Free House of Secrets by Ned Vizzini, Chris Columbus Page B

understands that.”
    “I don’t,” said Brendan.
    “Quiet!” the pilot ordered. “You speak German because you are German. Now who were those men?”
    “We don’t know,” Cordelia said.
    “And I don’t believe you. I think you’re Kraut spies.”
    “Hey!” Brendan said. “David Beckham! We’re American. Get it? From San Francisco.”
    “Is that right? Because I was shot down over Amiens, not San bloody Francisco. Perhaps you’ve seen the plane?” The pilot nodded to the smoldering wreckage of the Sopwith Camel. The flames hadn’t caught against the tough bark of the tree . . . but they’d made quick work of the wings and tail.
    “Anybody with half a brain could see you’re not in Germany,” said Brendan.
    “Course not. Amiens is in France.”
    “You’re not in France, either! Hello? Does France have trees like this?”
    “Perhaps I’m in a Gallic hunting preserve.”
    “Perhaps you’re in a special state I’ve heard of called denial .”
    “Bren! Stop!”
    “I say, you do sound like an American,” said the pilot. “Only a Yank would attempt such a pathetic joke.”
    He holstered his gun and started to walk away. He didn’t get far before he stumbled and gripped his shoulder. The blood was still flowing freely, adhering his uniform to his skin. He tried to pull out the broken arrow, but the pain was too intense.
    “Come on!” Cordelia said. “We’ve got to help him.”
    “No we don’t—”
    “Bren, he’s hurt. And he saved our lives.”
    Cordelia pushed at the net until she found an opening. She stepped out and held it wide for her brother and sister. They went (Brendan very reluctantly) to the pilot, who was kneeling on the ground, having torn a cuff off his pants and tied it around his shoulder.
    “What’s your name?” Cordelia asked.
    “Draper, miss. Wing Commander Will Draper. Royal Flying Corps, Squadron Seventy.”
    “I’m Cordelia Walker.” She stuck out her hand and spoke quickly. “This is my brother, Brendan, and sister, Eleanor. We can help you, Mr. D—”
    “Call me Will.” Will took her hand and lightly kissed it, managing a winning smile through his pain.
    “Oh,” she said. “Oh, okay. Oh.” She took her hand back and stared at it briefly. “We have a house nearby. Can you walk?”
    Will stood, leaning away from the pain, and lurched as his knees buckled. Cordelia caught him and propped him up on his uninjured side.
    “Thank you,” he mumbled.
    The group made its way back to Kristoff House. It was easy to see which direction they’d come—the horses had trampled a path in the undergrowth. Brendan walked sullenly in front, tearing the tips off ferns and disassembling them piece by piece. Cordelia stayed next to Will, supporting his left side, smelling the smoke and sweat and blood coming off him and trying to explain exactly who they were, what decade they were from, and what they were doing here. (Will wouldn’t believe a word of it.) Eleanor walked beside them, at one point tapping Cordelia’s shin with a twig and mouthing, You like him!
    In a few minutes, Kristoff House appeared. Will blinked and rubbed his eyes. “Is it possible that arrow was tipped with a hallucinogenic drug? I’m having visions.”
    “We told you we had a house,” Eleanor said.
    “But how did it get here? Brought by woodland creatures?”
    Cordelia sighed. “I told you—”
    “It flew in from San Francisco,” Brendan said.
    “Come off it, I won’t be made a fool—”
    “We’re not making fun of you,” said Cordelia. “We don’t know how it got here, but it’s our house, and inside we’ve got stuff that will help your shoulder.”
    Will furrowed his brow. “It’s much nicer than my house,” he finally admitted, before allowing the Walkers to lead him in.

S oon afterward they took Will to the kitchen. The sun was lower now; the light coming through the windows was amber instead of yellow. Eleanor found her barbecue fork in the dumbwaiter and declared