Stealing Magic Page 3

  From the roof garden she peered into the room—no one was looking into it at the moment, so she entered. Because the room had two doors to the outside, a wonderful breeze blew through the space. And that breeze meant one thing: Paris was alive out there! The magic was working!

  Ruthie scanned the room. The furniture was covered in rich silks and satins. One wall was decorated with a tapestry of a city scene in geometric shapes, like a painting by Picasso. She walked over to touch the surface. Her hand felt the small stitches, and she marveled at how incredibly tiny they must have been to the full-sized hand that made them.

  Voices grew louder as visitors approached the viewing window, and Ruthie ducked behind an upholstered chair in the corner. She crouched there while two sets of people passed by, exclaiming about catching a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower through the balcony door.

  When there was a lull in the crowd Ruthie ran across the room to absorb the sunshine of 1930s Paris. The balcony—which was separate from the rooftop garden—was big enough for a table and chairs. The glass-topped table was set with two golden water goblets and shiny green plates. Cheery zinnias bloomed from two orange planters. Out of sight to museum visitors, a spiral staircase wound down to a small, enclosed courtyard between the building and the street. Ruthie had never seen a staircase like this on the outside of a building. Standing in a spot where she was sure no viewers could spy her, she looked out over a spectacular panorama of a wide boulevard and the Eiffel Tower beyond. She could see lots of people down in the street and a bustling city park. In fact, there seemed to be some sort of festival going on, with flags from different countries waving and music competing with the sounds of laughter and shouting.

  Ruthie inhaled deeply one more time before leaving the balcony. She was so tempted to walk down that spiral staircase and into Paris! But her five minutes were up—the gallery tour must have moved on by now. Not letting herself forget the urgent errand she was on, she left the room and raced back to E31.

  She heard the muffled voices of people in the exhibition but could tell that the docent was no longer speaking right in front of E31. Two voices in particular, though, were becoming more distinct: Jack’s and the voice of a woman, not her mother or Mrs. McVittie. She peeked around the corner, into the room, and through the viewing window. She saw Jack’s head in profile as he spoke.

  “What are you sketching?” Ruthie heard Jack ask. She couldn’t see whom he was talking to, but she listened carefully.

  “This Chinese room. I’m studying all of the rooms,” a woman’s voice answered. “What do you think?”

  “Pretty good,” Jack said approvingly. “You really got the details.”

  The Chinese room was right next to the Japanese room. Ruthie realized Jack was keeping this woman away from the window by talking about her drawing. This way, he blocked anyone else from looking into the room while Ruthie got the job done.

  Ruthie crept into the room, walked over to the low lacquered table and opened the bento box. The letter was still there, folded just as they’d left it. She breathed a sigh of relief and put it in her pocket. Then she let herself take one more look into the Zen garden adjoining the room on the right. Something felt wrong. She stepped in. Surprisingly, the garden seemed extremely quiet, with no rustling of trees or sounds of birds chirping; the air felt stale. The plants looked fake, and she could even see some chipped paint in the corner of the sky.

  Ruthie worried that the magic was weakening, that perhaps standing on that Parisian balcony had used too much power. Or maybe it was simply that this room was not a portal to the past like the other rooms. Her curiosity ballooned inside her, but exploring would have to wait. Her mother and Mrs. McVittie would return from the restroom any minute. It had been at least ten minutes since she climbed the ladder; she had to hustle.

  Ruthie turned to leave the garden, but as soon as she did, she caught sight of the blond head of the woman who was talking to Jack. Ruthie jumped back, unsure whether she had been seen. Finally she heard Jack ask which room was the woman’s favorite, and they moved away. Ruthie scrambled across the tatami floor mats, swiftly picking up the bento box on her way to the small hall and then back out to the corridor.

  She ran as fast as she could along the narrow ledge. Once at the ladder, she decided it would be too difficult—not to mention slow—to climb down the ladder while holding the bento box. Clutching it, she leapt off the ledge, letting the key fall to the floor. Ruthie and the key landed in tandem, now full-sized. She detached the ladder from the ledge. Then she picked up the key and shrank again.

