do well to remember that, Cammie."
"Yes, sir." I stared at the sword. "Thank you. It's actually kind of nice . . ."
But then I trailed off. I didn't dare say what I was thinking.
"It okay." There was a knowing wink in Mr. Smith's eye. "You can say it."
I glance down at the floor. "It's nice getting some actual Covert Operatives Advice. I've missed it."
"Mr. Townsend is a fine operative, Cammie."
"Yes, of course, I didn't mean to imply -"
"Ambitious. Proud. Calculating . . . but he is perhaps not a natural for the classroom?"
"No," I agreed. "He'll never be as good as . . ." nut I stopped short, suddenly unable to say the name aloud.
"No, he isn't what you're used to," Mr. Smith agreed.
"I believed him." I don't know where the words came from, but there, in the light of that sword, I simply had to set them free. "Joe Solomon is a liar. And a traitor. And I believed him. Even after London . . . He was talking crazy and I still -"
"Was he crazy, Cammie? Was he really?"
I looked at the most careful spy I'd ever known - stared up into the fifth face I'd seen him wear, and tried to focus on the eyes that hadn't changed since my first day of seventh grade.
"Joe Solomon is many things, Cammie. But crazy? Crazy is the one I don't think I'll ever believe."
Mr. Smith took a step toward the Grand Staircase, the hem of his nightshirt swaying as he moved.
"Do try to get some sleep, Cammie. And good night.
Walking back upstairs that night, I thought of Mr. Smith's words and the way Mr.
Solomon had gripped my hand at the Tower of London and pulled me through the dark.
As I started up the old circular staircase that leads to the junior suites, cool air landed on my arms, and I looked out through the old wavy glass. It reminded me of the cold wind in London, the rippling waves of the Thames as if flowed below.
I remember how lost Mr. Solomon had seemed as he hugged me on the bridge - how very strange and foreign the gesture had felt.
Where do men like Joe Solomon go when they fall? I asked myself. I wondered if there would be any help for him, waiting on the shore.
I took another step, but as I moved up the spiral stairs, something outsides caught my eye.
Something made me stop and stare out across the grounds.
Lights from the mansion's windows streaked through the darkness, pebbling the dark, cloudy sky. And that was when I saw them - the birds that were sweeping out into the open air and then back again, stretching their wings.
For a moment, I stood still, listening to the howling wind and the faint cooing of the birds, and my teacher's words that had been playing over and over in my mind for weeks.
"Follow the pigeons."
Chapter Twenty
"It's there!" My voice was cracking, and the words came in short gasps as if I were out of shape. Out of time. "Mr. Smith was right. He isn't crazy!"
I heard my roommates' footsteps on the stairs behind me, as Bex asked, "Cam what are you talking about?"
"The pigeons!" I'm sure I must have looked like an insane person. And technically, I have been hit on the head a lot, so my roommates had good reason to look at each other as if all that brain trauma was bound to catch up with me eventually.
"Cam," Liz said slowly, her eyes still puffy from sleep. "Where are we going?"
Something was alive in me then. Maybe fear. Maybe dread. But mostly, I think it was hope as I climbed the stairs, higher and higher. When we reached the landing, I felt the cold air that seeped through the seams in the stone, and in that second my heart stopped. I stood, frozen by the cold stone beneath my fingers and a hope that I didn't dare sat, as I traced rough carving of the bird in flight, and pushed.