Peter and the Sword of Mercy by Dave Barry, Ridley Pearson Page B

her off in Trumpington Street, near the town center; they arranged to meet there in three hours for the return trip.
    As the wagon rumbled away, Wendy realized she faced a daunting task: the University of Cambridge consisted of many colleges, and many more buildings. But again luck was with her, in the form of a young male student walking past.
    “Excuse me,” said Wendy. “I’m trying to find a Mr. Pratt.”
    “Would that be Dr. Theodore Pratt?” the student said.
    “Yes!” said Wendy, now remembering the first name. “Is his office nearby?”
    “Couldn’t be much nearer,” said the student. “He’s a history fellow at Peterhouse. Go right through there; his office is in the second building on your right, third floor.”
    Wendy thanked him and found her way to the brick building. She climbed the stairs to the third floor and found Dr. Pratt’s office. The door was open; inside she saw a stocky man with a genial round face reading a book. He sat at a desk covered with books, many open; more books—hundreds more—lined the floor-to-ceiling shelves covering two walls. Still more books were stacked in piles on the floor and on two old overstuffed chairs.
    Wendy tapped on the door and said, “Dr. Pratt?”
    “Yes?” said the man, looking up from his book. When he saw Wendy, he gasped.
    “Young lady, forgive me for staring,” he said. “But you look exactly like a girl I used to know.”
    “Molly Aster Darling,” said Wendy. “I’m her daughter.”
    With a roar of delight, he rose from his desk, knocking several books to the floor, and lumbered over to Wendy. He started to hug her, but realizing that was a bit informal, he settled for vigorously shaking her hand.
    “How delightful!” he said. “Last I saw you, you were just a baby, but here you’ve turned out every bit as beautiful as your mother!”
    “Thank you, Dr. Pratt,” said Wendy, blushing.
    “You must call me Uncle Ted,” he insisted. “It has been a while, but your mother and grandfather will always be family to me. How are they?”
    Wendy said nothing, but the look on her face gave Ted his answer.
    “Oh dear,” he said. “Something’s wrong.”
    Wendy nodded, fighting back tears.
    Ted closed the door and ushered Wendy to one of the overstuffed chairs, sweeping the books to the floor so she could sit. He then did the same with the other chair and sat down.
    “All right,” he said. “Tell me.”
    It took a while; Wendy broke down crying when she talked about the disappearance of her mother, and as the rest of the story unfolded, Ted often interrupted her with questions. He became particularly excited when Wendy told him her grandfather’s story about Curtana.
    “The Sword of Mercy!” he exclaimed.
    “You’re familiar with it?”
    “Indeed I am,” said Ted. “One of the history fellows here, a close friend of mine named Patrick Hunt, is an authority on it. He’d be quite interested to learn that the missing tip has been found, after all these centuries. But if your grandfather is right—and I have rarely known him to be wrong—this is a very serious matter indeed.”
    “Yes,” said Wendy. “If the Others have found it, they’ll be able to open the Cache.”
    “And you’re certain your grandfather didn’t tell you where this…Cache is located?”
    “Only that it’s in London,” said Wendy. She hesitated, then added, “And he said something about ‘confess.‘”
    “Confess what?”
    “I don’t know. He just said ‘confess,’ and then he lost consciousness.”
    Ted nodded, then said, “Who else have you told about this?”
    “Aside from you, nobody,” said Wendy.
    “Why not your father? He’s an influential man, and I’m certain he’s as worried about your mother as you are. And he’s dealt with the Others—he knows the danger.”
    Wendy shook her head. “He insists that this is best handled by the police.”
    “But you say the police are in on it!”
    “I’m sure they are, at least some of