spars, all oak, whittled to various lengths. Oliver ran his fingers over their tacky surfaces. They felt as though they’d all been cut within the last few days.
He turned quickly to the kites and examined them one by one. None of them had spars of oak. No one used oak to make kite spars—no one except Great-uncle Gilbert. Yet Two had been crafting oaken spars and hiding them in a secret drawer in his workbench.
Oliver dropped onto the bed, thinking furiously. Two was a skilled kitesmith, and he must have noticed the odd oaken spars of the crimson kite right away. He must havedecided to make his own kite, modeled after Great-uncle Gilbert’s. For some reason, he had hidden all of this from his guardian.
Oliver didn’t know why, but he did know this—whatever Two was scheming, it was not going to happen. Oliver had a much better plan for these oaken spars: he would use them himself, to repair the crimson kite, and escape from this Windblowne.
He wanted to try the repair right away, but he had to wait for night, when Lord Gilbert and Two would be sleeping. So, with impatient reluctance, he replaced the sticky spars exactly as he found them, closed the secret door with a snap, and lay back on the bed to formulate every detail of his new plan. This time, he vowed, no mistakes, nothing left to chance, and no improvising. This plan had to work, absolutely, with no excuses.…
Oliver woke to the sound of footsteps downstairs. He sat up in a rush. He must have fallen asleep. After all, he hadn’t gotten much rest last night. A delicious smell wafted into the bedroom, and Oliver realized he was famished. He was wondering if he should go downstairsand sullenly accept some lunch when he heard slow, soft steps coming up the stairs.
He buried himself under the blankets, not wanting his face to give away any hint of what he had discovered.
He heard the door open.
“I’m trying to sleep,” said Oliver, his voice muffled by the bedclothes.
A weary, raspy voice replied, “Sorry.”
Oliver sat up in surprise, spilling pillows. He had not recognized the voice. But it was Two, and he looked terrible. He was even thinner, as though he had lost another ten pounds in the last few hours. In his hands was a bowl, and he bent forward as he held it, as if it were a boulder.
“You don’t look like you’re going to make it,” observed Oliver.
“Thanks,” said Two. He shuffled to the workbench and placed the bowl there with trembling hands. “Here’s your lunch.”
“I’m not hungry,” Oliver said, staring ravenously at the bowl. He was not sure what it was—some kind of complicated stew—but it looked and smelled heavenly.He didn’t think, though, that it would be a good idea to eat anything prepared by Lord Gilbert.
“It’s okay,” said Two, seeming to understand this. “I cooked it.”
Oliver sighed. “Of course you did.” Naturally, Two was also an expert chef. Oliver crawled out of bed and sat morosely at the bench. He took a bite. Yes, sadly, the stew was absolutely superb—far tastier than anything Oliver had ever managed to prepare.
Two flopped onto the bed. He stared dully at the ceiling, saying nothing.
Oliver, as he wolfed down the stew, watched him out of the corner of his eye. Two’s hands would not stop shaking, and the skin on his arms and legs was raw and red. “Why are you helping Lord Gilbert?” Oliver asked between mouthfuls, trying not to sound too concerned about it. “That machine is killing you.”
“I don’t have any choice,” said Two distantly.
“I would never work for him,” mumbled Oliver with as much determination as he could muster with a mouth full of stew. He swallowed. “I would never do anything he told me to do, no matter what!”
Two fixed him with a solemn stare. “What if helpingLord Gilbert gave you a chance to have the thing you’d always wanted most in the world?”
This gave Oliver pause. What would he do? The thing that Oliver had always wanted most
He turned quickly to the kites and examined them one by one. None of them had spars of oak. No one used oak to make kite spars—no one except Great-uncle Gilbert. Yet Two had been crafting oaken spars and hiding them in a secret drawer in his workbench.
Oliver dropped onto the bed, thinking furiously. Two was a skilled kitesmith, and he must have noticed the odd oaken spars of the crimson kite right away. He must havedecided to make his own kite, modeled after Great-uncle Gilbert’s. For some reason, he had hidden all of this from his guardian.
Oliver didn’t know why, but he did know this—whatever Two was scheming, it was not going to happen. Oliver had a much better plan for these oaken spars: he would use them himself, to repair the crimson kite, and escape from this Windblowne.
He wanted to try the repair right away, but he had to wait for night, when Lord Gilbert and Two would be sleeping. So, with impatient reluctance, he replaced the sticky spars exactly as he found them, closed the secret door with a snap, and lay back on the bed to formulate every detail of his new plan. This time, he vowed, no mistakes, nothing left to chance, and no improvising. This plan had to work, absolutely, with no excuses.…
Oliver woke to the sound of footsteps downstairs. He sat up in a rush. He must have fallen asleep. After all, he hadn’t gotten much rest last night. A delicious smell wafted into the bedroom, and Oliver realized he was famished. He was wondering if he should go downstairsand sullenly accept some lunch when he heard slow, soft steps coming up the stairs.
He buried himself under the blankets, not wanting his face to give away any hint of what he had discovered.
He heard the door open.
“I’m trying to sleep,” said Oliver, his voice muffled by the bedclothes.
A weary, raspy voice replied, “Sorry.”
Oliver sat up in surprise, spilling pillows. He had not recognized the voice. But it was Two, and he looked terrible. He was even thinner, as though he had lost another ten pounds in the last few hours. In his hands was a bowl, and he bent forward as he held it, as if it were a boulder.
“You don’t look like you’re going to make it,” observed Oliver.
“Thanks,” said Two. He shuffled to the workbench and placed the bowl there with trembling hands. “Here’s your lunch.”
“I’m not hungry,” Oliver said, staring ravenously at the bowl. He was not sure what it was—some kind of complicated stew—but it looked and smelled heavenly.He didn’t think, though, that it would be a good idea to eat anything prepared by Lord Gilbert.
“It’s okay,” said Two, seeming to understand this. “I cooked it.”
Oliver sighed. “Of course you did.” Naturally, Two was also an expert chef. Oliver crawled out of bed and sat morosely at the bench. He took a bite. Yes, sadly, the stew was absolutely superb—far tastier than anything Oliver had ever managed to prepare.
Two flopped onto the bed. He stared dully at the ceiling, saying nothing.
Oliver, as he wolfed down the stew, watched him out of the corner of his eye. Two’s hands would not stop shaking, and the skin on his arms and legs was raw and red. “Why are you helping Lord Gilbert?” Oliver asked between mouthfuls, trying not to sound too concerned about it. “That machine is killing you.”
“I don’t have any choice,” said Two distantly.
“I would never work for him,” mumbled Oliver with as much determination as he could muster with a mouth full of stew. He swallowed. “I would never do anything he told me to do, no matter what!”
Two fixed him with a solemn stare. “What if helpingLord Gilbert gave you a chance to have the thing you’d always wanted most in the world?”
This gave Oliver pause. What would he do? The thing that Oliver had always wanted most