If You're Reading This, It's Too Late

  You know all about Cass’s morning ritual. But she had a nighttime ritual as well.

  I’m afraid she might not have liked me telling you about this ritual — because it didn’t necessarily match the tough image she liked to project. It was not part of her survivalist training; it was more, well, daughterly.

  Every night, when Cass was ready for bed, her mother would knock on the door (she always knocked before entering; it was a rule) and then she would peek inside Cass’s room.

  “Please, can I tuck you in tonight?” her mother would ask. “Just one more time. I won’t be able to sleep otherwise.”

  Cass would groan. “You’re such a baby! Do you have to?” And then she would let her mother tuck her in, anyway. They both knew that Cass liked to be tucked in as much as her mother liked tucking her in, but it was more fun to think of Cass as the grown-up and her mother as the child.

  At least, that had been their ritual until Cass was grounded. For the last few nights, Cass had gone to bed on her own.

  Tonight, though, having painstakingly reconstructed her sock-monster, but not yet having fully reconstructed her courage, she knocked on her mother’s door. “Mom, will you, um, tuck me in?”

  Her mother smiled as if she’d been paid the best compliment of her life. “Of course, sweetie,” she said. “You know how much I’ve been missing that.”

  Later, as Cass’s mother was giving her a last smothering good-night kiss, the phone rang. Once.

  “Must have been a wrong number,” said Cass’s mother, standing to go.

  Cass nodded, not thinking anything about it.

  Then the phone rang again. Twice. The signal!

  For a second, Cass’s eyes flared with excitement. Which she squashed just as quickly.

  “What?” her mother asked from the doorway. “Do you know who that was?”

  “No, it’s nothing!”

  “Cass . . . ?”

  “Probably just a wrong number, like you said.”

  “Cass, you’re not a grown-up yet. You don’t get secret calls from people I don’t know.”

  “Fine. It was Max-Ernest. It means I’m supposed to call him, but I don’t feel like it. I’ll just talk to him tomorrow. There, are you satisfied?”

  Her mother nodded. “Thank you. You know I don’t like having secrets in this house.”

  Cass (snorting): “Whatever.”

  Mom: “Was that a snort?”

  (Oops. Now she had blown it.)

  Cass: “What?”

  Mom: “Whatever snort what?”

  Cass: “What are you talking about?”

  Mom: “Don’t whatever snort me.”

  Cass: “I didn’t.”

  Mom: “You didn’t what? Just say whatever you were going to say!”

  Cass: “You don’t want me to say it. You don’t want to talk about it.”

  Mom: “Now you really better say it. . . .”

  Cass: “Fine — whatever, you won’t even tell me who my dad is!”

  There it was.

  In a movie, that would be a big moment. There would be a crescendo of the score, or on television, a cutaway to an advertisement for diapers, or motor oil, or hammocks. However, in a plain old commercial-free conversation, an awkward sentence like that has to be followed by another awkward sentence.

  Her mother stared at her in surprise. “Cass, where did that come from? You . . . you haven’t asked about . . . that in years.”

  “Never mind,” said Cass, regretting her words immediately. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up. It’s not my business. . . .”

  “Of course, it’s your business,” said her mother, walking back to Cass’s bedside. “I just . . . wasn’t expecting the question, that’s all. Well, I was expecting it sometime, just not . . .” She trailed off.

  There was silence for a moment, mother and daughter each waiting for the other to speak. Cass couldn’t remember ever experiencing a more uncomfortable moment with her mother. Sure, they’d had screaming fights, even thrown things — a remote control, an oboe, a lasagna — but somehow this was worse.

  “Anyway,” said Cass, desperately wanting the moment to be over, “whoever he is, he’s not really my father. I mean, he didn’t raise me. So it doesn’t really matter.”

  Her mother looked at her searchingly. “Are you sure, Cass? Is that really how you feel?”

  Cass nodded vigorously. She knew that later she would kick herself for not pushing her mother to say more, but right now, for some reason — for a hundred reasons — it was the last thing she wanted.

