This Isn't What It Looks Like

  Max-Ernest coughed loudly. “Hello, Mom. Hello, Dad. I’m right here, two feet away from you. I know you can hear me….”

  In the old days, Max-Ernest couldn’t keep his parents off his back. These days, he had trouble just trying to get their attention.

  “I asked if you had any books on mental telepathy—you know, like on psychic phenomena or any extrasensory brain stuff?”

  Both his parents were psychologists, and they were surrounded on all sides by shelves full of books on everything to do with the human brain as well as books on animal brains and even robot brains, so it was a good bet they would have plenty of books on the subjects Max-Ernest mentioned. But like many people who collect things, they were very possessive of their books. The rule was that Max-Ernest had to ask for special permission if he wanted to borrow one. Then he was supposed to write the name of the book in a ledger, so his parents wouldn’t lose track of it.

  “Why would I need a book on mental telepathy? I can read your mind right now,” said his father, not turning away from Max-Ernest’s mother.

  “There’s no need to read about mental telepathy—I already know what you’re thinking,” said Max-Ernest’s mother, not turning away from his father.

  When they were divorced (but still living in the same house) Max-Ernest’s parents had gotten into the habit of repeating each other’s sentences as though the other parent weren’t there. Unfortunately, now that they were back together, the habit persisted. It made speaking to them very disorienting—even for Max-Ernest, who was used to it.

  “So does that mean I can borrow some books or not?”

  “Oh, come on now, Max-Ernest,” said his father, never averting his gaze from Max-Ernest’s mother. “There’s no need to pretend. Your thoughts are written all over your face.”

  “Oh, please, Max-Ernest,” said Max-Ernest’s mother, never averting her gaze from his father. “It’s clear as rain what you’re thinking. Don’t play dumb.”

  “Remember, we’re not only your parents,” said his father. “We’re psychologists.”

  “Don’t forget, we’re mental health professionals,” said his mother. “Not just the people who gave birth to you.”

  Max-Ernest looked at them in confusion. “What are you guys talking about? I’m not thinking anything.”

  “It’s not what you’re thinking so much as what you’re feeling,” corrected his father. “Don’t forget about your feelings, son.”

  “We’re talking about emotions,” corrected his mother. “Not everything is always rational, Max-Ernest. Not even you.”

  “OK, what am I feeling, then?” asked Max-Ernest, resigned. He sat down on the long couch reserved for his parents’ patients. But he refused to recline the way their patients did. That was going too far.

  Surreptitiously, he scanned the shelves for books that might contain what he was looking for. One title caught his attention: Second Sight: Seeing with Your Third Eye in Four Easy Steps, Fifth Edition. The book was level with his shoulder, tantalizingly close.

  “It hasn’t escaped our notice that you’ve been a little, shall we say, depressed,” said his father, finally turning to face Max-Ernest.

  “Don’t think we haven’t seen that dark cloud you’ve been carrying around,” said his mother, finally turning as well.

  Brilliant, thought Max-Ernest. My best friend is in a coma. It really takes a genius to figure out I’m depressed. Even I figured that out.

  But he didn’t say that. He figured listening to his parents was the price he had to pay if he wanted to borrow their books. They had to get back to the books at some point.

  “We can tell you’ve sensed what’s going on,” said his mother. “Many children do.”

  “Like many kids, you’ve guessed without our having to tell you,” said his father.

  Guessed what? he wondered. Were they getting remarried? Or re-divorced? Or splitting up the house but staying together? Or not staying together but keeping the house? It had to be something like that. Although Max-Ernest had no idea which was most likely. Or which he would prefer. All the scenarios were equally problematic.

  Max-Ernest inched closer to the book on second sight. Maybe he could sneak it off the shelf.

  “Call it fraternal telepathy if you like,” said his mother.

  “It’s a sixth sense that siblings have,” said his father.

