The Cracks in the Kingdom Read online

  Princess Ko closed her eyes tightly and shifted her shoulders.

  “It doesn’t work like that,” she began. “It’s more complex — more sensitive — there are branches of Loyalists that don’t know each other — there are …”

  “Sounds like a mess to me.” Keira looked at Elliot. “Your dad’s listening device. Can I borrow it until the next meeting? I’d like to look at it more closely.”

  Elliot was still trembling but Keira’s contempt had reshaped and settled his fury. It was as if she’d manifested his anger for him. He felt calm again.

  “Sure,” he said, drawing the paper clip from his pocket.

  “No,” said Princess Ko.

  There was a knock on the door.

  A waiter entered carrying a jug of kale juice. He set this on the table and retreated.

  When they turned back to Princess Ko, she had straightened in her chair, and gathered her face again.

  “Take the paper clip back, Elliot,” she instructed him. “Keep it, please. I have other work for Keira. Several more boxes of code.”

  Keira laughed.

  Elliot looked at the paper clip, lying in the palm of his hand.

  “As for you, Elliot,” Princess Ko said. “I have prepared letters for my family, each containing a memory trigger. I need you to go home and have Madeleine forward these. I also need you to work harder, faster, and better at opening the crack between the worlds.”

  Elliot closed his hand on the paper clip. A headache flared across his scalp, and tightened around his forehead.

  “You, Samuel,” Princess Ko said, and Samuel glanced over the rim of his kale juice.

  “As discussed, you will steal the original accounts from the archives.”

  Samuel nodded forlornly, and poured himself another glass of juice.

  “Sergio, you will go back to the WSU and get us the detector. And if you can’t, get something else. I don’t know. Equipment. Bring us some equipment. They use machines to seal up cracks. Get us one of those. We’ll reverse engineer it or whatever, and use it to unseal the crack. I have no idea what I’m saying. Just. Do your job. And, Agent Nettles,” she glanced up at the woman, still standing at her shoulder. “My team and I have come this far. We will continue. We will retrieve my family. Should a point come when I decide that we require help from you — or that we need to widen the circle of agents, and to requisition Agents Tovey and Kim from Bonfire — I will not hesitate to take that step.”

  That facial tic passed over Agent Nettles’s face. Her mouth stretched suddenly, her eyes widened, then her face relaxed. She returned to her usual position.

  “What else did we have to do at this meeting?” the Princess demanded, almost fretfully. “There was something else.”

  “You wanted us to do the brainstorm,” Sergio said. “Ideas for what your family might be doing.”

  The Princess sighed and began to speak but Keira interrupted.

  “I wrote a program for you,” she said. “Last night, when we got back. It compiles media reports of royal activities for the last several hundred years. Hit the Activity button and it’ll give you a random example. Like the Queen opening a dog show, or the Princess has a cold. Whatever.”

  “Good,” said Princess Ko. She blinked. “Thank you,” she remembered.

  “I could do more work on the tech side of things if you like,” Keira added. “I know you’ve got an agent creating artificial fan pages, and airbrushing royals into current events, and that.” Keira paused. “No offense, but whoever your tech person is, they suck. I could do better.”

  The Princess stared, then roused herself. “My tech person is fine. Just read the documents, Keira. Now everybody: Go.”

  She closed her eyes, and as she did, Elliot slipped the paper clip into Keira’s hand.

  * * *

  Elliot took the train home to Bonfire.

  He went straight from the station to the Watermelon Inn, and asked to see Agents Kim and Tovey. It was noon, Monday. They weren’t there, Auntie Alanna told him. They’d stepped out to the Sheriff’s station to borrow some equipment.

  Elliot walked from the Inn to the Sheriff’s station.

  He stood on the street and watched the profiles of Tovey and Kim through the windows.

  At four P.M., they were still there. He walked into the schoolyard, empty now, and sent the Princess’s memory letters through to Madeleine, with a note asking her to forward these.

  Then he went home.

