old hermit.
Yet I have never given up the hope of finding Luciano. Against all reason, I feel inside me that he is still alive.
One day, a few years ago, I was looking in a science magazine—the world of nature it has always interested me far more than the world of man—and I noticed an article about the synesthesia.
What most caught me was a reference to a prodigy child of the 1960s, a girl so talented at the violin that she came to be an international sensation. She claimed to see the colors when she played the music—a well-known form of the synesthesia—and she wrote a magnificent piece of the music called “The Rainbow Sonata” when she was only seven years old. At age nine she was kidnapped and never heard from again.
Another child with the synesthesia kidnapped! Just a coincidence? Perhaps. But it was the first clue I had found in seventy years. I had no choice but to investigate.
Mysteriously, all the newspaper stories about the violinist were missing from the libraries. At last, in a used bookstore in Alaska, I discovered an old magazine article that described the circumstance of her kidnapping. According to an usher at the concert hall where she had last performed, the violinist was seen talking to a woman shortly before her disappearance. The usher he said the woman was “dazzling.” She had the blond hair and the gold—
“Aaargh! It’s so annoying!”
Cass turned the notebook over and over in frustration, looking for more hidden pages.
“That’s it?” Max-Ernest asked.
“Yeah, it just ends there.”
“But we never found out what the terrible secret is.”
“I know. I think maybe he wrote more but he ripped it out. Look—” Cass opened the notebook flat and pointed to a broken seam, barely visible on the inside of the spine. “Like if he had to run away really quickly and he couldn’t take the whole notebook, the pages had to fit in his pocket.”
“You mean like if he heard someone coming or he smelled fire or something? I guess that’s possible,” said Max-Ernest. “Or else maybe he was killed, and the killer took the pages. Or—”
“Exactly,” Cass interrupted, grim. “You know who she is, right?”
“Who?” asked Max-Ernest.
“The Golden Lady. Couldn’t you tell? The Golden Lady is Ms. Mauvais.”
Max-Ernest shook his head. “No, she’s not. She can’t be—”
“Yeah, she is. Listen—” Cass flipped through the notebook. “She has a teeny waist, all that jewelry. She wears gloves.”
“It does
sound
like her,” agreed Max-Ernest. “But she’s not the Golden Lady. It wouldn’t make any sense.”
“What—why? Name one reason you think it’s not her.”
“OK. Here’s one reason. The lady in the story, at the circus, it was a really, really long time ago. If it was Ms. Mauvais, she would be like a hundred years old now. If she was even still alive. How ’bout that?”
Cass bit her lip. He had a point. Ms. Mauvais didn’t look anywhere near that old.
“Maybe if she was a vampire, then it could be her,” Max-Ernest suggested. “But that’s highly doubtful. Nobody thinks there are real vampires. Except for vampire bats—they’re real. And Count Dracula—he was real. But he wasn’t a real vampire. He was just a mean old guy. At least, that’s what people think. There’s no way to know for sure. He’s dead. I mean, unless he really was a—”
“OK, OK. Forget vampires. I agree, it’s not her. It wouldn’t make any sense,” said Cass. “So what do you think we should do?”
“I think we should get rid of the notebook as fast as we can, just like he said we should at the beginning,” said Max-Ernest.
“You mean stop the investigation? Don’t you even want to know what the secret is?”
“It’s too dangerous,” said Max-Ernest. “We’re only eleven. Personally, I don’t want to be kidnapped—just so we can know what happens at the end of a book.”
“That’s not the point,” said Cass heatedly. “Don’t you have
Yet I have never given up the hope of finding Luciano. Against all reason, I feel inside me that he is still alive.
One day, a few years ago, I was looking in a science magazine—the world of nature it has always interested me far more than the world of man—and I noticed an article about the synesthesia.
What most caught me was a reference to a prodigy child of the 1960s, a girl so talented at the violin that she came to be an international sensation. She claimed to see the colors when she played the music—a well-known form of the synesthesia—and she wrote a magnificent piece of the music called “The Rainbow Sonata” when she was only seven years old. At age nine she was kidnapped and never heard from again.
Another child with the synesthesia kidnapped! Just a coincidence? Perhaps. But it was the first clue I had found in seventy years. I had no choice but to investigate.
Mysteriously, all the newspaper stories about the violinist were missing from the libraries. At last, in a used bookstore in Alaska, I discovered an old magazine article that described the circumstance of her kidnapping. According to an usher at the concert hall where she had last performed, the violinist was seen talking to a woman shortly before her disappearance. The usher he said the woman was “dazzling.” She had the blond hair and the gold—
“Aaargh! It’s so annoying!”
Cass turned the notebook over and over in frustration, looking for more hidden pages.
“That’s it?” Max-Ernest asked.
“Yeah, it just ends there.”
“But we never found out what the terrible secret is.”
“I know. I think maybe he wrote more but he ripped it out. Look—” Cass opened the notebook flat and pointed to a broken seam, barely visible on the inside of the spine. “Like if he had to run away really quickly and he couldn’t take the whole notebook, the pages had to fit in his pocket.”
“You mean like if he heard someone coming or he smelled fire or something? I guess that’s possible,” said Max-Ernest. “Or else maybe he was killed, and the killer took the pages. Or—”
“Exactly,” Cass interrupted, grim. “You know who she is, right?”
“Who?” asked Max-Ernest.
“The Golden Lady. Couldn’t you tell? The Golden Lady is Ms. Mauvais.”
Max-Ernest shook his head. “No, she’s not. She can’t be—”
“Yeah, she is. Listen—” Cass flipped through the notebook. “She has a teeny waist, all that jewelry. She wears gloves.”
“It does
sound
like her,” agreed Max-Ernest. “But she’s not the Golden Lady. It wouldn’t make any sense.”
“What—why? Name one reason you think it’s not her.”
“OK. Here’s one reason. The lady in the story, at the circus, it was a really, really long time ago. If it was Ms. Mauvais, she would be like a hundred years old now. If she was even still alive. How ’bout that?”
Cass bit her lip. He had a point. Ms. Mauvais didn’t look anywhere near that old.
“Maybe if she was a vampire, then it could be her,” Max-Ernest suggested. “But that’s highly doubtful. Nobody thinks there are real vampires. Except for vampire bats—they’re real. And Count Dracula—he was real. But he wasn’t a real vampire. He was just a mean old guy. At least, that’s what people think. There’s no way to know for sure. He’s dead. I mean, unless he really was a—”
“OK, OK. Forget vampires. I agree, it’s not her. It wouldn’t make any sense,” said Cass. “So what do you think we should do?”
“I think we should get rid of the notebook as fast as we can, just like he said we should at the beginning,” said Max-Ernest.
“You mean stop the investigation? Don’t you even want to know what the secret is?”
“It’s too dangerous,” said Max-Ernest. “We’re only eleven. Personally, I don’t want to be kidnapped—just so we can know what happens at the end of a book.”
“That’s not the point,” said Cass heatedly. “Don’t you have
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