  Ruthie reached the door and looked under; no one was there. She shoved the tiny bento box under the door (it would be too big to carry around in her pocket at full size, and her mother would most certainly ask where it had come from) and then squeezed under just far enough to look about the gallery. Jack was nowhere in sight. She watched as shoes, their soles as thick as mattresses, passed by in a steady stream. It seemed like a long wait until she was able to come all the way out and place the key at the base of the door for Jack to retrieve. In seconds she was big again. She picked up the miniature bento box and slipped it into her pocket; it looked like the bump from a pot of lip gloss.

  Ruthie was certain her adventure would somehow show on her face. She found Jack still talking to the striking woman who was sketching the rooms. The woman was tall and thin, with perfect posture, and her very light hair was pulled back tightly. With her designer glasses and pointy-toed shoes she looked like a model from a fashion magazine. Ruthie had hoped to find Jack alone; she couldn’t stop thinking about the key sitting on the floor of the alcove. She wanted it back in Jack’s pocket as fast as possible.

  “There you are,” Jack said. “This is Dora. She’s studying the Thorne Rooms. This is my friend Ruthie.” Ruthie gave him an intense look, which he understood. “I’ll be right back.” He turned and headed back to recover the key.

  “Nice to meet you.” Dora smiled at Ruthie. “Jack tells me the two of you wrote a report for school about the Thorne Rooms.”

  “I’m kinda obsessed with them,” Ruthie admitted.

  “Join the club!” Dora laughed.

  “Your drawings are beautiful,” Ruthie admired.

  “I’ve been working on them for a few weeks.” Dora turned several pages so that Ruthie could take a look. The last was the unfinished sketch of the Chinese room. The intricately carved wood screens that divided the room were finely penciled. Dora had even captured the subtle expression on the face of the ancestor portrait that hung on the back wall. “What do you think?”

  “They’re really good,” Ruthie said, feeling like her praise was not strong enough. The drawings were exceptional.

  “Thank you,” Dora answered.

  “Are you an artist?” Ruthie asked.

  “No. I’m an interior decorator—I’m getting a master’s degree in design from the School of the Art Institute, and I’m using the Thorne Rooms as part of my research on historic interiors.”

  “That’s what Mrs. Thorne wanted people to do.” Ruthie remembered what she’d learned in the archives.

  “Exactly,” Dora agreed.

  Ruthie continued to browse through the perfectly rendered sketches.

  “Here you are.” Ruthie looked up and saw her mother and Mrs. McVittie approaching them. “Where’s Jack?” her mother asked.

  “Right here,” Jack said, coming around the corner from the other direction. He gave Ruthie a quick look, his hand subtly patting his pocket, meaning he had the key safely tucked away. No one but Ruthie noticed.

  “Look, Mom.” Ruthie held up Dora’s sketchbook for her mother and Mrs. McVittie to see.

  Dora offered her hand in greeting. “Dora Pommeroy. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Helen Stewart,” Ruthie’s mom replied, shaking hands. “And this is Minerva McVittie.”

  Mrs. McVittie also held out her hand. “Have we met before?”

  “I don’t think so,” Dora answered.

&
nbsp; “I’m sure we have. I never forget a face,” Mrs. McVittie pressed.

  Ruthie decided to interrupt before Mrs. McVittie started talking about all the possible places they might have met. Grown-ups could go on forever about that.

  “I wish I could draw like that,” Ruthie said aloud.

  “Anyone can learn to draw,” Dora said. “Have you ever had lessons?”

  “Just art class in school. I got an A, but I’m not that good, really,” Ruthie confessed. “Jack’s better.”

  “My mom’s an artist. I have to be good,” Jack explained.

  “What did you say your last name is? Tucker, right?” Dora asked.

  “Yep, that’s right,” Jack confirmed.

  “Is your mother Lydia Tucker, the painter?”