  For the next week, he got up an hour early every day. He worked in the greenhouse, then rode his bike to the Watermelon Inn. He sat on the couch in the front room, while guests breakfasted around him.

  Eventually, the agents would come downstairs.

  They’d smile at him across the room, and shake their heads meaning, “No news yet,” then they’d choose from the buffet. Usually they had the waffles with maple syrup, but now and then Agent Tovey chose granola, fruit, and yogurt instead. They poured themselves coffee and glasses of grapefruit juice, sat at a table, and ate.

  As soon as he saw them wipe their mouths and push back their chairs, Elliot would go to school.

  After school he did his homework, helped his mother, went to bed.

  He did nothing about the crack.

  He avoided the sculpture in the schoolyard. He had no idea if Madeleine was sending notes or not.

  His head ached constantly.

  After a week and a half of this, Agents Tovey and Kim wiped their mouths one morning, and then, instead of heading out, walked over to him.

  They sat down, one on either side.

  Agent Kim opened his sketchbook, and flipped through the pages.

  He stopped at a page, and passed it over to Elliot. It was a portrait of Elliot himself, sitting on this couch.

  “Turn the page,” Kim said.

  He turned, and there was a second portrait, almost identical to the first.

  “Keep going,” said Kim.

  Elliot turned page after page. There were twenty-five portraits altogether. He must have been drawing two or three a day.

  “I sketch people’s faces because they tell me people’s thoughts,” Kim said. He touched a small shadow on a portrait. “But this is spilled maple syrup, and not one of your thoughts.”

  Elliot smiled a little.

  Agent Kim raised an eyebrow across at Tovey.

  “You think we’re planning to give up on this,” Tovey said. “Your thoughts are shouting so loud I don’t need Kim’s sketches to read them. I don’t know where you’ve got it from, Elliot, but you think we plan to ditch you.”

  Kim took his notebook back, and closed it.

  “We are heading out,” Tovey continued. “Tonight, actually. To Jagged Edge. To the Hostile compound where your dad is being held. It’s time for the next step.”

  Now Tovey scratched his chin, frowning hard. He sniffed.

  “Elliot,” he said, “there’s not much I can guarantee in this life, but this I’m going to swear. Not a thing in all the Kingdoms and Empires would make me abandon this case. Not an order from the highest authority. Not if my wife went into labor with triplets. Well, I haven’t got a wife and if I did she wouldn’t be pregnant with triplets if I could help it, but you see my point. Are you listening to me? I aim to bring your father home and no one’s going to stop me.”

  Tovey stood. “Do you believe me?”

  There was a long pause.

  Then Elliot nodded. His headache slipped away like a scarf.

  In Montreal, Canada, the weather is subsiding into greyness.

  Maximillian Reisman sits on the open window ledge. In one hand he holds a letter; in the other an audiocassette. Listen to this, the letter instructs him. He laughs. The “kingdom-of-cello” campaign has a few cracks in it. Where would anybody find a cassette player these days?

  It is the voice of the Queen — my mother, your wife — and you will surely remember her — yourself — your Kingdom — everything — if only you hear her sing.
>
  The laughter snaps back into his face.

  He drops both letter and cassette to the floor, and kicks them away.

  * * *

  In Taipei, Taiwan, Sasha Wilczek holds the paper to her nose and breathes deeply. The scent seems at first like honeydew melon, then it sweetens into freesia before swooping unexpectedly towards something spicy, like cloves.

  This letter has been sprayed with Essence of Kia. Kindly smell it. It’s your perfume! It will surely return you to yourself, my darling mother, for you wear it every day.

  Or wore it. I suppose it may not be available in the World. Or, if it is, I suppose you have forgotten that you wear it. But you do! Speaking of wearing, what about your wedding ring? Is it not on your finger? Surely if you look at THAT you will remember your husband — my father — and then, onward, from him to yourself and your children (such as me, for example) and your Kingdom. Stare at the ring now! Keep staring! (Do you know that your husband is living in Montreal in Canada at the moment? I’m afraid he has forgotten you too.)

