His reclined posture showed a disposition to quarrel. Finally, his grey hair made him look much older than his sister, old enough to be her father, and accentuated his dastardly expression. Nick felt Terence’s clawing hands gripping him by the neck.
“You, come with me.”
From up close, Terence’s eyes were a sadistic pink velvet and squinted like a feline’s. He led Nick across the lawn towards the Mansion up on the hill, which Nick recognized: the Crutchfield Mansion. On the way there, he came across lines and lines of shackled children being escorted in and out of the other carriages. Most looked gloomy and dejected. Those that were defiant ended up back in their dark carriages. All were dressed like Nick, and their feet were as dirty as the muddy hooves of the ponies grazing nearby.
Terence yanked on Nick’s chain. “Wait here,” he ordered. He knocked on the door of the mansion. The eagle face domestic in the grey-faded black suit opened the door. He stared down at Terence’s muddy shoes and shook his head no. Terence then handed Nick’s chain to the domestic and sat on a bench outside the door. The eagle face took Nick into Mr. Crutchfield’s parlor, where he screwed Nick’s chain into the rod around the crackling fireplace. While the warmth of the flames might have helped Nick relax it did not. Leaning over a table was Mr. Crutchfield, examining a map with a magnifying lens. The map was as long and broad as Dr. Feelgood’s and covered the entire surface.
“Nick Klaus,” Mr. Crutchfield said, carefully putting down his lens, chuckling. “Here, you are again.” He looked down at the chains around Nick’s ankles. “What a tragedy to have feet so heavy, for someone like you who cannot stand still and is always so eager to flee from my sight. I always knew you wouldn’t be able to escape my grip forever. I detest insolence, and yours in particular makes me want to twist your neck. And not just once . . . until it pops off. But before I assign one of my domestics to do just that, as I detest the sound of cracking bones, and throw the rest of your body to my beloved bookworms, let’s get to work.”
“Never! I’ll never work for you,” said Nick in defiance. Mr. Crutchfield approached, flaring his nostrils. “You may think that you’re smart and courageous, but I will turn you, just like everyone’s else, into an exemplary domestic.”
“Where’s my report? You stole it!”
“You mean this?” Mr. Crutchfield picked up Nick’s report with two fingers from the table as though it was a filthy rag and waved it at him.”
“Give it back.”
“You can have it back in a minute.” Mr. Crutchfield snapped his fingers and two domestics pulled up a chair and forced Nick to sit in it. Mr. Crutchfield lifted the back of his jacket and sat facing Nick, crossing his legs. He snapped his fingers again, and the eagle face brought in an old bulky wooden camera on a tripod, which he set up next to them.
“Remember the magic camera from our past encounter? Yes, it’s that very one!”
Nick recalled very well that the old camera had special powers, most of which were truly unpleasant.
“If I let my itchy fingers press this little button, I can send you wherever I wish. And if you allow me to refresh your mind, you didn’t appreciate my game that much the last time we tried.”
“You’ll never turn me into one of your domestics. Never.”
Mr. Crutchfield narrowed his eyes as his fingers tapped lightly against the button of the old camera. “I’m afraid you’re no longer in a position to negotiate or make requests.”
He turned to the table and offered Nick a plate of cookies. Large lovely round chocolate cookies. Nick’s mouth watered, but he refused to touch them. Accepting anything from Mr. Crutchfield would be a sign of betrayal—to himself and the other children.
“Suit yourself,” said Mr. Crutchfield putting down the plate. “You must be wondering why I’m tormenting you?”
“I’m not Nick Klaus!” wailed Nick.
“This is very strange. Because you sound and look just like him.”
“It was an incident that turned me into him. I’m a real person. My report explains it.”
Mr. Crutchfield sighed, rolled his eyes, clearly enjoying Nick’s torment. “I should apologize then if you’re not the evil energumen who has poisoned my life for the last eighty-five years . . .”
“Eighty five? If you look closely, you’ll see I’m barely ten.”
“Which really proves my point. In stories, fictional characters don’t get old.”
“How did you get old then?” said Nick in defiance.
Mr. Crutchfield chortled. “Let me help you. At my age, you can afford to have a very long memory. But at yours, it is all very short. Aren’t you the hero of a series of books for children?”
