Free Charlie Bone and the Hidden King (Children of the Red King, Book 5) by Jenny Nimmo Page B

as if a hundred windows were showing him different views of a mountain.
    There were mountains bathed in sunlight, mountains ice-white in moonlight, snow fields streaked with purple shadows and splashed with fluttering rainbow-colored pennants. So many breathtaking peaks, so many splendid ranges.
    In one of the pictures an explorer waved at the camera. His dark glasses were pushed up over his blue woolen hat and he was laughing. Charlie could hear his voice. There were movements in the room around him, and then the kitchen swung violently from side to side and vanished. Charlie was alone, sailing toward the distant mountains.
    Cold, cold air stung his cheeks and rattled in his lungs. He was flying over dazzling white snow while the man's laughter grew louder.
    Someone tugged Charlie's arms. It really hurt. He wished they would let go. He tried to shrug them off but he was too weak. So he let himself be tugged and pulled and shaken and shouted at, until he had to open his eyes. And there he was, standing just inside a kitchen door, with a pair of blue eyes peering anxiously into his, and a face that wasn't grumpy anymore.
    Naren's father took Charlie's arm and set him in a chair by the stove.
    "I thought I was on a mountain." Charlie looked up at the pictures on the wall. "You were there, Mr . . .. ?"
    "I know," said Naren's father. "You chose a fine 'time to travel, Charlie Bone. Gave us all a nasty fright."
    "Oh. Do you know about it, then?" asked Charlie in surprise. "My traveling, I mean."
    "Yes. I've heard."
    The Chinese woman said, "You are welcome here, Charlie." She glanced at the man with a frown. "My husband worries for Naren, but he should not have been angry with you." Shaking her head in a worried way, she pulled out a chair and sat at the table. "That was not right."
    Naren put her arm around the woman's shoulders, saying, "Sorry. My fault. Sorry, sorry, Mother."
    "Er . . . who exactly are you?" Charlie asked the man.
    "My name is Bartholomew. I'm Ezekiel Bloor's son." When he saw the alarm on Charlie's face, the man added quickly, "Don't worry, I'm the black sheep of the family, or perhaps the white. I haven't seen my father for years, or my son. They are as far removed from me as the moon from the earth."
    "But why . . . Charlie looked around the room. "How come you're here?"
    "Ah." Bartholomew moved to the window and gazed at his animal visitors.
    "He will tell you," Naren said. "Won't you, Father? You must tell Charlie."
    Bartholomew strode back to them. "Yes." His tone was solemn and a little regretful. "I must." He drew a chair close to Charlie's and began to talk.
    While Charlie listened, Naren's mother gave him a bowl of delicious, steaming tea, and then a cake of sweet, fulfilling munchiness. He had never tasted anything so wonderful, but he could only nod his thanks, for he was incapable of dragging his mind away from Bartholomew's incredible story.
    It began with a wedding. Bartholomew Bloor married Mary Chance on a rainy, autumn morning. No one was happy about it except for the bride and groom, who were so in love they hardly noticed the weather. Ezekiel Bloor and his Yewbeam cousins despised the bride, who was a pretty, but impoverished dancer. And Mary's parents feared for a daughter who was marrying into a strange, unsociable family.
    "For a while they left us alone," Bartholomew said with a sigh. "And then I heard about the expedition. My mother used to take me with her when she collected rare plants in the mountains of Bavaria. Ever since then I have loved mountains. After my mother died, I spent all my holidays climbing with friends. We went to Snowdonia, the Alps, and the Pyrenees, but my dream, always, was to climb in the Himalayas.
    "One day a letter came from one of my exploring friends. Harold, my son, was eight at the time. He was serious and stolid. He didn't share my love of travel. He hated camping, hiking, even picnics."
    Bartholomew gave a rueful laugh. "Imagine a child not liking