more food and water keeping her alive?
"The master wishes to see you," said Miss Weems. The captive Lost Boys watched from their cages as Wren was led away.
A door behind the slave pens opened onto a room no bigger than a cupboard. The guards shoved Wren inside, then crowded in behind her. It was only when Miss Weems pulled a lever on the wall and Wren felt the floor jerk under her that she realized this was an elevator. The elevators of Anchorage had all been out of order for years, but this one was working perfectly: It rose so fast that Wren felt as if her stomach had been left behind.
Having been dragged to the slave pens in a net, Wren did not really understand the layout of the Shkin Corporation building. It was a tower whose lower stories, down in Brighton's depths, held the captive slaves. The middle floors, on the city's second tier, housed a few special cells for luxury goods and the offices of administrators. The higher levels, which poked up through the resort's top tier in a fashionable district called Queen's Park, were the offices of the Corporation's founder, Mr. Nabisco Shkin. This topmost part was as white and beautiful as any iceberg, and gave no hint of the dangerous nine tenths that lurked below. Local people called the tower the Pepperpot.
The elevator stopped on the top floor, and Wren stepped out into a large, circular room. It was beautifully furnished, with plush black draperies, black carpets, and black pictures in golden frames hanging on the black walls. But what made Wren catch her breath was the view from the windows. She was looking out over the rooftops of Brighton: The sun was shining, bright flags were flying, sky yachts and air pedalos were rising from the harbor, and legions of gulls were wheeling and soaring around the chimney pots and far out over the sparkling sea. Spray from the paddle wheels blew across the
city on a gentle breeze, and the sunlight shining through it filled the streets with drifting rainbows.
For a moment Wren almost forgot her misery, her hunger, the pain of her branded hand. Joy bubbled up in her. She was on a raft city, on one of the wonderful cities she had always dreamed about, and it was even more beautiful than she could have hoped.
"The girl, Mr. Shkin," announced Miss Weems with an ingratiating whine in her voice that Wren had not heard before. One of the guards turned Wren around to face a man who sat quietly watching her from a black swivel chair.
Nabisco Shkin sat very still, one leg crossed over the other, one patent leather shoe blinking with reflected light as his foot tapped ever so slightly up and down, his only movement. A dove-gray suit; gray gloves; gray hair; gray eyes; gray face; gray voice. He said, "I am delighted to meet you, my dear," but he didn't sound delighted. Didn't look it either. Didn't look as if he'd know what delight was. He said, "Monica tells me that you claim to come from Anchorage."
"I do!" cried Wren, grateful that someone was prepared to listen to her at last. "My name is Wren Natsworthy, and I was kidnapped--"
"Nobody comes from Anchorage." Shkin stood up and circled her. His eyes were on her all the time. "Anchorage sank years ago, west of Greenland."
"No, it didn't!" blurted Wren. "It--"
Shkin raised one finger and turned to his desk. Turned back with something in his hands. It was the book that Wren had stolen from Miss Freya. She had forgotten all about it until now.
"What is this?" he asked.
"That's the Tin Book," she said. "Just an old curio from the Black Centuries. It's why the Autolycus came to Anchorage. I think it's got something to do with submarines. I helped the Lost Boys steal it, but it all went wrong and Fishcake ended up taking me hostage, and if you could take me back there, sir, I'm sure my mum and dad and Miss Freya would reward you...."
"Anchorage again." Shkin put the book down and studied her. "Why do you persist in this ridiculous story? Anchorage is home to no one but fish. Everyone in
"The master wishes to see you," said Miss Weems. The captive Lost Boys watched from their cages as Wren was led away.
A door behind the slave pens opened onto a room no bigger than a cupboard. The guards shoved Wren inside, then crowded in behind her. It was only when Miss Weems pulled a lever on the wall and Wren felt the floor jerk under her that she realized this was an elevator. The elevators of Anchorage had all been out of order for years, but this one was working perfectly: It rose so fast that Wren felt as if her stomach had been left behind.
Having been dragged to the slave pens in a net, Wren did not really understand the layout of the Shkin Corporation building. It was a tower whose lower stories, down in Brighton's depths, held the captive slaves. The middle floors, on the city's second tier, housed a few special cells for luxury goods and the offices of administrators. The higher levels, which poked up through the resort's top tier in a fashionable district called Queen's Park, were the offices of the Corporation's founder, Mr. Nabisco Shkin. This topmost part was as white and beautiful as any iceberg, and gave no hint of the dangerous nine tenths that lurked below. Local people called the tower the Pepperpot.
The elevator stopped on the top floor, and Wren stepped out into a large, circular room. It was beautifully furnished, with plush black draperies, black carpets, and black pictures in golden frames hanging on the black walls. But what made Wren catch her breath was the view from the windows. She was looking out over the rooftops of Brighton: The sun was shining, bright flags were flying, sky yachts and air pedalos were rising from the harbor, and legions of gulls were wheeling and soaring around the chimney pots and far out over the sparkling sea. Spray from the paddle wheels blew across the
city on a gentle breeze, and the sunlight shining through it filled the streets with drifting rainbows.
For a moment Wren almost forgot her misery, her hunger, the pain of her branded hand. Joy bubbled up in her. She was on a raft city, on one of the wonderful cities she had always dreamed about, and it was even more beautiful than she could have hoped.
"The girl, Mr. Shkin," announced Miss Weems with an ingratiating whine in her voice that Wren had not heard before. One of the guards turned Wren around to face a man who sat quietly watching her from a black swivel chair.
Nabisco Shkin sat very still, one leg crossed over the other, one patent leather shoe blinking with reflected light as his foot tapped ever so slightly up and down, his only movement. A dove-gray suit; gray gloves; gray hair; gray eyes; gray face; gray voice. He said, "I am delighted to meet you, my dear," but he didn't sound delighted. Didn't look it either. Didn't look as if he'd know what delight was. He said, "Monica tells me that you claim to come from Anchorage."
"I do!" cried Wren, grateful that someone was prepared to listen to her at last. "My name is Wren Natsworthy, and I was kidnapped--"
"Nobody comes from Anchorage." Shkin stood up and circled her. His eyes were on her all the time. "Anchorage sank years ago, west of Greenland."
"No, it didn't!" blurted Wren. "It--"
Shkin raised one finger and turned to his desk. Turned back with something in his hands. It was the book that Wren had stolen from Miss Freya. She had forgotten all about it until now.
"What is this?" he asked.
"That's the Tin Book," she said. "Just an old curio from the Black Centuries. It's why the Autolycus came to Anchorage. I think it's got something to do with submarines. I helped the Lost Boys steal it, but it all went wrong and Fishcake ended up taking me hostage, and if you could take me back there, sir, I'm sure my mum and dad and Miss Freya would reward you...."
"Anchorage again." Shkin put the book down and studied her. "Why do you persist in this ridiculous story? Anchorage is home to no one but fish. Everyone in
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