Free The Lightning Key by Jon Berkeley Page A

the pale features of one of the figures, even in the shadow of his hood. It was Silverpoint. The other figure was indistinct, and Miles felt his eyes grow heavy as he tried to see more clearly. He became aware that Little was gripping his hand tightly and kicking him hard on the shin. “Wake up, Miles. Stay awake,” she whispered.
    First Officer Barrett looked up from the tickets on which he was carefully inscribing their names. “Too many late nights, young man?” He beamed. “You can sleep as much as you like on board, though it would be a shame to miss—”
    Miles interrupted him with enormous effort. He knew that the Sleep Angel had come for them, and he would have to think fast, but the fog that was dispersing outside the window seemed to be regrouping inside his head. “There’s a problem with the money,” he said, kicking Baltinglass under the table in turn. The explorer raised his eyebrows, but Miles carried on before he could speak. “You see those two men who just came in?” he said to First Officer Barrett.
    Barrett looked over his shoulder and stared at Silverpoint and his shadowy companion with friendly puzzlement. “Indeed I do, but . . . ?”
    â€œThere’s no time to explain,” said Miles. “They think that we owe them all the money we have, and they won’t take no for an answer.”
    â€œBut that won’t do at all!” said Barrett anxiously. “The captain’s wager . . .”
    â€œExactly,” said Miles.
    â€œIt’s all a big misunderstanding,” said Little, who had grasped Miles’s plan immediately. “Why don’tyou go over and distract them for a moment while we slip out quietly?”
    â€œAnd we’ll meet you at the Sunfish ,” completed Miles, fighting back a massive yawn.
    The dapper officer’s face took on a mischievous look, and he winked at Miles. “Leave it to me,” he said, tilting his cap and sliding off the end of the bench. “She’s moored in the long field just beyond the windmill.”
    â€œWhat’s the hullabaloo?” asked Baltinglass, as First Officer Barrett danced across the room toward Silverpoint and the Sleep Angel.
    â€œThis is my expedition, right?” said Miles. He was too tired to explain.
    â€œCertainly,” said Baltinglass of Araby.
    â€œThen we leave at once,” he said. “Where’s the back door?”
    â€œThere isn’t one,” said Baltinglass, tightening his grip on his cane, “but there’s a window behind us.” He reached up and fumbled the catch open.
    â€œYou first,” said Miles to Little. He picked her up quickly and posted her through the open window like a parcel of dandelion seeds. The irrepressible First Officer Barrett was dancing a jig around the two angels, waving his arms in the air and delivering a barrage of nonsense on a hurricane of enthusiasm.
    â€œYou next,” said Miles, turning to give Baltinglass a leg up, but the old man was already disappearing through the window with a flash of bleached shins and a few loudly whispered curses. Miles scrambled out after him without looking back, and found himself landing headfirst on the well-sprung front seat of Baltinglass’s vintage car.
    â€œNow you know,” panted the old man, handing him the keys from the other end of the seat, “why you should always park underneath a window, Master Miles.”
    Morrigan started with a roar, and they took off from the yard in a spray of gravel, almost colliding with the house opposite before Miles managed to straighten the wheel.
    â€œThat’s the spirit, boy,” shouted Baltinglass, obviously glad to be done with whispering for the moment.
    They drove at speed toward the windmill on the hill. There was a knot in Miles’s stomach, a mixture of fear and excitement, and from Little’s shouts of “Faster!” from the backseat