Jack waved a hand, dismissing Hugo’s concern. “You wouldn’t be the first cover artist to create a cover without reading the book.”
“True, but could I at least get a hint?”
“Do something like, oh…The Keeper of Clock Island. That was always my favorite of your covers.” Jack gave him a wink for seemingly no reason, though surely there was one.
“This new book does exist, yes? This isn’t like my fan art contest, where I was supposed to win five hundred dollars? I’m still waiting on that check.”
Jack was setting the time on an Alice in Wonderland clock that ran backward. “Would you rather have had the five hundred bucks or the job of illustrating my books?”
“Wouldn’t say no to both.”
Jack chuckled. “The book exists. And there is only one copy of it in the world. I typed it up and hid it away.”
“And you’re seriously going to entrust it to some stranger?”
“No, but I shall whimsically entrust it to some stranger.”
“The sharks are already circling. Rare books collectors, billionaires, social media influencers…” He shuddered dramatically in mock horror at the word influencer. But it was true. Collectors had even called him, told him to name his price if he could get his hands on Jack’s new book.
“So be it,” Jack said. “I trust the kids will make the right choice.”
“Don’t know about the others, but Lucy Hart seems decent enough,” Hugo said. “She’s the only one who apologized for jeopardizing your career by showing up at your front door.”
“Is that a new scarf?” Jack asked. “Doesn’t Lucy knit scarves like that? Do you always wear scarves indoors, or is this a new fashion statement?”
Hugo glared at him. “You are deliberately trying to change the subject.”
“What is the subject?”
“The book. This miraculous out-of-nowhere book. You aren’t dying, are you?” Hugo asked. “Just tell me you aren’t dying.”
“Hmm…The Nowhere Book might be a good title.”
“Jack.”
Smiling, Jack plucked a singing bird clock off the wall. With his sleeve, he dusted the face of it.
“I am not dying,” Jack said. “I’ve simply come to the realization that the amount of sand in the top of my hourglass is far less than the sand in the bottom. I want to keep my promises before it runs out entirely. Especially my promise to you.”
Jack glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, then returned to his clocks. “What promise to me?”
“The promise I made when I told you I would be all right if and when you finally left the island and moved on with your life.”
Hugo tensed. “You know?”
“I know. I know you’ve had one foot out the door for years. And I know,” he said as he placed the clock back on its nail, “the only reason you stayed.”
“Care to enlighten me?”
“Because I’m like a father to you. You know how I know that?” He straightened the clock on its hook.
“Because I’ve said it?”
“Because you resent me. Just like a son would.”
Hugo felt his heart deflate like a popped balloon. “I don’t—”
The song sparrow began to sing. “That’s our cue,” Jack said. “You should get some sleep, son. I’ll see you at the crack of the Eastern bluebird for breakfast. The red-winged blackbird at the very latest.”
Jack started for the library door. He paused and turned back.
“You don’t have to worry about me. I know exactly what I’m doing and why I’m doing it.”
Hugo wanted to believe that. Like a clock with invisible gears, Hugo could see the work of Jack’s hands, but he never figured out quite what made the old man tick.
“At least one of us does,” Hugo muttered as Jack turned to go. “Jack?”
He looked back at Hugo, who stood up to face him.
“I don’t resent you. It’s the bloody world I resent. Look at you. You create stories children love and donate wads of cash to hospitals and children’s charities and commit no crimes but the crime of caring too much sometimes, trying too hard…and when I leave, you’ll end up alone in an empty house with only a bottle of wine and an elderly raven for company.”
Jack scowled at him. “Let’s hope Thurl didn’t hear you call him elderly. You know he’s very sensitive.” Then his face softened. “I don’t want to see you alone either. And I do like that new scarf,” Jack said, laughing quietly to himself as he walked away.
* * *
—
Lucy woke with a start. Heart racing, she listened for something, anything, to explain what had jolted her out of a deep sleep. She glanced at her phone for the time—almost one in the morning.
“Hello?”
Someone knocked softly on her door.
“Who is it?” Lucy’s voice shook. Why would someone be knocking on her door this late?
No one answered. She flipped on the bedside lamp and got out of bed to check the door. A white envelope lay on the rug. Someone had slipped it under the door?
Lucy picked it up, then unlocked the door.
The hallway was empty and dark.
She shut the door, locked it again, then sat on the bed. She pulled a card from the envelope and read it.
Meet me at the City of Second Hand if you want to win a prize.
What was this? She knew the City of Second Hand from the books, a tiny town that seemed to disappear and reappear at the whim of the Mastermind. Whoever left the note had drawn a map for her. Apparently the City of Second Hand sat in the very middle of the island.
Was this a game? One of Jack’s mysterious challenges he’d warned them about? She couldn’t think of what else it could be, though it seemed strange to be playing in the middle of the night. Maybe they thought she’d still be awake? One a.m. in Maine was only ten p.m. in California.
Lucy decided to go just in case. She wasn’t about to let a little cowardice and jet lag keep her from winning.
Lucy threw on her clothes—jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, socks, shoes, and then, finally, the coat Hugo had lent her. When she wrapped it around herself, she smelled the salt of the ocean, the salt of sweat, and a more subtle scent like pine or cedar, like an evergreen forest. It must have been from his soap or his shaving cream.
She took the lantern from the closet. Quietly, she slipped out of her room and into the hallway, then down the stairs. She smiled at the ancestral paintings in their gilt frames on the wall. She remembered those from last time. A plaque on one painting read, I have no idea who this man is.
Nice to know Jack Masterson was as strange and whimsical as his fictional alter ego, Master Mastermind.
The bottom step creaked loudly. Wincing, she froze and waited, but no one appeared to send her back to bed. She went to the front door, opened it carefully, and slipped out into the night feeling like that brave and wild child who’d run away from home to seek her fortune here on Clock Island. Now she was doing it again. Maybe this time, she’d find it.