Free At Your Service by Jen Malone

myself now, but they’re both bent over some pages spread out on one of the tables. Bummer.
    â€œThe one on Wall Street probably isn’t guarded by dragons, though,” I say, but when I check to see how my joke went over with Ingrid, she’s not there. Like totally gone, asif she’d never been there to begin with. Weird. I jump up to make sure she isn’t at the bottom of the pool. Nope. Only Alex swimming laps. But still, where is she? Um, should we be worried here?
    â€œUh, Elise?” I call. “I don’t see Ingrid.”
    She doesn’t even glance up. “Don’t worry. Ingrid’s like a little Houdini with her disappearing acts. She’s here somewhere. The bodyguards would let us know if she reached the door.”
    Sure enough, when I glance back toward Sophie, there’s Ingrid sitting in the chair next to her, like she’d been there the whole time. Had she? Great. Just what I need—the Incredible Invisible Girl.
    She better not try to pull any disappearing acts on my watch.
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    I . Most people don’t know that the Federal Reserve has these vaults eighty feet below the bank that hold twenty-five percent of all the gold bars in the whole world. How cool is that? Dad had a guest once who worked there. I doubt he got to ride in carts with goblins, though.

Chapter Twelve
    T he tramway dangles us in an enclosed glass box halfway across the East River. The Queensboro Bridge is so close beside us, it feels like I could reach out my window and touch it. Ingrid presses her face against the glass and makes an oh sound.
    â€œLook how far down the water is,” she says with a happy squeal.
    â€œI know, pretty cool, huh?” I look to Sophie for confirmation, but she just shrugs and says, “It’s basically the same thing as the ski lifts in the Alps. Only this one doesn’t take us to the top of a beautiful mountain. It just takes us . . . there.” Sophie points to the dingy apartment buildings and the run-down-looking pathways that line either side of the tramway stationon Roosevelt Island. “What do you have planned for us when we arrive anyway?”
    I swallow. “Well, nothing really. I mean, I thought we’d just turn around and go back. There’s not much on Roosevelt Island. There’s an ice cream shop on Main Street, but, uh, I have us down to go to Serendipity Three when we leave here and that’s got great desserts, so . . .”
    â€œSo we’re not going somewhere right now?”
    â€œWell, um, it’s more of a ‘the journey is the destination’ kind of thing. Because it’s kind of neat to ride the tramway, and it has the best views of the skyline and, oh, it was in the Spider-Man movie. That’s pretty cool, right, Your Highness?”
    Sophie just smiles tightly. Totally fake. Alex is the one who answers. Of course, first he has to flip his hair for the hundredth time. “Ah yes. That scene where he has to rescue Mary Jane from the bridge. I thought this looked rather familiar.”
    At least he recognizes it, but his tone doesn’t sound overly enthusiastic. Crud. So far, nothing I’ve come up with has seemed to make anyone other than Ingrid happy, and I have the feeling I could plop her in front of a Welcome to New York video at the visitors’ center and she’d be plenty content.
    I know I’m doing this for work and all, but I usually haveso much fun sharing my city with our guests, and I thought it would be the same with the royals. Except Alex and Sophie definitely have a “been there, done that, bought the souvenir T-shirt” attitude about anything I try to show them. I guess you get jaded pretty quickly when your summer vacations include camel treks into the Sahara and scuba diving along the Great Barrier Reef.
    â€œUm, here, why don’t you guys squeeze together so I can get your picture?” I say.
    I like to give my