Then Jack waved his hand, dismissing Hugo. And what was he going to do? He went out and he had fun, if only to prove Jack wrong. Except he didn’t prove Jack wrong. Three days later he’d painted a cover for The Ghost Machine, Clock Island Book Eleven. There weren’t any owl pirates, but there was a crescent moon grinning, two stars for eyes, and a boy about ten years old climbing an impossible Escher-esque staircase toward the night sky, and behind him on the steps was a smoke-colored ghost in the shape of the boy it followed. A shadow in the window of the house on Clock Island revealed the silhouette of the Mastermind, watching the boy and his ghost race each other to the moon.
It was weird and it was good, and Hugo had fun painting it.
He remembered showing it to Jack, feeling shy and scared and proud and stupid all at once. Like a kid waiting for a pat on the back.
Jack stared and studied, looked closely, stood back, came forward again, and hovered a fingertip over the strange painted staircase that went everywhere and nowhere.
Then softly he mumbled, “‘Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there. He wasn’t there again today. I wish, I wish he’d go away…’” Then softly Jack said, “Hughes Mearns.”
Right, right. Always cite your sources.
Was that the moment Hugo had seen the real Jack Masterson? When he witnessed the smile fade and the veil slip? But which one was the real Jack? The watching moon? The haunted boy running toward the light?
Or the lonely Mastermind, trapped behind the glass, unable to intervene in a world where even children were haunted?
“You like it?” Hugo finally asked. He couldn’t bear to wait another second for Jack’s answer.
“It’s perfect,” Jack said, not smiling but somehow exuding a deeper sort of joy. He lightly elbowed Hugo in the side. “One down. Thirty-nine to go.”
By the end of the second week, Hugo had learned to paint with a raven sitting on his easel. By the end of the month, he’d finished five covers, and they were better than anything he ever thought he could have done. And by Christmas, Hugo had finished the job and was hired for Clock Island Book Forty-One through infinity.
On Christmas morning, two days before Hugo would fly back to London, back to Davey, he opened a wrapped box to find a vintage, mint condition radio-controlled Batmobile toy. Hugo gave it to Davey, who played with it until the wheels came off.
Now he saw the last boat of the day chugging away from the dock. Probably safe for Hugo to return downstairs. But first, he turned around, taking another good long look at the island. Hard to believe he’d be leaving here soon, moving away, getting on with his life like he should have years ago whether he wanted to or not.
With the sun gone, Hugo went down into the house. Everything was in place, more or less. Tomorrow the first contestants would arrive. Hugo planned to stay until the contest was over to make sure nothing else got broken. Including Jack.
Especially Jack.
Chapter Eight
Hope for a miracle.
So said Mrs. Costa. So said Theresa. Lucy hadn’t believed them then. Now…maybe she was starting to believe.
Today was Monday. The day Lucy was leaving for Clock Island.
At four in the morning, she woke up and made herself eat some cereal. After a shower, makeup, hair, and getting dressed, she checked her bags, making certain she hadn’t forgotten anything.
After college, she’d sworn she’d never go back to Maine, and she went about forgetting how much she missed the cold and wild Atlantic Ocean, missed the whipping winds, the loons and the puffins, the blueberries and the lobster rolls and the popovers—those insanely delicious pastries she cursed herself for never learning how to make. And she pretended she didn’t miss sweater weather nine months out of the year either. Even when she was honest with herself about missing home, she still had no regrets about coming to California. It had saved her life, the long sunny days pulling her out from the deep, dark place she’d been afraid she’d never escape. And meeting Christopher had made it all worth it.
Thank God she hadn’t told Christopher she would never be his mother. After two years of scrimping and saving and sacrificing and getting almost nowhere anyway, finally she had a chance to make it happen. The game rules said that she could do anything with the book if she won it, including selling it to any publisher. That was her plan. Win it. Read it. Sell it. A new Clock Island book would probably go for a lot. At the very least, she’d have money for a car and an apartment. She had to win. For Christopher. For her. She wasn’t going to get a second chance like this ever again.
A car horn gave a little honk-honk.
Time to go.
She stood up, took a deep breath, and hefted her bag over her shoulder. Outside, Theresa was waiting for her. She’d volunteered to drive her to the airport. Lucy laughed when she came out of the house and saw Theresa’s old beige Camry decorated with a sign that read, Clock Island or bust!
“You’re nuts,” Lucy said as Theresa took her suitcase and put it in the trunk. She had to move some blue and gold streamers out of the way to get it in.
“My kids wanted to do it for you. Don’t blame me,” Theresa said.
Lucy got in the passenger side.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” Theresa said, pulling away from the curb.
“Two hours maybe.”
“Excited or scared?”
“Excited for me. Scared for Christopher.”
“He’ll be fine,” Theresa said. “I’ll keep an eye on him. He’ll miss you like crazy, but he’s out of his mind with excitement. He knows you’ll win the book.”
Lucy shook her head. “I don’t even know what we’ll be doing on the island. They didn’t tell me anything about the game. All I know is that a car will pick me up at the Portland Jetport, and a boat will take me to the island. They said to pack for five days, and that’s it.”
“Very mysterious. You sure this isn’t a cult thing?” Theresa winked at her.
“I promise I won’t join any cults or buy any time-shares.”
“Will you have time to see friends in town?”
“Not really. I think I’ll just be on Clock Island until the game’s over. Then straight back here.”
“Good.”
Lucy gave Theresa a look. “I wasn’t going to see Sean anyway. You couldn’t pay me enough to see him.”
“Just checking. I know you left all your stuff at his place when you moved out. If you were thinking it might be worth it—”
“It’s not worth it, I know.” More than once, Lucy had contemplated calling Sean, asking him to ship her stuff to her. She could have used the Jimmy Choo heels he’d bought her. She would have pawned them.
“Good girl. Nobody needs money that bad. And if you do, ask Jack Masterson for it. This crazy contest sent his books back onto the bestseller lists. That was probably the plan.”
“Maybe,” Lucy said, although the Jack Masterson she’d met didn’t seem all that interested in money or bestseller lists. If he was, why hadn’t he published a single book for the past six years?
Lucy looked around. They should have been on the highway to the airport already.
“Are you sure this is the way to the airport?”