Peter and the Shadow Thieves (15 page)

She rose from her bed and padded in bare, cold feet to her window. Looking out, she first saw only blackness, and then the faint glowing sphere of the gas lamp on the street, fighting its lonely, losing battle to il uminate the al -enshrouding fog. She looked left and, by straining her eyes, could just make out the large, reassuring form of Mr. Cadigan at his usual nighttime post at the end of the front walk.

Then she looked to the right, past the streetlight, and gasped as she saw two shapes emerge from the fog. They were il uminated only for a moment, but that was enough for her to see that it was the same Metropolitan police officer who had walked by earlier that evening. With him was a man Mol y didn’t recognize—tal and thin, like the bobby, but apparently a civilian; he wore an overcoat and top hat, not the frock coat and domed helmet of the Metropolitan Police. Mol y did not get a good look at his face, but he had the bearing of a gentleman.

Odd,
thought Mol y.
Why is that man with the bobby? And why is the bobby coming by so late
?

Straining to see through the swirling fog, she watched the two men approach Mr. Cadigan, who was also keeping an eye on them. They passed directly in front of him, but neither of them looked at him, which also struck Mol y as odd. Not even so much as a nod. Not
terribly friendly,
she thought. She saw Mr. Cadigan’s head turn and fol ow as he watched them pass; he kept looking in their direction until they vanished into the fog.

Mol y watched out the window a bit longer but saw nothing except gloom and dark. Final y, shivering, she slipped back into bed and snuggled under the comforter. She thought about the bobby and the man with him. She pondered whether she had reason to be troubled by this. Was she just being a scared little goose? After al , there were thousands of bobbies in London. Why should she be surprised to see an unfamiliar one walk past her house?

But why had he made a second visit? Why had he looked at her house earlier in the day? And why was he with a gentleman so late at night?

She thought about sharing these concerns with her mother. But then she remembered her mother’s words to her earlier in the day:
We must be brave.

Mol y decided she
was
being a little goose, letting her fears run away with her mind. She would force herself to be brave. She wouldn’t say anything about it. No reason to make trouble where there was none.

And so, after some tossing about, Mol y went back to sleep.

S
OFT BELLS CHIMED in Peter’s ear, and a welcome message:
I know where there’s food.

“You do?” Peter whispered, squatting in the darkness at the stern of the ship. “Where?”

Tink pointed down toward Peter’s bare feet and the dark wooden deck.

Under there.

Peter sighed. “I
know
there’s food down there, Tink. But there are men down there, too. They’l see me.”
I can bring you food.
I
brought you water.

“It’l be too heavy for you, Tink,” he whispered.

Tink pouted, but didn’t argue; she knew she wouldn’t be able to fly with anything much bigger than a grape.

“I’m going to go forward a bit,” said Peter. “Maybe we can find a safe way belowdecks.”

I’ll go first.

“Al right, but be careful.”

They won’t see me.

Tink flitted forward, staying low, about knee-height. Peter crawled after her on hands and knees, grateful that the night sky was cloudy and dark. From somewhere above him and to his right he heard the murmur of two men talking, and although he could not make out the words, the exchange carried the bored tone of sailors passing time. Tink darted ahead, then zipped back to Peter.

There’s an opening up there, and stairs going down.

“Where?” he whispered.

Just past the water barrel.

“What’s down the stairs?”

In a blink and a half, Tink flew off and returned.

A hallway.

“Is there anybody in the hal way?”

No, but there’s food. I can smell it. It’s coming from a door at the end of the hall.

Food! Peter felt his mouth water. Now, if he could just get down there…

“What about the men?” he whispered.

Tink flitted ahead, then back.

They’re looking the other way,
she said.
Out at the water on the other side.

“Al right, then,” whispered Peter. “Let’s go.”

Fol owing Tink, Peter crawled silently forward to the edge of the boxlike companionway that contained the stairwel , protecting it from rain and weather. Tink stuck her tiny head around the corner, then beckoned him on. He crawled out into the open, looking to his right. As Tink had said, Peter saw two sailors on the far side of the deck, leaning against the rail and looking out to sea. Tink darted into the shadowy darkness and down the steep stairs. Peter fol owed right behind.

At exactly the moment when Tink and Peter disappeared below, a dark form oozed up from a companionway on the starboard side of the ship. Instantly the deck air cooled. The two sailors gossiping at the rail felt it and fel silent, their bodies rigid, their eyes fixed on the waves, both of them silently praying that Ombra would glide past, would leave them alone.

But the dark form stopped directly behind them. Sweating now despite the chil , they stared at the water for thirty agonizing seconds before the silence was broken by Ombra’s harsh groan.

“Have you men seen anything unusual?”

“N…N…NO, sir,” said one of the men, the other being too scared to speak.

“Nothing strange on deck?” groaned Ombra.

“N…No, sir.”

“How long have you been here?”

“The whole watch, sir.”

There was another uncomfortable silence. Then Ombra glided on. The men slumped with relief, then cautiously turned their heads to look. Ombra moved along the deck in a deliberate manner, his cloaked head tracking slowly back and forth.

“What’s he doing?” whispered one of the two.

“Dunno, mate,” answered the other. “But it can’t be no good. He looks like…a hunting dog.”

“Aye, that he does,” said the first. “Like a bloodhound on a trail.”

At the bottom of the companionway, Peter and Tink found themselves in a dark corridor. It appeared to be empty, but Peter was nervous. On deck, he could escape by simply launching himself off the ship and flying away. Down here, flying was not an option. He could easily be trapped.

“Where’s the food?” he whispered.

This way,
said Tink, darting down the corridor, a tiny glowing comet in the gloom. She stopped in front of a closed door on the left side. Ahead, the corridor continued twenty more feet, then turned sharply left.

Peter tiptoed to the door and put his ear against it, listening. Nothing. He turned the iron latch and gently pushed the door open; it creaked a bit, but not so as to draw attention amid the thousand other creaks and groans of a ship tossing and moving at sea.

Peter stepped inside: the room was pitch black. But as Tink had reported, the smel of food was strong.

“Tink,” he whispered. “I need some light.”

Tink flitted through the doorway and, with a frown of concentration, increased her glow from the level of a candle to that of a chandelier. As the room fil ed with light, Peter looked around: he saw a dozen or so wooden barrels, some iron pots, and…

…a man.

The man was not three feet away, sleeping in a hammock slung from the ceiling. He was a portly fel ow; the cook, Peter assumed. His blood froze as the man stirred. But the sleeper was merely shifting position, and did not wake.

Peter looked at the barrels. They were al closed, to keep the rats out. He approached the nearest barrel and ran his fingers around the rim. The barrelhead was sealed tight.

He tried another, then another, then another; al were sealed. But on the next barrel his luck changed: the barrelhead moved. It had not been secured.

Peter glanced back at the cook. Stil sleeping. Working the fingers of both hands under the barrelhead, he tugged, and it came free.