Nick vigorously shook his head no. Mr. Crutchfield rubbed his chin, looking confused. “I must apologize for my mistake then. I thought you were the lucky boy who could travel from book to book precisely because you were that hero. But if you are not, I must set you free immediately.”
Distrusting Mr. Crutchfield’s sincerity, Nick added. “I’m not leaving unless I leave with all the children. You should be ashamed of yourself, a grown man capturing children!”
Mr. Crutchfield closed his eyes and sighed, then he raised his hand to silence Nick. “I’m bored with you and our conversation.” He turned towards the camera. “Time to take your picture. Say cheese!”
“No!” shouted Nick, covering his face as if he could stop the camera’s dreaded transformative power. A satisfied grin took up residence on Mr. Crutchfield’s pale face.
“But here’s the thing: I have a little problem, and perhaps you can help me solve it. Help me, and I’ll set you free.” Mr. Crutchfield took a shallow breath and looked at Nick straight in the eyes. Nick shrank back on his chair. “There’s a reason I torment you. Somewhere inside the Grand Library of Books United, there exists a secret library. In it rest the most powerful books in the world. Only his Supreme Eminent Editor, and special people, have access to it. There is a magnificent book of maps, called the Carta Magnum, which contains the only known map revealing the exact location of the Daydream Factory . . .”
Nick turned his head sideways so as not to appear listening, but still he was intrigued. Could the Carta Magnum contain the map to exit the Grand Library altogether? Mr. Crutchfield leaned forward. Nick could feel the old man’s cookie breath against his face.
“Luckily, there’s a way around the Carta Magnum . . .” Mr. Crutchfield paused for a second to observe Nick’s reaction, knowing that the boy was listening to him carefully. “This camera once belonged to the late Madame Ducasse, the French fortune-teller, who for many years worked at the circus. She had inherited it from her great-great-great-great-grandfather Monsieur Eugene Ducasse, a bear tamer and frog-swallower. He stole the camera from the Daydream Factory, where it was made, more than two hundred years ago, along with many many many more unique and powerful objects, objects able to change the world, one of which, its most cherished prize, is still missing. The humming umbrella.”
Nick listened unaware that Mr. Crutchfield’s story had captivated him. He was inside it and not just listening to it. “This humming umbrella has a way to carry you from place to place just by the sound of its tune.” Mr. Crutchfield slid the plate of sweet-smelling cookies back towards Nick. “No one has been able to find the umbrella. And without it, no one can enter the Daydream Factory. Only the tune of the humming umbrella can reveal its precise location in the absence of the Carta Magnum.” Mr. Crutchfield’s eyes swept across the gigantic map on the table. “The factory’s hidden somewhere in there.” He then pulled out at an old worn-out photograph from a notebook.
“This is Madame Ducasse doing a reading. See above her?” Mr. Crutchfield slipped the picture under Nick’s nose. Nick glanced at a gypsy-looking woman with heavy eyelids, shuffling cards. She had a book tattooed below her lower lip, and behind her a Chinese umbrella with the same book pattern as her tattoo sheltered her from th
e sun. Nick pushed the picture back.
“I’ve never seen this woman. Anyway, this has nothing to do with me.”
Mr. Crutchfield stared at the cookie plate on the table. “Interesting. You were the last one to see her the day the book police confiscated my circus. Remember? You created all the mess.”
Nick had no clue what the wrinkled old man was talking about. The book police confiscating a circus? Mde. Ducasse, a French fortune-teller with a humming umbrella? He had never heard of her before as far as he could remember. Was Mr. Crutchfield referring to a different adventure Nick Klaus had lived? If this was the case, there was his proof that he was not the real Nick Klaus, otherwise he would remember the adventure and Madame Ducasse and her umbrella.
“If you take the time to read my report, you’ll see that you’re talking to the wrong person.”
Mr. Crutchfield pinched his lips, and the way his brow creased showed his patience was running thin. “Where did you put the humming umbrella?” asked Mr. Crutchfield abruptly. “I vividly recall watching her giving it to you when people scattered in panic to avoid the book police. Tell me where you put it, and I’ll let you go.”
“I’ve never seen this umbrella before.”
Mr. Crutchfield’s bushy eyebrows collapsed together. “Do you want to end up like all the other domestics? No? So