Charlie Bone and the Hidden King (Children of the Red King, Book 5) by Jenny Nimmo Page A
Authors: Jenny Nimmo
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camera. Put on your gloves. Your hands will freeze."
No answer. Only the soft laughter.
Charlie wondered if Bartholomew could see his face in the thick mist of snow. When he "traveled" only his face could be seen by the people he "visited," and this could be a little unnerving.
A bitter wind blew the snow into Charlie's eyes. He tried to rub them but his hands were numb with cold. "Bartholomew!" he called.
Bartholomew couldn't hear him. The explorer swung away, calling, "Come on, Lyell. You've got your picture."
Now was the time for Charlie to turn. Now, surely, he would see the man behind the camera.
He turned.
He saw a man in a fur-lined hood. His chin was tucked into the padded collar of his jacket, and the rest of his face was obscured by the camera.
"Lyell!" called Bartholomew. "The light's going. We must get back."
Again the soft laughter and then, "I'm coming."
Whose voice was that? Did Charlie recognize it? The camera was lowered and tucked into a pocket. The hood fell over the man's eyes. He pulled on a pair of gloves, keeping his head lowered.
"Dad!" called Charlie. "Dad!"
The man walked forward. He walked right past Charlie, his head bent against the driving snow.
"Dad!" Charlie reached out a hand and caught a handful of ice.
The man raised his face to the sky, as though he'd heard a voice in the turbulent air. His hood fell back, but Charlie saw only a blur, like a face behind frosted glass. And then it was swallowed in snow.
"Wait!" cried Charlie. When he opened his mouth, tiny particles of ice slipped out. They fell onto the snow with a sinister tinkle. Charlie's chest felt as though it were stuffed with knives. "Where am I going to go?" he croaked.
Back to where you came from, said the voice of reason, but Charlie's brain was so befuddled with cold he couldn't think how to get there.
I'm going to die of cold, he thought. But they say it's a niceway to go. He closed his eyes. It was peaceful in the dark. Soon he would be asleep.
Something bit Charlie's hand. He tried to drag it away, but the something clung on. Now it was stinging his fingers, crawling over his face, tugging his hair, nipping his chin.
"Let me sleep," moaned Charlie. The cold enveloped him in such a comforting blanket.
Come back! The whisper seemed to be made of fine silk, soft and utterly compelling. Charlie felt himself lifted. He rolled through the air, getting warmer and warmer. Warmer, warmer, until . . . He opened his eyes.
He was lying on his bed. The moth hovered above him, its wings a brighter silver than ever before.
"You did that," Charlie said incredulously. "You brought me back."
The moth settled on his hand. It had no voice and yet a link in their understanding enabled Charlie to hear an answer.
I did.
Charlie sat up. "So if you're with me when I travel, I'll always be able to get back?"
To this there was no answer because a scream rose through the house, a scream of such anguish and terror Charlie felt that it had stopped his heart.
It was his mother's voice.
FROZEN MAISIE
Charlie leaped down the stairs, stumbling, tumbling, tripping, and bouncing. The Flames' warning rang in his ears: Watch your mother. He hadn't watched. He had thought her safe inside the house. And how could he watch her everywhere?
It was Amy's scream, but it was Maisie who was in trouble. When Charlie burst into the kitchen, the first thing he saw was Maisie, standing very still in the center of the room. She was facing the door and seemed to be staring straight at Charlie. Her mouth hung open and there was a look of astonishment on her face. Amy and Uncle Paton stood on either side of her. Amy's hands were clasped but Uncle Paton held his out in front of him, as though he didn't quite know where to put them.
"What is it?" cried Charlie. "What happened?"
"We are not - quite sure," said Uncle Paton.
"She's frozen," Amy whimpered. "Maisie's frozen."
Even Grandma Bone had risen from her chair. "What's she done, silly woman? She's
No answer. Only the soft laughter.
Charlie wondered if Bartholomew could see his face in the thick mist of snow. When he "traveled" only his face could be seen by the people he "visited," and this could be a little unnerving.
A bitter wind blew the snow into Charlie's eyes. He tried to rub them but his hands were numb with cold. "Bartholomew!" he called.
Bartholomew couldn't hear him. The explorer swung away, calling, "Come on, Lyell. You've got your picture."
Now was the time for Charlie to turn. Now, surely, he would see the man behind the camera.
He turned.
He saw a man in a fur-lined hood. His chin was tucked into the padded collar of his jacket, and the rest of his face was obscured by the camera.
"Lyell!" called Bartholomew. "The light's going. We must get back."
Again the soft laughter and then, "I'm coming."
Whose voice was that? Did Charlie recognize it? The camera was lowered and tucked into a pocket. The hood fell over the man's eyes. He pulled on a pair of gloves, keeping his head lowered.
"Dad!" called Charlie. "Dad!"
The man walked forward. He walked right past Charlie, his head bent against the driving snow.
"Dad!" Charlie reached out a hand and caught a handful of ice.
The man raised his face to the sky, as though he'd heard a voice in the turbulent air. His hood fell back, but Charlie saw only a blur, like a face behind frosted glass. And then it was swallowed in snow.
"Wait!" cried Charlie. When he opened his mouth, tiny particles of ice slipped out. They fell onto the snow with a sinister tinkle. Charlie's chest felt as though it were stuffed with knives. "Where am I going to go?" he croaked.
Back to where you came from, said the voice of reason, but Charlie's brain was so befuddled with cold he couldn't think how to get there.
I'm going to die of cold, he thought. But they say it's a niceway to go. He closed his eyes. It was peaceful in the dark. Soon he would be asleep.
Something bit Charlie's hand. He tried to drag it away, but the something clung on. Now it was stinging his fingers, crawling over his face, tugging his hair, nipping his chin.
"Let me sleep," moaned Charlie. The cold enveloped him in such a comforting blanket.
Come back! The whisper seemed to be made of fine silk, soft and utterly compelling. Charlie felt himself lifted. He rolled through the air, getting warmer and warmer. Warmer, warmer, until . . . He opened his eyes.
He was lying on his bed. The moth hovered above him, its wings a brighter silver than ever before.
"You did that," Charlie said incredulously. "You brought me back."
The moth settled on his hand. It had no voice and yet a link in their understanding enabled Charlie to hear an answer.
I did.
Charlie sat up. "So if you're with me when I travel, I'll always be able to get back?"
To this there was no answer because a scream rose through the house, a scream of such anguish and terror Charlie felt that it had stopped his heart.
It was his mother's voice.
FROZEN MAISIE
Charlie leaped down the stairs, stumbling, tumbling, tripping, and bouncing. The Flames' warning rang in his ears: Watch your mother. He hadn't watched. He had thought her safe inside the house. And how could he watch her everywhere?
It was Amy's scream, but it was Maisie who was in trouble. When Charlie burst into the kitchen, the first thing he saw was Maisie, standing very still in the center of the room. She was facing the door and seemed to be staring straight at Charlie. Her mouth hung open and there was a look of astonishment on her face. Amy and Uncle Paton stood on either side of her. Amy's hands were clasped but Uncle Paton held his out in front of him, as though he didn't quite know where to put them.
"What is it?" cried Charlie. "What happened?"
"We are not - quite sure," said Uncle Paton.
"She's frozen," Amy whimpered. "Maisie's frozen."
Even Grandma Bone had risen from her chair. "What's she done, silly woman? She's
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