  Max-Ernest frowned, unable to grab hold of the book with his parents’ eyes trained on him. Fraternal? Like fraternal twins? And siblings? What siblings? He was an only child. Only-childhood had pretty much defined his childhood. Were they going to tell him he had a secret twin somewhere? Or an older sibling who had died at birth?

  His father smiled knowingly at him. “Tell us, Max-Ernest, when did you first realize your mother was pregnant?”

  His mother smiled the same way. “Be honest, how long have you known you were going to have a brother?”

  “A… bro… ther?”

  Max-Ernest stared at his parents, his mouth open, momentarily forgetting all about his book-sneaking mission.

  He was going to have a brother? How could he not have seen this coming? Where had he been that such a big development could escape him?

  “Yes, the baby you sensed is a little boy,” said his mother. “We understand if you feel replaced in our hearts.”

  His father nodded wisely. “Children in your situation often feel like somebody else is taking their place.”

  “It’s completely expected that you would be jealous,” agreed his mother.

  “Your mood is a natural reaction to your circumstances,” added his father.

  They thought he was depressed about the baby? Had they forgotten about Cass? His parents used to obsess about every aspect of his life. Did they care nothing about what was happening to him anymore?

  He was so taken aback he didn’t bother to correct them.

  “Please try to keep your anger in check,” cautioned his father. “No pouring mayonnaise on the baby in the middle of the night!”

  “Control yourself,” cautioned his mother. “We don’t want to wake up and find you standing over the baby with an empty jar of mayo!”

  “OK. No mayo,” said Max-Ernest, forcing a smile.

  He assumed they were joking—at least he hoped they were—but he still couldn’t believe they were talking to him like this. As if he were a two-year-old boy so jealous of his soon-to-be baby brother that he would pour his least favorite substance all over him. Besides, didn’t his parents know he was so horrified by mayonnaise that he wouldn’t even be able to touch the jar?

  “Good. I’m glad we’ve had this conversation,” said Max-Ernest’s father. “And in case you’re worried, we want to assure you that your little brother will be in good hands. We’ve learned from our mistakes—that’s a promise.”

  “Good. I’m happy we’ve come to an understanding,” said Max-Ernest’s mother. “And not to worry—your little brother will be safe with us. Everything we got wrong with you, we’re going to get right this time—we promise.”

  His father took his mother’s hand, smiling at her. “He’s not going to spend his childhood bouncing from doctor to doctor, making him a neurotic mess.”

  Max-Ernest’s mother smiled back at Max-Ernest’s father, grasping his other hand with hers. “We won’t turn him into a nervous wreck, searching and searching for a condition that may or may not have a cure!”

  Reminding himself that he was supposed to be focusing not on his own life or his brother’s but on Cass’s, Max-Ernest tried his best not to listen to what his parents were saying. The idea that they felt they had failed with him was somewhat upsetting, of course, even for somebody bad at feelings, but this was not the time to be upset. Right now he had to concentrate all of his attention on the task in front of him:

  Robbery.

  With his parents’ attention fixed on each other, he quickly pulled the book on second sight off the shelf and put it behind his back. He breathed a silent sigh of relie
f. So far so good.

  “We aren’t going to be breathing down his neck every moment,” continued Max-Ernest’s father.

  “We won’t be fighting over every second of his life,” continued Max-Ernest’s mother.

  “Our new son is going to have a nice, normal childhood!” concluded Max-Ernest’s father.

  “Our new son is going to be a nice, normal kid!” concluded Max-Ernest’s mother.

  Max-Ernest swallowed. Despite his best efforts, he was unable to completely, entirely, one-hundred-percent-ly ignore his parents. He knew they didn’t think he was normal. Otherwise why would they have spent all that time and money searching for a cure for his condition? But it was different to hear them say it out loud.

  Never mind, he told himself. A normal person wouldn’t be able to prevent a comatose girl from disappearing into her ancestral past. A normal person wouldn’t be able to save Cass. Cass didn’t think he was normal, but she didn’t want him to be normal, either. She was relying on him to be just who he was. She had faith in him. She had told him so. And living up to that faith was the only thing that he should be thinking about.

