We walked. Sylvie might have called it a house but I would have said it was a castle that Rory had bought for himself on his island retreat. It was built out of gray brick: a grand, sprawling building with towers and battlements and even gargoyles gazing wickedly out of the corners. We reached the front door. It was solid oak, as thick as a tree and half as welcoming.

“I wonder if we should knock?” Tim asked.

“To hell with that!” Eric pushed and the door swung open.

*  *  *

We found ourselves in a great hall with a black-and-white floor, animal heads on the walls, and a roaring fire in the hearth. A grandfather clock chimed four times. I looked at my watch—it was actually ten past three. I was already beginning to feel uneasy. Apart from the crackle of the logs and the ticking of the clock, the house was silent. It felt empty. No Rory, no Mrs. Rory, no butler, no cook. Just us.

“Hello?” Libby called out. “Is there anyone at home?”

“It-doesn’t-look-as-if-there’s-anyone-here,” Mark said. At least, I think that’s what he said. Speaking was something else that he did very fast. Whole sentences came out of his mouth as a single word.

“This is ridiculous,” Eric snapped. “I suggest we split up and try and find Rory. Maybe he’s asleep upstairs.”

So we all went our separate ways. Mark and Eric headed off through different doors. Libby Goldman went into the kitchen. Tim and I went upstairs. It was only now that we were inside that I realized just how big this house was. It had five staircases, doors everywhere, and so many corridors that we could have been walking through a maze. And if it looked like a castle from the outside, inside it was like a museum. There was more furniture than you’d find in a department store. Antique chairs and sofas stood next to cupboards and sideboards and tables of every shape and size. There were so many oil paintings that you could hardly see the walls. Rory also seemed to have a fondness for ancient weapons—I had only been in the place a few minutes but already I had seen crossbows and muskets and flintlock pistols mounted on wooden plaques. On the first floor there was a stuffed bear holding an Elizabethan gun . . . a blunderbuss. The stairs and upper landing were covered in thick, red carpet that muffled every sound. In the distance I could hear Janet calling out Rory’s name but it was difficult to say if she was near or far away. Suddenly we were lost and very much on our own.

We reached a corner where there was a suit of dull silver armor standing guard; a knight with a shield but no sword.

“I don’t like it,” I said.

“I think it’s a very nice suit of armor,” Tim replied.