Free Something Invisible by Siobhan Parkinson Page B

legally your stepfather.”
    â€œNot really,” said Jake.
    â€œDo you feel bad about your other father?” Mrs. Kennedy asked. “Is that the problem? Do you miss him?”
    â€œNo,” said Jake. “I don’t miss him, exactly. But I wish he hadn’t just disappeared. It’s not a nice feeling to think that a person left because you were born.”
    â€œOh, I’m sure that wasn’t the reason.”
    â€œI think so,” said Jake. “That’s more or less how Mum explained it, anyway.”
    â€œOh, well,” said Mrs. Kennedy, “all families are different, aren’t they?”
    â€œNo,” said Jake. “Most families are the same. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about families.”
    â€œYou’re right,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “Very dull.”
    â€œLike Hull,” said Jake.
    â€œNot in the slightest,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “I’ll tell you what. I have something to show you, only you’ll have to get it yourself.”
    â€œOK,” said Jake.
    â€œYou know where my room is, don’t you? Well, go into the room beside that, it’s the study, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œWe have a study,” said Jake. “My mother works there.”
    â€œWell, my daughter-in-law does nothing at all. Anyway, there is a thing in there called library steps. Do you know what those are?”
    â€œYes,” said Jake. “Like a little ladder.”
    â€œThat’s it. Now, take this little ladder thing and go into my room, and climb up to the top of the wardrobe.”
    Jake laughed.
    â€œNo, I mean, just so you can see the top of the wardrobe.”
    â€œAll right,” said Jake.
    â€œYou will see a hatbox there. It’s a pink-and-white striped cylinder. Behind the hatbox is a shoebox. That’s the thing I want.”
    â€œAll right,” said Jake again, wondering what could be in the shoebox. Jewels maybe. Or money.
    He went up the stairs, past all the paintings. He winked at the beautiful girl with the candle.
    Or a letter from a famous person to another famous person, he thought. Like from Napoleon to Florence Nightingale. Or a will. Or bomb-making equipment. Or the title deeds to a castle in Transylvania. Or the plans of a dungeon where Mrs. Kennedy’s ancestors were buried. Or a skull.
    He found the library steps. He climbed up to the wardrobe. He sneezed. He moved the pink-and-white hatbox to one side and sneezed again. It was very dusty on top of the wardrobe. He found the shoebox, white with black writing on it.
    Carefully he lifted it down and put it on the bed. Then he returned the library steps to the study, and went back into the bedroom for the shoebox.
    It couldn’t be anything alive, he thought, because it would die of hunger and thirst and lack of air in the shoebox. But it might be an egg. A dragon’s egg. Or an ostrich egg. On the whole, an ostrich egg was more likely. It felt a bit heavy for an egg, even a big one, but he held it carefully all the same and carried it downstairs.
    â€œWhy do you keep it on top of the wardrobe?” he asked as he came back into the sitting room. “You must have an awful job getting it down.”
    â€œTo keep it safe,” said Mrs Kennedy. “I can get it down easily enough by poking at it with my stick. A stick has many purposes, you know, apart from holding you up when you get wobbly on your feet. Also, I’m taller than you.”
    Jake thought it must be something pretty precious if she put it away so carefully.
    â€œPostcards!” he said, when she took the lid off.
    â€œYes,” she said. “Lovely ones.”
    â€œOh!” said Jake.
    â€œYou sound disappointed,” said Mrs. Kennedy. “Are postcards not exciting enough for you?”
    â€œNo,” said Jake. All this honesty was going to his head.
    â€œOh, they’re not holiday ones,” said Mrs. Kennedy.