  I hope your ring is not lost along with your memory.

  Sasha looks at her bare fingers, bare hands. She looks down at her bare knees, the cracks in her knees, and she holds that word, lost, until it’s lost amidst her tears. She sold her wedding ring to pay her first month’s rent here. She doesn’t know what’s lost, but something is and it’s more than a ring, more even than Sasha herself.

  * * *

  In Boise, Idaho, USA, Monty Rickard grabs the envelope, grinning. He recognises the crest from the last letter. He figures it’s connected to a new computer game that his friends are designing, and they’re playing it out through these messages to him. He’s perfectly okay with that.

  He can be Prince Chyba of the Kingdom of Cello anytime they like.

  This time a small square, wrapped in cellophane, slips into his hand.

  You love the chocolate of the Southern Climes, Chyba — you seem to have inherited that passion from our mother, the Queen. Close your eyes as you taste this and let the memories come crashing back.

  Ha. Chocolate! This game gets better all the time.

  * * *

  In Berlin, Germany, Ariel Peters is reading a letter:

  Hello there, Jupiter,

  It is four A.M. and I am in the Penthouse Suite of the Cardamom Palace in Tek, Jagged Edge. I can’t find anything special of yours here — it must all be at home in the White Palace. So I’ll just say this. Do you remember when you and I were staying here, and we were about six and five, and we both had colds, and our noses snuffled, and there was snow outside, and you wanted to go out, but this was forbidden, and you opened the window, saying, “Let’s climb out,” and at that moment — for just the faintest moment — for the first time ever — we heard the Cello wind?

  You must remember.

  Just remember. Please.

  At Avoca Beach, New South Wales, Australia, Finn Mackenzie is also reading. The writing is small, though, and the words stumble along. He keeps looking around for somebody to read it to him, but the house, of course, is empty.

  Dear Tippett,

  I am sending you this little piece. To remind you of who you really are.

  You must be missing it so much. I suppose you’ve learned to fall asleep without it. Or you’ve stayed awake for over a year!

  That does not seem likely.

  I suppose there are grown-ups taking care of you. I hope they are kind. Maybe they have found you a new one?

  Of course, some things cannot be replaced.

  And of course, we all used to tell you that you were too old for one of these, but secretly, we loved to see you hug it. When we hugged you, it was like YOU were a blanket just for us. So why did we try to make you give it up?

  Nobody was going to make us give YOU up.

  Except that now they have.

  Anyway, here is a little square of it from the corner. I tried to get some of the satin lining that you like to rub.

  I carry it with me, in the front zipper part of my suitcase, wherever I travel. It makes me feel like I’ve got YOU in my suitcase. Only you’d be squashed. So I’d get you straight out.

  Write back and tell me you’re okay?

  Love,

  your sister,

  Ko

  Finn turns back to the envelope, tips it up, shakes it, and it falls into his hand —

  And here it is.

  Here it is on his palm, a piece no bigger than a postcard, but the texture, the weave, the colour: He closes his eyes and imagines he is winding it around his arm, snaking it up to his face. He lifts the piece and presses it against his cheek. Here it is, at last, his blanket. A piece of his blanket so small that he doesn’t want to get it wet with tears.

  1.

  On Monday night, Madeleine returned to the parking meter.

  She’d swung by earlier that day, just to check, and she’d picked up the letters he wanted her to forward to the royal family. She’d gone straight to the post office and sent them.

  Now she wrote:

  Hey, Elliot. You there?

  Then she waited.

  She looked at her watch. She was wearing a new scarf, lime green with a white dragonfly print, which she’d found at Oxfam for 50 p. Her black headband held her hair back. There was the smell of rain and drainpipes, car tyres, spray paint, roller doors, and cat. A chill touched the air, autumn curling in on them.

  She was full of the brightness of an orange. She was trembling with things she had to tell him. She imagined she was tipping towards the parking meter, pouring in her thoughts. What would she tell him first?

  That she’d seen him, of course. On Saturday night, crossing his schoolyard. His bruised eye, limp, overcoat. She’d say — she hesitated — she’d say he looked different from how she had expected.

