“What?” Paul asked without returning the glance. He still stared at the poem, which shimmered as brightly as ever, his lips forming the strange words silently. Sofia was doing the same thing a couple feet from him.

Tick returned to the poem, quickly rereading it. “I can’t believe Master George is messing around with riddles and clues again. I thought we’d proved ourselves already.”

“How do you know it’s from Master George?” Paul asked.

“Hmmm,” Sofia said. “Maybe because he told us to go to the cemetery then winked us here? I know it’s a little complicated for—”

A loud, electric crack cut her off, followed by a series of hissing sizzles. The letters of the poem quickly sparkled and flashed before disappearing altogether, the wispy, streaming trails of smoke the only sign they’d ever been there. Without any wind, the smoke lingered, slowly coalescing and melding into one hazy glob.

Just when everything seemed utterly silent, another loud crack of electricity made Tick jump, one last explosion of light igniting on the ground a few feet in front of Sofia. It was gone as quickly as it had come, and in its place stood a small metal box, a tiny latch on the front.

Paul got there first, dropping to his knees and reaching out for the box.

“Wait!” Sofia said.

Paul’s hands froze in midair; he looked over his shoulder. “Why? This is obviously from Master George, right? You just said I was an idiot for doubting it.”

“Well . . . yeah, I guess. Just . . . I don’t know, be careful.”

“Open it,” Tick urged. “We’re lucky he didn’t wink it into one of our skulls.”

Paul reached out again and flipped up the latch, then carefully lifted the lid open. He leaned forward and looked down into the small space of the container; Tick and Sofia stood behind him, looking over his shoulder.

Inside, there lay only a small piece of paper. Stiff, white paper—cardstock.

“Definitely M.G.’s MO,” Paul said as he picked up the message. He held it up in the scant light for everyone to see.

In the same typed writing of the Twelve Clues from their first adventure with Master George, the paper contained the exact poem, word for word, they’d just seen floating in the air like the world’s most sophisticated fireworks. Paul flipped the paper over and read another mysterious clue:

Miss Graham is the key. Repeat: you must find Anna.

“Man, he’s getting all fancy on us,” Paul said, standing up. “Why use all the Christmas lights if he was gonna send us this anyway?”

“Guess he wanted to show off,” Sofia said, taking the message from Paul. She sat down on the stone-paved road and read through the poem again.