The Search for the Red Dragon - James A. Owen [10]
“Hey,” the girl said. “Why don’t you want to walk with me?”
“Because,” Charles told her with a teasing smile, “we’ve decided we like you, and we don’t want some shady fellow swooping in when we aren’t looking to carry you off.”
Instead of the laugh or sarcastic retort he was expecting, Laura Glue’s eyes grew wide with fear and she seemed to shrink back into the recesses of the seat.
“Don’t,” she whispered in a fragile, frightened voice. “Don’t ever tease. Not about that.”
Charles hesitated, but Jack saw the look on the girl’s face and reached out a hand to her. “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “You’re with all three Caretakers. And do you know we’re not just Caretakers of a musty old atlas? We’re also Caretakers of everything else there is in the entire Archipelago of Dreams. Even little girls named Laura Glue. And as long as you’re with us, no one will ever harm you.”
Laura Glue blinked back a tear, then took Jack’s hand and smiled. “Okay,” she said. “But I still want to find Jamie, just the same.”
It was the twilight hour when they finally trooped up the steps and rang the bell at the place Charles directed them to. The stately, well-situated town house was brightly lit within, but there was no answer to the bell, or to their repeated knocks on the stout mahogany door.
“Now what?” John wondered. “He must be out for the evening. Do we wait for him? Or is there another place to look?”
“There may be,” said Charles. “Kensington Gardens is just down the way. Perhaps he’s inclined to take evening walks there.”
“It’s certainly worth a stroll,” Jack said. “Now that we’ve come this far, I’m just happy to have had reason to leave the Kilns.”
Both John and Charles had noted the drastic change in Jack’s countenance since the unusual apparition had crash-landed in his garden. He looked fully engaged once more, as if the girl were a fulcrum that had levered him out of his melancholy. And as such, neither one of them was inclined to mention their shared dreams again, until it seemed necessary to do so. The mystery at hand was more than enough to consume the evening anyway.
The gardens were indeed just a short distance away, and the lights of the city were just beginning to twinkle in the fading cobalt light of dusk when they arrived.
“It’s a good-size park,” said John. “Where should we begin looking?”
“Where else?” Charles replied. “The statue.”
“Of course,” said Jack, slapping his forehead. “The statue. It was erected for May Morning, was it not? I could be drummed out of Magdalen for forgetting that.”
“Or worse,” said Charles. “They’d make you take up residence at Cambridge.”
Set just along one of the walking paths, the tall bronze statue of Sir James Barrie’s most famous creation towered over passersby, who strolled along at a leisurely pace, hardly pausing to glance at the sculpture. Except for one.
The small, slight man was barely five feet tall, with a mustache and fringes of white hair that stuck out around the edges of his top hat. He stood holding a cane in one hand and a leash attached to an enormous Saint Bernard in the other. He looked at the statue with an expression that might have been construed as fondness, or longing—if it were not also for the immense sadness that seemed to lie underneath.
Charles, deciding that this was no time for furtiveness, called out to the man from some twenty yards away. “I say, are you James Barrie? Might we have a word?”
The man’s eyes widened in surprise as he saw a cluster of people eagerly rushing toward him, and he quickly pulled down his hat, turned up his collar, and began walking briskly in the opposite direction, dragging the reluctant dog behind him.
“Didn’t he hear me?” Charles said, puzzled.
“Oh, he heard you,” Jack said wryly. “You have all the stealth of a wet badger.”
“In some places that’s a compliment,” retorted Charles.
“Do shut up, you two,” John scolded. He quickened his pace after the swiftly