  His parents were beaming so hard and happily at each other that he suspected he could walk right out, book in hand, without their noticing.

  And that’s exactly what he did.

  And then he ate some chocolate.

  And then some more chocolate.

  And then some more.

  And some more.

  And some…

  hmmgh…

  more.

  Cass stepped out of the kennels too late to see where they’d taken the Jester. Approaching the palace, she scanned her surroundings with the Double Monocle as if it were a pair of field binoculars, but—no luck.

  As for the homunculus, knowing him, Cass figured he’d probably gone in search of the palace kitchens and was at that very moment devouring a roast pig twice his size. Unless he was too scared to stay so close to Lord Pharaoh. In which case, Cass supposed, he was long gone.

  She’d come so near to achieving her goal: to meet the Jester and ask him about the Secret. About who she was. But now she felt further away from achieving her goal than ever. Not to mention, what kind of secret could the Secret be if it was the Jester’s secret? It hardly seemed likely that such a nutty, moody man would hold information important to the fate of the entire world.

  Lost in speculation, Cass didn’t at first notice the maid holding a pail out the window above.

  Cass got a whiff just in time to jump out of the way before the contents of the pail poured out in a long, unpleasant stream. I won’t say what those contents were, but if you know what a chamber pot is, you can guess. (Remember, this was before the invention of indoor plumbing.)

  Cass expected there to be a great splattering next to her, but as it turned out, the chamber pot had been emptied directly into what looked like a stone well in the ground.

  The stench issuing forth from this well (if a well it was) would have been enough to make most people steer clear. But the light coming out of it made Cass curious. Pinching her nose, she looked over the edge.

  She couldn’t see much, but she could see enough. There was indeed a pool of water at the bottom, but the water was filled with waste. From somewhere down below came the faint cries of prisoners as well as—was she just imagining it?—the even fainter jingle of the Jester’s hat.

  This royal privy, it appeared, was also the palace dungeon.

  But how to get in? She could try rappeling herself down to the bottom, but then where would she land? Cass remembered lowering herself into the pyramid at the Midnight Sun Spa, only to be greeted by flames licking at her feet. The pool of waste would almost be worse.

  Thankfully, Cass found another route. Not far away was a larger stairwell descending underground; it almost certainly led to the dungeon. A heavy iron gate blocked her way down, but she figured if she waited long enough, somebody would eventually open it.

  Sure enough, a posse of six soldiers soon arrived with their new prisoners: two men from Anastasia’s team of bandits, their masks now hanging loose around their necks.

  “You can lock us in iron, but it is you who are slaves to the King!” shouted one.

  “Think you can keep us any longer than last time? I wouldn’t bet on it!” shouted the other.

  Cass felt a not entirely sensible sympathy for the bandits and briefly considered using her invisibility to help them in some way, but she decided her efforts were best directed in the service of the Jester.

  She stayed close to the soldiers until she was inside the gate, then she paused to let them get ahead.

  Following in their footsteps, she found herself in a long and winding passageway that normally would have been too dark to navigate without a torch. With the aid of the monocle, she could see every crack and crevice and had no trouble at all. Unless you call having to avoid rats and cockroaches and one particularly large spider trouble.

  She knew she was close when she had to hold her nose.

  Now very dimly lit by a few candles burning on the walls, the corridor widened until it became a kind of underground rotunda with the pool of waste in the center and prison cells surrounding it.

  Not far ahead of Cass, the soldiers slammed a cell door shut on the bandits. She pressed against the wall as they passed her on their way out.

  The cell doors were made of iron, crusted with rust, and had only small openings through which to communicate with the inmates. Cass stood on tiptoe and looked into the first cell. It was dark and difficult to see, but she was almost certain there was no one inside.

  Before she could get to the second cell, Lord Pharaoh stormed out of it, holding a candle. He was accompanied by a prison guard.