  “Good,” said her mother, giving Cass a quick hug. “You and me — we’re what matters, right?”

  She left the room — but not without shouting “Love you!” one more time.

  At exactly midnight, Cass found Max-Ernest waiting for her in the Barbie Graveyard. Hands in his pockets, he was bouncing up and down to ward off the chill.

  Before she could say anything, he started talking in a long chain of words, connecting one thought to the next without stopping — almost like his old self. His breath made puffs in the air as he spoke.

  “. . . I didn’t read any of it because I didn’t think it would be fair to read it without you, and . . . anyway, I wasn’t sure whether I should read it at all. Maybe I should just give it to you, right? I mean, if I’m not your collaborator anymore — I mean, am I? — and does that mean I’m not part of the Terces Society, either? But the package came to me, and it was addressed to ‘Max-Ernest the Magnificent’! How ’bout that? And I’ve got a new trick. Actually, a couple. Well, one that I can do pretty well right now. But anyway, my name was on the note, too. So maybe I should read it. You know, if you want . . .”

  It was a good three minutes before Cass could get a word in. Finally, she had to grab him by the shoulders.

  “Max-Ernest, listen to me. Of course, you should read it. And of course, you’re still my collaborator. And of course, you’re still in the Terces Society. You’re just being crazy, all because Yo-Yoji could tell those notes for us, which is totally ridiculous — anyway, I hardly even know him! And I have a million things to tell you.”

  Max-Ernest looked at her in silence for a moment, taking this in. “OK, what?”

  She told him about the break-in at her grand-fathers’ store and the broken-up sock-monster on her bed.

  “That wasn’t a million things. That was two.”

  “Max-Ernest . . . !”

  “OK, well, I guess you, I mean, we better find the homunculus fast, before they come back! Maybe it will tell us how in here.” He held up the coiled pages of the Sound Prism file. “I mean, if the homunculus even exists. Which I still doubt —”

  “You think it’ll say why the Sound Prism belongs to me, you know, like Pietro said?”

  Max-Ernest’s eyes widened. “I dunno — let’ssee.”

  Together, they sat down on the ground and leaned back against the remains of the old dog-house. As Max-Ernest held the flashlight for her, Cass began to read aloud from the file.

  Although they were shivering, they didn’t seem to notice the cold. Sometimes just having a friend to keep you company can make a freezing night seem, well, a little less freezing.

  Considering the documents in the Sound Prism file spanned five hundred years, there weren’t very many of them.

  The oldest was a wrinkled scrap of parchment covered with elaborate calligraphic script:

  15 August 1817

  For Sir Gilbert, on his Thirteenth Birthday — the day the Boy becomes the Man!

  This musical ball known as the Sound Prism belonged to your late father. And before that to his father. And before that to his. I hope you cherish this family heirloom, but beware, the ball is not for play —

  Beyond that, the parchment was too smudged to be legible.

  Cass put it aside, wondering what it would be like to know not only who your father was, but your father’s father’s father.

  The next letter was much more recent. As Max-Erne
st shined the flashlight on it, Cass gasped. “Look at this one — it’s from Grandpa Larry! How weird . . .”

  “Not that weird. Remember, Mr. Wallace said he was their accountant, right?”

  “Yeah, but still —”

  Sept. 14, XXXX

  Dear Mr. Wallace,

  I confess I was surprised when you asked me to examine this “Sound Prism” of yours. Such a whimsical object — and you such a serious man!

  I can’t tell much without being allowed to touch it. (Just what are you afraid of?) But I believe it to be carved from alabaster and about 600 years old. Most of the workmanship looks Austrian — but the silver band is more typically English. A later addition?

  With what tools the interior was carved I cannot guess. In its own small way, the Sound Prism is an engineering feat to rival the Roman aqueducts.

  And that’s all I have to report. Except for a strange coincidence . . . Imagine my shock yesterday when a lady walked in asking if I’d ever encountered a stone “Sound Ball.”

  And what a lady! So beautiful! But very cold. I asked if she would sell any of her exquisite gold jewelry, and she just laughed.

