Peter and the Shadow Thieves by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson Page A

conversation, hoping to get them to talk about who, or what, they were watching for, or guarding against. These efforts had been fruitless: the men were polite, but revealed nothing.
    “Oh, Mother…I hate to say it, but I miss Mrs. Bumbrake at times like this. She’s something of a comfort, in spite of herself.”
    “Don’t worry, dear. As soon as her sister is feeling better, she’l be back. A fortnight at most.”
    “I do hate this,” said Mol y.
    “I’d rather you not use that word, dear,” said her mother. “It’s entirely unacceptable.” She continued, “Now, what is it you dislike ?”
    “This feeling of…of waiting ,” said Mol y impatiently.
    “Waiting for what?”
    “For…for something bad to happen.”
    “I’m sure nothing bad is going to happen.”
    “Then why are there men guarding our house?” said Mol y.
    Louise hesitated before she answered, and Mol y saw a flicker of emotion cross her usual y placid face. But al she said was, “We’re perfectly safe, dear. Those men are here because your father wanted to make sure of that.”
    Mol y’s anger rose, and with it her voice. “Mother,” she said, “I’m not a child. I know what kind of people the Others are. I was on the ship with them, remember? I was captured by that awful man Slank. I’ve seen what they’l do to get the starst—”
    Mol y stopped midword as her mother gave her an uncharacteristical y sharp look, fol owed by a barely perceptible nod toward the doorway. Mol y glanced in that direction and saw the maid standing there, just outside the room. She was the newest member of the household staff, a black-haired, rail-thin woman with a narrow face.
    “Yes, Jenna?” asked Louise.
    “Did you need anything else, ma’am?” said the maid.
    “No, Jenna, thank you,” said Louise. “We’re fine.”
    Jenna bowed and left. Louise rose from her chair and crossed to where Mol y was standing. Her expression was stil calm, but her cheeks had a pink tinge that Mol y knew meant she was angry.
    “Mol y,” Louise said, her voice low but firm, “if you don’t wish to be treated like a child, you must not act like one. Yes, the Others are dangerous. Don’t you think I know that? But your father has done—is doing—al that he can to deal with the situation, and to protect us. For our part, we must be brave and do our best to maintain appearances. Above al , we must not discuss these matters— ever —in front of the staff.”
    Mol y, chastened, nodded. “I’m sorry, Mother,” she said. “It’s just that sometimes I—”
    She was interrupted by the resonating bong of the big front-door chime. She and her mother exchanged a Who-could-that-be ? look. Their question was answered a moment later when Jenna reappeared in the doorway and said, “It’s Master George, ma’am. To see Miss Mol y.” Mol y blushed, drawing a smal smile from her mother.
    “Please show him in, Jenna,” said Louise.
    In a moment, the lanky form of George Darling gangled into the room, al arms and legs and ears, a sandy-blond fourteen-year-old who would one day be a tal and handsome man, but who was stil learning to operate his suddenly growing body.
    “H…Hul o, Mrs. Aster,” he stammered to Louise.
    “Hel o, George,” she said.
    “Hul o, Mol y,” George said, his face, particularly his protruding ears, turning the shade of a ripe tomato.
    “Hel o, George,” said Mol y.
    “Mol y, why don’t you entertain George?” said Louise. “I need to speak to Cook about dinner.” With a twinkle in her eyes, she left the room.
    “So,” said George, not quite looking at Mol y. “Hul o.”
    “You said that already,” said Mol y.
    “Ah,” said George. “So I did.”
    George was a bit older than Mol y, but they’d known each other since they were very smal , as their families traveled in the same social circles. George’s home was in Ennismore Gardens, just across the park from Mol y’s. As children they had played together for many happy