  “If you don’t tell me where that creature went, you’ll spend the rest of your days in here, I swear it!” he shouted to the cell’s inhabitant; then he started striding away in Cass’s direction.

  “I know not where your monkey went,” came the reply from the door. “I know only where you’re going. And my advice is not to bring that cloak. You’ll be much too warm. In fact, you’ll be burning!”

  Cass slunk back against the wall—but not in time. Lord Pharaoh brushed against her, jarring her arm and causing her to drop the monocle.

  Luckily, the glass did not break, but it hit the stone floor with a loud enough clink to catch Lord Pharaoh’s attention. “What’s that?”

  Cass stood frozen, her heart beating in her chest. The monocle glinted in the torchlight.

  Lord Pharaoh picked up the monocle and turned it over in his hand. “How curious, a Double Monocle…”

  And then it happened. He put the monocle to his eye and looked straight at her. “Curious, indeed,” he said with a sinister smile.

  He reached out and grabbed her arm. She tried to push him off, but he was too strong. “I thought for a second you were just a trick of the eye. But now I see you have the trick of touch as well.”

  Cass stared back at the man staring at her. Enlarged by the Double Monocle, his dark green eye looked ominous and reptilian. She wanted to make a retort—to say something smart and stinging to this awful man—but she found she was too afraid.

  “Why is it when I look at you, I think I see the future?” mused Lord Pharaoh. “You are not of this time, am I right?”

  “What is it?” asked the guard nervously. “A ghost?”

  Lord Pharaoh snickered. “If she is a ghost, she is but a sniveling girl ghost. There is no need to fear her.”

  He tightened his grip on Cass. “This is a very intriguing glass you have…. What else do you bring from your invisible world? Empty your pockets. Now. Or I will have the guard do it.”

  Cass obeyed, but there was nothing in her pockets, save for a crumpled wrapper. Lord Pharaoh unfolded it, revealing a tiny triangle of chocolate.

  Cass let out a little gasp—it was the last uneaten bit of Señor Hugo’s special time-traveling recipe. She’d forgotten that there was any left.
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  Lord Pharaoh sniffed the chocolate, then touched it with his tongue. “What is this? Some kind of spice?”

  “It’s chocolate,” Cass answered, surprise momentarily overcoming her fear. Then she remembered that the New World treat had yet to be imported to Europe.

  “It is vile. But unique. I shall have to study it further,” said Lord Pharaoh, rewrapping the remains.

  Cass looked for signs that Señor Hugo’s chocolate was having an effect on him—with any luck, Lord Pharaoh would fall to the ground unconscious—but apparently the one taste had been too small to make a difference.

  “As for you—let’s throw you in with the Jester for now. Later we shall learn how best to kill a ghost.”

  He lowered the monocle and inspected it briefly. “I have a distinct feeling the future will be much brighter without you,” he concluded, replacing the monocle—this time with an expression so satisfied one might have expected him never to remove the monocle again.

  Cass choked back a sob. Without the monocle, she’d never be able to escape.

  The bells on the Jester’s hat jingled in defiance of the darkness.

  “Who’s there?” he asked. “Though I cannot see your face, I wouldst know what unlucky soul has entered this gloomy place.”

  Cass peered around the cell, trying to make out the form of her fellow prisoner. The only light came from the small opening in the cell door.

  There was a glimmer that she thought might be one of the bells on the Jester’s hat. She crawled toward it.

  “Um, hi. My name is Cassandra, but everybody calls me Cass.”

  “Cass?” the Jester repeated in surprise. “You are but a lass if my ears do not lie. Why is such a child as you in a place like this? What did you do wrong? Or is it, rather, what did you do right? If I am here, then this prison must be reserved for the best and most bright.”

  Cass giggled. Evidently, the Jester’s mood was on an upswing again.

  “It’s kind of a long story, but, well, I think part of the reason is that—” She took a breath. She might as well just say it. “I’m invisible, and Lord Pharaoh wants to find out why.”