  Naturally, I didn’t tell her anything about you.

  See you at tax time. As usual, our accounts are a mess!

  Cheers,

  Larry

  “Wow, so my grandfather has seen the Sound Prism,” said Cass, putting down the letter. “I wonder if we should ask him about it. . . .”

  “So do you think they know . . . ?”

  “About the Terces Society?” Cass shook her head. “It didn’t sound like it. . . .” Cass hesitated, then shrugged off the thought. “It’s impossible!”

  An old yellowed manuscript took up the rest of the pages. When they saw the title, they both breathed in sharply with excitement.

  Max-Ernest still holding the flashlight, Cass sat back and started reading with the same kind of pleasurable anticipation you have when you’re about to read, oh, say, the sequel to a favorite book.

  The Legend of Cabbage Face A Gothic Tale

  Note: This story is based on oral tales and interviews with older Terces Society members, now sadly deceased. I believe it to be true in essence if not entirely in fact. Like all Society lore, it should be regarded as a sacred trust, and never shared with outsiders.

  Signed, Xxxxxxx Xx Xxxx, 1898

  Part the First

  Four hundred years ago, in the city of Basel, in the country now known as Switzerland, there lived a great doctor.

  At a very young age, this doctor rose to the height of his profession, treating grateful patients from all over the country and teaching many adoring students at the university.

  And yet he was unhappy. He felt stifled by life in Europe and by the closed-minded state of the doctors around him.

  Medicine in those days was not so far from magic, but he aspired to work in ways that even then were considered obscure and dangerous. Unbeknownst to his peers, the doctor was a devotee of that occult practice that is sometimes called the Secret Science, or alchemy.

  And so, not much more than twenty years old, he closed his medical practice and left home on a quest to discover all the secrets of the East. He traveled far and wide — consulting the astrologers of Arabia, the metallurgists of Egypt, and the libraries of Constantinople — until he could justly claim that he knew more of the alchemical arts than any other man alive.

  And yet he was not satisfied.

  For it was not just the common goal of alchemy he was after, the turning of lead into gold, but something far more elusive: power over life itself.

  When at last, after years and years of searching, he returned home, he immediately embarked upon another journey: a journey of the mind.

  For as many years as he’d traveled abroad, he now remained home, locked in his basement laboratory, never emerging except to collect ever stranger and more exotic ingredients for his experiments. Powders ground from dried bugs. Roots of thousand-year-old trees. Liquids distilled from the blood of animals unknown outside the most remote jungles. Curious, quivering packages his housekeeper dared not peek inside.

  At first, his housekeeper had asked about his work, but she soon learned not to question him. When he was younger, the doctor had loved nothing more than to discuss the mysteries of medicine. He had been kind and generous. Now, he was cruel and withdrawn.

  He was interested only in himself. And yet he was no longer himself.

  Finally, the time was nigh. The alchemist was about to complete his greatest task.

  The raging furnace cast a scarlet glow over the cold, dungeon-like laboratory.

  But it was a deeper, more internal — more infernal — fire that was reflected in the eyes of the man pacing to and fro across the stone floor.

  A fire of ambition so great it had become madness.

  Of greed so insatiable it had become a monster.

  Never pausing, he checked pots and beakers and decanters, he gauged temperatures, he mixed liquids and poured powders — his impatience growing more feverish with every passing moment.

  A door creaked open and a dusty shaft of light suddenly illuminated the laboratory.

  “Shut the door, Fräulein! Now!” hissed the al-chemist.

  The door slammed shut, but not before the light landed on a large copper tub in the corner of the room. Dark, oozing sludge bubbled inside.

  “What have I told you about interrupting me while I’m working? Are you stupid or merely obstinate?”

  The woman addressed in this friendly fashion, his housekeeper, stood with her back to the now closed door, holding her hand to her nose.

  “I’m terribly sorry, Herr Doctor,” she said nervously. “But the stench — the neighbors are complaining. . . .”

  “Does it smell? I hadn’t noticed,” replied the alchemist coldly.

