He pushed a ladder on runners to the location, climbed up, and pulled the book out. The leather was a natural, warm golden brown with no fancy lettering on it. He opened the book but found it contained only blank pages, except for some handwriting on one page. That was it. Even as he told the seeker this better be the right book, it extinguished itself, leaving him on his own.
He descended the ladder only to see something more frightening than a room of geese—a broom wielded by invisible hands flying at him. He barely had time to fling up his arm in defense when the broom descended on him.
“Ow!”
He scampered to and fro to avoid the broom as it swatted him. He bumped into the telescope and knocked it over. Its precious lenses smashed to bits when it hit the floor. The broom smacked his head and he yelped. He jumped out of the way to avoid another strike and the broom swished by him, sweeping all the objects off one of the tables. The harp thudded to the floor, emitting the most unearthly notes, like voices humming.
Down came the broom again and again. He headed for the door, but staggered into a side table that held the ship in the bottle. The table keeled, the water in the bottle cresting and washing over the ship rails. The miniature sailors on deck scrambled for handholds. Sailors?
Thursgad watched in horror as the table teetered on edge, the bottle sliding, sliding…He couldn’t move, was unable to stop the inevitable. Even the broom paused, hovered in place. It felt as though all the air had been sucked from the room.
The table pitched over and the bottle smashed to the floor, expelling its contents in a wave across the carpet. The house itself seemed to heave a great sigh as a breeze tousled Thursgad’s hair. He imagined he heard the cries of all those sailors and the crashing of surf.
Then the broom came after him again and he found himself splashing through water, water that kept rising, was even now rising to his ankles. How could it be? The bottle wasn’t that big. He smelled brine in the air, gulls cried…
He sloshed through the water, the broom assaulting his head and shoulders. He finally escaped through the door, water rushing out with him. He pelted down the corridor and leaped down the stairs. He didn’t dare look over his shoulder to see if the broom followed. He didn’t care—he just had to escape the house.
He ran through the kitchen with its oven emitting wonderful aromas and flew out the door for the woods, his prize tucked safely beneath his arm. Even in all the mayhem, he had somehow managed not to drop it.
“It was a yellow warbler, I told you,” said Miss Bay.
The sisters ambled across the stone bridge and along the drive that led to Seven Chimneys.
“What would a yellow warbler be doing here at this time of year?” Miss Bunch asked. “You know full well they’ve all migrated south.”
Miss Bay lifted her chin and sniffed. “Not all. I know what I saw.”
“You can’t have seen it, sister, it is just not possible. All the warblers have gone.”
“Hmph.”
“Really, if you saw a warbler, then I’m a trout.”
Miss Bay gave her an appraising look. “You are a trout.”
Miss Bunch pouted.
They paused before the grand old house their father, Professor Erasmus Norwood Berry, had built for their mother long years past. It was as fine a country manor as one could find in more populous regions, surrounded by gardens and plantings the sisters had cultivated over their lifetimes. The gardens had been put to rest for the season by Farnham, the beds buried in mulch.
“I for one miss the warblers,” said Miss Bunch. “It shall be another long, dreary winter, though I suppose the blue jays and chickadees will entertain us.”
“And the seagulls!”
“Really, Bay, you must stop lying about birds.”
But Miss Bay raised her bony arm and pointed to the sky, her gaze unwavering. “I do not lie about birds.”
Miss Bunch followed her gaze and gasped. Seagulls, instead of smoke, were issuing from the chimneys and wheeling about the roof.
“I spoke too soon, I fear,” Miss Bunch said. “But what are seagulls doing flying from our chimneys?”
Miss Bay made a squeaking noise, rather like a broken scream, a sound Miss Bunch had never heard her sister make before.
She turned her attention back to the house and discovered what upset her so—water smashed through windows and poured out of them in spouts. Her hand went to her heart. “Oh no! Mother’s fine things!”
“Father’s library!” Miss Bay echoed.
They glanced at one another in horror.
“The bottle,” Miss Bunch whispered.
“Is broken,” Miss Bay said.
They turned to hobble away from the house as quickly as possible. Behind them the house quaked, more sea water pouring through windows and doors, and flooding the gardens. Tall masts smashed through the roof sending slate tiles flying and scattering seagulls. The front and back of the house exploded outward, the walls crumbling into piles of broken timbers and stone rubble, making way for stern and bow of a sailing ship. A mermaid figurehead seemed to watch the sisters as they hurried away.
Miss Bay and Miss Bunch retreated down the drive and across the stone bridge. The sweet brook that flowed beneath it was rising rapidly.
“Whatever shall we do?” Miss Bunch wailed.
“Hide!” Miss Bay snapped. “What do you think those pirates will do if they find us?”
Miss Bunch whimpered. “We should never have taken in that young man. Nothing good ever comes from Mirwell.”