Archer pulled back from the closed door. Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Fearing his mother might ask him to dust more curtains, he hurried to his bedroom, his mind racing. Benjamin’s father is the president of the Society? He did something terrible? Some thoughts are better left unspoken, so Archer said nothing as he passed the polar bear in the alcove.
“I know what you’re thinking,” the polar bear whispered. “And if you consider it more, you might find it’s not as absurd as you think.”
Archer shut his bedroom door. It can’t be true. He went to his desk, grabbed the newspaper clippings, and there it was, right under his nose.
“We’re still gathering information,” President Birthwhistle said. “But I can say without hesitation that the iceberg was no accident.”
The room began to spin. Archer took a breath. When he released it, out came the thought he didn’t want to say.
“Did Benjamin’s father try to kill my grandparents?”
On Christmas morning, joyful children all across Rosewood sat around trees, tearing into presents and gulping down more chocolate than their stomachs knew what to do with. In Helmsley House, Archer sat on his bed, encircled with newspaper clippings, tearing through his thoughts.
Did Benjamin know who Archer was? He had to. But did Benjamin know what his father had done? That had to be why Benjamin had said Archer would hate him. Didn’t it?
“Merry Christmas, Archer! Come downstairs!”
Archer rolled off his bed and followed his father’s voice.
It wasn’t a completely cheerless Christmas morning. The Helmsleys gathered around the tree decked with metal ships and planes, exchanging and unwrapping gifts. Archer received his usual yearly planner from his parents, which he faked interest in and kindly thanked them for. Mrs. Helmsley received a tremendously colorful yak-hair sweater from Archer’s grandparents, which she quickly averted her eyes from, perhaps fearing she might go blind. Mr. Helmsley received a paperweight, bearing a red crest: ORDER OF ORION. “It’s never too late,” Grandpa Helmsley said with a wink. Archer’s gift from his grandparents was by far the greatest Christmas present he’d ever opened—a beautiful pair of binoculars, polished brass with leather grips.
“Finest they make,” Grandpa Helmsley said, placing them around Archer’s neck. “And you’ll need a fine pair when you become a Green—”
Mrs. Helmsley coughed violently into her new sweater. Grandma Helmsley rushed her a cup of tea. By the time she recovered, Grandpa Helmsley had lost his train of thought.
After a sumptuous breakfast, Archer’s grandparents went upstairs, Mr. Helmsley prodded a dwindling fire, and Archer helped his mother with the dishes. Aside from her coughing fit, she was in good spirits. Not a single person had knocked on the front door. Until someone did. Archer wasn’t sure if his mother was startled and dropped the plate or if she was furious and threw it. The dish shattered regardless, and Archer narrowly dodged a ceramic shard. His mother tore down the hall, shouting before she’d even gotten the door open.
“It’s Christmas morning! Don’t you have a fam—”
Mrs. Helmsley hushed. It was no reporter. It was a tall man in a greasy jumpsuit with an eye patch covering one of his eyes. The Eye Patch! Or at least, that’s what Archer called him. He’d met the Eye Patch twice before, but all he knew was that the Eye Patch was the captain of a ship, a friend of his grandparents’, and tremendously kind.
“Merry Christmas, Helena!” the Eye Patch cheered. “Hope I’m not disturbing you. I saw the sign. Was going to leave. But I’m here on urgent Society business. I was wondering if I might… Helena? You look a bit queasy. Don’t you remember me? It was a long time ago, but I thought the grease might…”
Mrs. Helmsley’s eyes narrowed and her forehead went splotchy. It was almost like she was trying to dig up a memory she’d killed off and buried deep in her mind.
“Cornelius?” she finally said, her voice quivering.
The Eye Patch smiled widely. Mrs. Helmsley didn’t. He seemed to know why.
“I’ll admit it wasn’t the best way to introduce myself,” he said, his smile waning. “Ralph and Rachel asked me to stay in the waiting room. And I did. But there was a pigeon, you see. It wandered into the viewing room—perched itself on his bassinet. Filthy creatures, pigeons.” Cornelius paused and looked his greasy self over. “Right. But I was only trying to shoo it away. That’s how I got the grease on his face. I tried to rub it off and, well, things sort of spiraled out of control. To be fair, you did sic those nurses on me. They nearly ran me out of Rosewood.”
Mrs. Helmsley had no response. Cornelius fished in his pockets and revealed a letter that would have been very pretty were it not spotted with grease. He handed it to Archer’s mother, who held it at arm’s length.
“For Ralph and Rachel,” Cornelius explained, wiping his hands on his chest. “Sorry about the grease. Nature of the job.”
Mrs. Helmsley glanced from the letter to Cornelius and back again. Archer wished she would say something. Cornelius was chewing his lip, his one eye looking left and right.
“I’ll just be going now,” he said, backing down the steps and nearly slipping on a patch of ice. “Sorry to disturb you. Again. And… Merry Christmas?”
Mrs. Helmsley slammed the door. “He will not become a regular visitor.”
“Was that story about me?” Archer asked as he stepped to her side.
His mother nodded gravely. “One minute you were sleeping peacefully in your bassinet. The next you were in the arms of a greasy one-eyed man. I screamed so loud the nurses thought I’d been stabbed.”
Archer suppressed his smile and stuck out his hand. “I’ll give them the letter.”
Mrs. Helmsley was all too pleased to get rid of it. “Wash up after you do.” She sniffed her hand. “It might only be grease, but it’s where that grease came from that disturbs me.”
♦ URGENT BUSINESS ♦
Archer wanted to read the letter on his way up the stairs, but he presented it to his grandparents and waited patiently as they opened and read it. Well, not that patiently. While he was trying to see through the back of the letter, he realized something was scribbled there.
Please come. The order wants to help.
Birthwhistle will not be there.
You need to tell your side before he arrives.
—Cornelius
“There’s something written on the back,” Archer said.
His grandmother flipped the letter, and he finally saw the front.
RONALD H. SUPLARD
HEAD INQUIRER
SOCIETY