  She’d tell him how it had happened. The misaligned centre of me, the misaligned centre of you. Gravity and matching displacement. Did the cracks in their lives draw them to each other? If you focused on cracks, were you drawn across the crack?

  How she’d been thinking about displacement, and its power.

  She’d tell him about the class they’d had with Jack’s grandfather, Federico. He taught them History in the office above the porter’s lodge at Trinity College. A few months back, he’d made them choose from a hat full of famous names — people who’d been there at Trinity — for an assignment.

  Belle had chosen Charles Babbage, the almost-inventor of computers, but had switched to his friend, Ada Lovelace, the almost-inventor of programming.

  Jack had chosen Lord Byron, the poet.

  She herself had chosen Isaac Newton.

  Anyway, in the office above the porter’s lodge, Federico had instructed her to say more about Isaac Newton.

  “What do you want me to say about him?”

  “What? How shall I know this? It was your assignment! Just say it!”

  Then he closed his eyes.

  So she told them how, when he was sixteen, Isaac’s mother had taken him out of school so he could run the family farm. His sheep had trampled the neighbours’ barley while he built waterwheels in the stream. He’d been fined in the manor court for allowing his pigs to trespass in the cornfields. He’d lost the horse. His fences had fallen apart. Eventually, his mother gave up and sent him back to school.

  “No wonder so much went wrong,” Madeleine concluded. “Isaac Newton as a farmer was a total displacement. The universe was misaligned.”

  “It was nothing to do with the universe,” Belle said. “Newton was just crap at farming.”

  “It’s cause he was a genius,” Jack reasoned. “So his mind was on higher callings than sheep. I get like that when I’m thinking about Byron’s poetry. I just find that things like doing the laundry don’t matter.”

  “Yet they do,” said his grandfather, caustically.

  “I know what it was,” Belle interrupted. “He did it on purpose so his mum would stop making him be a farmer. It’s what my dad does with t
he washing up.”

  “It’s what?”

  “My dad. When he washes up he does a rubbish job, like he leaves bits of mashed potato in the saucepan, so when you get it out the next day you want to kill yourself. So eventually Mum’ll go, Oh là là, get away from here! And he’ll go, Yeah, all right, I’ll watch the telly, then, will I? And she does the washing up instead.”

  “How do you know it’s on purpose?”

  “His aura goes crusty when he does it, exactly like dried-up, leftover beef stew. That’s how I know. Seriously, Madeleine, that’s what your Isaac was up to when he lost the sheep or whatever. His aura probably turned to sheep dung.”

  “Basta! Enough!”

  They all swung around to look at Federico. Or at least at the top of his head. His chin was pressed against his chest.

  “This Isaac Newton. Madeleine?” Federico’s voice was muffled.

  “Yes.”

  “You remember, on the day you chose him — you remember you took two papers from the hat? And I said, no! I said, choose one — open only one?”

  “Oh, yeah. I remember that.”

  There was a long silence. Federico’s chin remained pressed against his chest. They glanced at one another.

  “Has he gone to sleep?” Belle asked.

  “No, he has not!” Federico looked up, blinking fast. He held out his hand, his fingers curled. “Madeleine. Come. Take this.”

  His fingers uncurled. A tiny strip of paper lay flat on his palm.

  “It is the other,” he said. “I have been thinking. You are supposed to do both!”

  “How can that be fair?” Belle asked, surprised. “She already did the first famous person ages ago. Now she’s got to do another one?”

  “Ah.” Federico shrugged. “She will live.”

  The name on the paper was James Clerk Maxwell.

  “Oh, well, not famous,” Belle said promptly. “Never heard of him.”

  “He’s probably famous in his own way,” Jack suggested. “Like in his circle of friends. Maybe he does magic tricks when they get together down the pub? Or could be there was this famous incident at a party once, when someone dropped their keys in a pond, right? And he fished them out using his mum’s prosthetic leg. People still talk about it years later.”