  “It’s suffocating! I fear for your health, Doctor.”

  The alchemist cackled, as if this were a great joke. “Oh, have no fear in that regard. I’ve never felt better, Fräulein. Never better.”

  “But all that . . . that horse dung . . . fermenting for months! Even horses couldn’t bear it. Please allow me to clean it up. What you could possibly want with —”

  “Enough! Forget the neighbors. Soon they will worship and fear me and will dare not talk any longer.”

  “But you used to have their love — why now do you want their fear?”

  “Silence, Fräulein! No more questions. Attend to your housekeeping.”

  “Very good, Doctor,” said the housekeeper, clearly unsatisfied.

  As she turned to go, a muffled cry echoed in the stone room. “Was that — it sounded like an animal,” she said, peering into the darkness. “Or perhaps a —”

  “Perhaps the smell is rather close in here,” said the alchemist. “It seems to be affecting your imagination. Now get out!”

  The housekeeper opened the door again and this time the beam of light fell on the alchemist.

  “One more thing, Fräulein — I am no mere doctor any longer,” he said, his face floating like some terrible apparition among the swirling particles of dust. “For I have learned secrets long buried under pyramids. Powers known only to the kings of ancient Egypt. From now on, you will address me as Pharaoh. No . . . Lord Pharaoh.”

  “Yes, Lord Pharaoh,” said the housekeeper, hurrying out.

  When the door closed behind the housekeeper, the newly crowned Lord Pharaoh hovered over the tub in the corner of the room. A large flask was half submerged in the sludge, its glass top glinting in the light of the fire.

  Whimpering, gurgling sounds were emitted from the flask.

  “Yes, my beautiful, my ugly little creature, your time has come,” said the alchemist, pulling the dripping flask out of the tub and holding it high above his head.

  “Oh, miracle of nature. Nay, miracle of man. Nay, miracle of my own hands!” he proclaimed. “The world will behold you with awe — and to me they will bow!”

  The flask had
a long, narrow neck and a large, rounded bottom. In the dim light, not much of its contents could be seen — except a tiny foot curled up under a little leg and an unexpectedly large nose pressed against the glass.

  When Cass read the last line, Max-Ernest let out a little gasp.

  Cass looked at him. “Scared?”

  “Just keep reading . . . !” Max-Ernest peered over Cass’s shoulder to see what came next.

  “Can’t I take a breath?” said Cass. “Besides, I thought you didn’t believe in the homunculus, anyway.”

  “Yeah, but it’s still a good story.”

  “Even though you don’t think it’s true? Then how come you always say you only like nonfiction?” Cass grinned. She was enjoying this.

  “Just read already!”

  “Here, you read — I’ll hold the flashlight.”

  Part the Second

  Ten years later . . .

  The shimmering ball spun in the air, making a strange and wonderful sort of music. It seemed to incorporate all the sounds and voices of nature and yet to come from another world altogether.

  Watching and listening from the opposite end of the king’s throne room was a creature no less fantastical but far more earthly.

  Normally, this creature — although called many names he had no name to call his own — hated crowds. They always stared and pointed and threw things. But he found if he concentrated on the wondrous, spinning instrument — if instrument indeed it was — then he could almost ignore the faces of the courtiers lined up on either side of him.

  He felt a tug on his iron collar, followed by the sharp crack of a whip on his shoulder. His master was urging him forward.

  “Your Majesty, Lord Pharaoh and his Homunculus!” a royal guard announced with a flourish.

  The Homunculus — for he was the creature so described — shuffled forward, his shoulder still smarting with pain.

  “Lord Pharaoh, is it?” asked the heavyset monarch sitting on the throne.* “And who granted you that title?”

  “I beg your forgiveness, Sire. A village magician’s folly — that is all,” said Lord Pharaoh, bowing with uncharacteristic and clearly unfelt obsequiousness.

  The King nodded impatiently. “So this is the miraculous creation we have been hearing about, is it? The Bavarian marvel. He doesn’t look like much — just another carnival dwarf.”