A faint buzzing sound filled the air. At first, Tick panicked because it reminded him of the Gnat Rat and its mechanical hornets that had attacked him in his bedroom the previous fall. But an instant after the droning began, a burst of light to the left caught his attention.
Near a large circle of metal, jutting up from the ground like a half-buried flying saucer, sparks of brilliant white light popped and flashed, igniting into existence only to disappear a second later, like the brief flames shooting off a welder. The sparks seemed random at first, exploding all over the place, high and low in the air, across an area dozens of feet wide, reflecting off the metal circle in dull smears of color. But then the strangest thing happened.
The sparks began to form words.
Tick thought his mind was playing tricks, the constant flashing of lights wreaking havoc on his vision. But soon it became obvious as large letters of bright, streaky light appeared, hanging in the air, flashing and dancing but remaining solid enough to read. In a matter of seconds, a wall of words flickered before them, as big as a movie screen.
Tick swallowed his awe and confusion, reading the words as quickly as possible, scared they might disappear at any second:
Inside the words of the words inside,
There lies a secret to unhide.
A place there is where you must go,
To meet the Seven, friend or foe.
Of course, an order there must be,
To hill and rock and stone and tree.
Of worlds above and worlds below,
Of worlds with water, fire, snow.
Of worlds that live in fear and doubt,
Of worlds within and worlds without.
The Path begins where dark is clear,
Where short is tall and far is near.
All this you must ignore and hate,
For you to find the wanted fate.
There lies a secret to unhide,
Inside the words of the words inside.
Tick read it three times, his eyes wide. He had no clue what the words meant, but they mesmerized him, held him captivated. He felt just like when he’d first read the original invitation from Master George.
Master George!
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Tick said, surprised at how loud his voice sounded, echoing off the world of metal around them. He looked over at his friends.
“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?”