  “Yeah. Have you heard of her?” Jack was always surprised when anyone had heard of his mother. Ruthie thought he should be used to it by now.

  “I’ve seen her work. Her trompe l’oeil murals are amazing,” Dora enthused.

  “Thanks, I guess,” Jack responded awkwardly. “Could you give Ruthie lessons?”

  “I do give private lessons occasionally,” she responded.

  “Please, Mom,” Ruthie implored. “I would love to learn how to draw these rooms!”

  “Let’s think about it. Do you have a card, Ms. Pommeroy?” her mom asked.

  Dora rummaged through her bag, pulled out a card, and handed it to Ruthie’s mom. “Why don’t you send me an email?”

  Ruthie looked at the card in her mother’s hand. It read Pandora Pommeroy Interiors.

  “DID YOU GET THE LETTER? And I saw my bento box isn’t in the room anymore; where is it?” Jack asked when all three adults were safely a few paces away.

  “The letter’s in my pocket. And your bento box is here.” She reached into her front pocket and pulled out the miniature box. “Here, you take it. I couldn’t bring it out at full size because I didn’t have anywhere to put it.”

  Jack stashed it in one of the multiple large pockets of his cargo pants, snapping the pocket flap closed.

  They spent another half hour in the rooms. After reclaiming her backpack from the coat check, Ruthie turned to her mother and said, “I’m going to Jack’s house to do homework. Okay, Mom?”

  Ruthie was walking just behind Jack as they passed through the Michigan Avenue doors, and she noticed his side pocket suddenly expand like a bag of microwave popcorn. Startled, he turned around briefly to check if Ruthie’s mom or anyone else had seen. Ruthie immediately realized what was happening: the bento box had regained its full size, unsnapping the closure of Jack’s pocket and bursting its seams. Fortunately, her mother was standing on his other side.

  Mrs. McVittie, who was next to Ruthie, noticed the strange phenomenon and quickly grabbed Ruthie’s mom’s arm. “Helen, I seem to be having another spell. Do you mind seeing me home?”

  She could win an Academy Award, Ruthie thought gratefully.

  “Of course, Minerva.” Ruthie’s mom focused her full attention on her friend, helping her down the front steps. Jack and Ruthie stayed back a few feet.

  “That was close,” Jack said in a low voice.

  “I should have figured this would happen! I just didn’t think,” Ruthie said as she dragged Jack behind one of the big bronze lions that stood halfway up the steps. “It’s exactly like what happened to us when we spent the night in the museum. Remember when we left the corridor to run to the restrooms? We were full-sized before we got there!”

  Jack took the box out of his now-ripped pocket.

  “So all the stuff in the rooms that started off full-sized will stay small only in or near the rooms,” Ruthie went on.

  “Must be,” Jack agreed. He handed Ruthie the bento box, and she put it in her backpack. “And remember when we were in A1 from the time of the Salem witch trials—Thomas Wilcox’s room?”

  “The Mayflower model!” Ruthie exclaimed.

  “The archive papers we read said it came from an antiques dealer, right? Not a miniatures dealer; that’s how we knew Thomas’ Mayflower was made full-sized.” Then Jack added, “I wonder how many objects are magically shrunk in the rooms.”

  With Ruthie’s mom and Mrs. McVittie on their way home in a cab, Ruthie and Jack hopped on the bus to Jack’s house. They walked down the aisle and found two empty seats at the back. “Oh, I almost forgot,” Ruthie said as the bus started forward. “While I was waiting for that tour group to move I looked in another room.”

  “Which one?”

  “E27—it’s a room from Paris in 1937. It was alive, Jack. Just like Sophie’s room and Thomas’.”

  “Cool. Are you sure?”

  “Positive. It has a balcony, and I could see people in the streets. It looked like some kind of fair was happening. I want to go back.”

  “We should probably learn some French, huh?” Jack suggested.

  “My mom would be thrilled,” Ruthie said. Her mom taught French at Oakton and was always trying to get Ruthie to study it.

