Charlie Bone and the Hidden King (Children of the Red King, Book 5) by Jenny Nimmo
Authors: Jenny Nimmo
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and our vocabularies are all over the place."
Benjamin blinked. "Do you mean dictionaries, Mom?" he asked.
Mrs. Brown stamped her foot. "Take him out!" She stood back and pointed to the stairs. "Now!"
Without another word, the three boys put on their coats and went downstairs to pull on their boots. Billy tucked Rembrandt into his pocket, and Benjamin put Runner Bean on his leash. Then they all went out into the frosty air.
A smart-looking van pulled away from the opposite curb as the boys emerged, but Charlie thought nothing of it at the time. He told the others he couldn't come to the park because he had something urgent to attend to, and with resigned shrugs, his friends accepted that Charlie's problems were more important than a game in the park.
A low buzz of excitement came from the kitchen of number nine. In spite of his impatience to study Bartholomew's photo, Charlie was drawn toward it. He found his family gathered around a large basket of food on the kitchen table. Grandma Bone was sitting by the stove, with her back to them.
"Look, Charlie, Paton's food delivery!" said Maisie in a tone that was almost reverent. "It arrived five minutes ago."
The lid had been opened, and displayed within was a large bottle of champagne, surrounded by a great many packages of exotically labeled food.
"There's a note," said Amy, reaching between a glittering bag of nuts and a jar of glace fruits. She pulled out a gold-edged card and handed it to Uncle Paton.
"Rather florid handwriting," Paton remarked, examining the card.
Set within a border of glittering golden feathers were the words:
Dear Mr. Yewbeam,
An unluckie deathe delayed your Friday Festival. I hope thiscaused you nodistresse. Hereisfare to gladden heartsandsetalle to rite.
"Terrible spelling," Charlie observed. "I could do better than that in my second year."
"Aren't we the cleversticks?" said Grandma Bone, without bothering even to look over her shoulder.
"Oh, look, king prawns!" said Maisie. "They're still frozen. Shall I put them in the freezer, Paton?"
"Mmm." Uncle Paton licked his lips. "Leave them to defrost. I'll have them for lunch."
The basket had arrived at just the right moment for Charlie. While Maisie and his mother were still exclaiming over every carefully wrapped morsel, he crept up to his room, relieved that no one had asked where he had been all morning.
As soon as he had closed his door, he took out the photograph and sat on his bed. He saw a man standing, half turned toward the camera. In spite of the snow that speckled the foreground, Charlie could tell that it was Bartholomew. He was wearing a woolen hat, a padded jacket, and long-laced boots.
Charlie brought the photo closer to his face. The white moth flew across the room and settled on his arm.
"My father took this photo," Charlie told the moth. "He was right there, looking through the viewfinder at Bartholomew Bloor, and 'click, catching him forever, just like that. So if I go in and turn around to look at the camera, I'll see him, won't I? What do you think?"
The moth moved protectively onto his wrist and Charlie smiled at the soft touch of her feet. He was so tense with excitement, his hand began to tremble and the moth moved again, until her shining wings fluttered at the tip of Charlie's forefinger.
"It'll be all right, won't it?" Charlie could already hear the crunch of snow and someone breathing, steadily, into his ear. He always relished the moment when, just after the sounds reached him, he found himself floating into a picture.
"Here goes," he said. His body became weightless and he was engulfed in the thick fog of time. Now began the slow whirling tumble toward Bartholomew's solitary figure - and the man behind the camera.
Laughter. Laughter that was both merry and gentle. Did he recognize the voice? Charlie could hear Bartholomew's gusty chuckles, but the laughter came from another voice.
"Give it up, Lyell. The snow's too thick."
No answer.
"You'll drop the
Benjamin blinked. "Do you mean dictionaries, Mom?" he asked.
Mrs. Brown stamped her foot. "Take him out!" She stood back and pointed to the stairs. "Now!"
Without another word, the three boys put on their coats and went downstairs to pull on their boots. Billy tucked Rembrandt into his pocket, and Benjamin put Runner Bean on his leash. Then they all went out into the frosty air.
A smart-looking van pulled away from the opposite curb as the boys emerged, but Charlie thought nothing of it at the time. He told the others he couldn't come to the park because he had something urgent to attend to, and with resigned shrugs, his friends accepted that Charlie's problems were more important than a game in the park.
A low buzz of excitement came from the kitchen of number nine. In spite of his impatience to study Bartholomew's photo, Charlie was drawn toward it. He found his family gathered around a large basket of food on the kitchen table. Grandma Bone was sitting by the stove, with her back to them.
"Look, Charlie, Paton's food delivery!" said Maisie in a tone that was almost reverent. "It arrived five minutes ago."
The lid had been opened, and displayed within was a large bottle of champagne, surrounded by a great many packages of exotically labeled food.
"There's a note," said Amy, reaching between a glittering bag of nuts and a jar of glace fruits. She pulled out a gold-edged card and handed it to Uncle Paton.
"Rather florid handwriting," Paton remarked, examining the card.
Set within a border of glittering golden feathers were the words:
Dear Mr. Yewbeam,
An unluckie deathe delayed your Friday Festival. I hope thiscaused you nodistresse. Hereisfare to gladden heartsandsetalle to rite.
"Terrible spelling," Charlie observed. "I could do better than that in my second year."
"Aren't we the cleversticks?" said Grandma Bone, without bothering even to look over her shoulder.
"Oh, look, king prawns!" said Maisie. "They're still frozen. Shall I put them in the freezer, Paton?"
"Mmm." Uncle Paton licked his lips. "Leave them to defrost. I'll have them for lunch."
The basket had arrived at just the right moment for Charlie. While Maisie and his mother were still exclaiming over every carefully wrapped morsel, he crept up to his room, relieved that no one had asked where he had been all morning.
As soon as he had closed his door, he took out the photograph and sat on his bed. He saw a man standing, half turned toward the camera. In spite of the snow that speckled the foreground, Charlie could tell that it was Bartholomew. He was wearing a woolen hat, a padded jacket, and long-laced boots.
Charlie brought the photo closer to his face. The white moth flew across the room and settled on his arm.
"My father took this photo," Charlie told the moth. "He was right there, looking through the viewfinder at Bartholomew Bloor, and 'click, catching him forever, just like that. So if I go in and turn around to look at the camera, I'll see him, won't I? What do you think?"
The moth moved protectively onto his wrist and Charlie smiled at the soft touch of her feet. He was so tense with excitement, his hand began to tremble and the moth moved again, until her shining wings fluttered at the tip of Charlie's forefinger.
"It'll be all right, won't it?" Charlie could already hear the crunch of snow and someone breathing, steadily, into his ear. He always relished the moment when, just after the sounds reached him, he found himself floating into a picture.
"Here goes," he said. His body became weightless and he was engulfed in the thick fog of time. Now began the slow whirling tumble toward Bartholomew's solitary figure - and the man behind the camera.
Laughter. Laughter that was both merry and gentle. Did he recognize the voice? Charlie could hear Bartholomew's gusty chuckles, but the laughter came from another voice.
"Give it up, Lyell. The snow's too thick."
No answer.
"You'll drop the
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