  “Let’s see the letter,” Jack said.

  Ruthie took the letter out of her back pocket and unfolded it. She and Jack looked at it and then at each other in disbelief.

  Jack’s handwritten note, which they had both signed, read:

  To whom it may concern,

  Ruthie Stewart and Jack Tucker, sixth-grade students in Chicago, visited these rooms by way of a magic key. We think the magic came from Christina of Milan (see room E1). If you are reading this, it means you are experiencing the magic too. Others have done this before us. Good luck!

  At the bottom of their note someone had written:

  If this is not a joke, leave another note.

  The handwriting had an odd appearance.

  “It looks like someone tried to write really small, doesn’t it?” Ruthie observed.

  “Yeah—like someone used a full-sized pencil. See—the thickness of the lines is all wrong,” Jack said. “We could write an answer, saying it was a joke.”

  “That won’t totally solve the problem. Whoever it is will still know we snuck into the rooms.” They both kept looking at the note as though answers would appear on the page. People walking in the aisle jostled them as the bus made its stops. “But they don’t know about the shrinking. They could think we just wrote really tiny and somehow put the note in from the front.”

  “I think we need to find out who wrote it,” Jack said.

  “That’s going to be hard. And whoever wrote this already knows who we are! Our names are in it.”

  Ruthie felt a sudden sensation of paranoia. She looked at the people around her on the bus and the hundreds of people they were passing on the street. Any one of them could be the person who wrote the anonymous note. She folded the letter and clutched it close.

  “I wonder how long it’s been there?” Jack asked.

  “It could be a trap,” Ruthie said. “You know, someone at the museum who wants to know how we got the note in there. Or it could be someone just like us, someone who wants answers.”

  Concentrating on their homework proved extremely difficult; as soon as they’d answered the last question in the history book, Jack slapped it closed.

  “Okay. List time. We need to make a list of all the facts we know about the magic.”

  Ruthie took a small spiral-bound notebook from her backpack. She turned to a fresh page, ready to write.

  In about ten minutes they had a pretty thorough list:

  1. The magic comes from the key that Christina, Duchess of Milan, had made for her in the sixteenth century.

  2. The shrinking can happen only when a female is holding the key in her hand.

  3. The shrinking happens only within a certain distance from the rooms. The bigger the object (like a human), the smaller the distance away from the rooms before you regrow. Small objects, like a bento box, can go pretty far before regrowing (near the doors of the museum, for instance).

  4. The unshrinking also happens when a shrunk female lets go of the
key somewhere in the corridor or in the area nearby.

  5. Once small, the female must keep the key with her, like in a pocket, to stay small, except if she is in the rooms (or outside in the past worlds).

  6. A male can shrink if he is holding hands with the shrinking female.

  7. Some of the rooms are “alive”—we think these rooms are portals to the past.

  8. The time of day in the past worlds is determined by the painted worlds outside the rooms, and the “clock” starts ticking when a person from now enters the past (we think). Once we are in the outside worlds, the time seems to pass just like normal. We have no idea how this part of the magic works.

  9. We don’t know if Mrs. Thorne or her craftsmen knew about this, but we think maybe they did.

  10. Stuff from the past (like the arrows that were shot into the window of the French castle room) disappears if it ends up in the rooms. But the antiques that Mrs. Thorne put in the rooms on purpose stay there.

  “Anything else?” Ruthie asked.

  “I’m sure we’ll think of more.” Jack stretched.

  “We should probably make a list of who could have written the message,” Ruthie suggested.

  “Mr. Bell,” Jack stated matter-of-factly.

  “You really think so?” Ruthie was skeptical.

  “Maybe. He has access to the rooms.”

  “Had access,” Ruthie corrected him. Since Ruthie and Jack had discovered his lost work, Mr. Bell had retired from his guard job. For the past month he had been working solely as an artist.

  “Yeah, but he could’ve put the note in there right before he left,” Jack said.