skinny black legs sticking out
from the fireplace.
“Everything all right, sir?” Nigel asked.
“Oh, it’s that blasted conductor coupling again,” said Mr. Grim, shimmying out of the flue and onto the hearth. He had dressed down to his waistcoat and shirtsleeves, and in
his right hand he held a small wrench. “And of course, today of all wondrous days, the loose connection is in a place I can’t get to.”
Frustrated, Mr. Grim tossed the wrench onto one of the armchairs, and as he stood up and brushed off his pants, some of that same, sandy red soot sprinkled down upon his shoes.
“Anything I can do, sir?” Nigel asked.
“Not in time for the preview,” said Mr. Grim, raking back his hair. “In fact, unless the connection to the Eye of Mars is repaired, there’s not going to be any
preview.”
“Oh dear,” Nigel said. And as the men gazed up at the lion’s head above the mantel, I noticed that the red light had gone out from the big cat’s eyes.
So the lion’s name is Mars, I concluded. Mr. Grim snapped his fingers and startled me from my thoughts.
“Master Grubb,” he said. “Perhaps a lad of your experience is just what we need. Tell me, have you any knowledge of electromagnetic induction?”
“Er—uh—begging your pardon, sir?”
“Of course you don’t,” said Mr. Grim with a sigh. “Nevertheless, somewhere in that flue is a pair of pipes that need tightening. Under normal circumstances I would have
to disconnect the entire network of pipes below in order to reach the faulty connection. However, given the immediacy of today’s preview, there is simply no time for such an undertaking. Do
you understand me, lad?”
“I believe I do, sir. You want me to climb up into that flue and get the eyes of Mars glowing again.”
Mr. Grim looked confused, as if he hadn’t expected my reply, and I pointed to the lion’s head. “Mars,” I said. “His eyes have gone black.”
Mr. Grim and Nigel exchanged a look.
“But of course,” said Mr. Grim, smiling thinly. “The lion’s head, that’s it.”
I had the impression that he was hiding something, but him being Mr. Grim, I wasn’t about to press the matter. “Well, what do you say, lad?” he asked, offering me his wrench.
“You think you’re up for the job?”
“You can count on me, sir!” I cried, snatching the wrench from his hand. And in a flash I was up inside the flue.
Almost immediately I was met with a tangle of pipes that took up nearly the entire shaft. None of them felt loose, however, so I squeezed myself past them and, feeling around in the dark, came
upon a pair of pipes that rattled against each other.
“I think I’ve found them, sir,” I called down, and set to work with the wrench. There was little space for me to move, but after a few minutes of twisting and turning, the
pipes finally felt secure.
“I think that’s done it, sir,” I called again.
“Just a moment, please,” said Mr. Grim. I heard a muffled hiss and what sounded like the squeak of a cabinet door opening in the library. Mr. Grim mumbled something in a language I
did not understand, and then a low humming began and the pipes inside the flue grew warm.
“Ah, there we are,” said Mr. Grim, relieved. Another squeak, another hiss, and Mr. Grim ordered me back down into the library.
Again I squeezed my way past the tangle of pipes, and as I emerged from the fireplace, I discovered that the light had returned to the lion’s eyes.
“Job well done, Grubb!” Nigel said, patting me on the back.
Mr. Grim dashed across the room and flicked the switch on another one of those talkback contraptions beside the door. “Are you still in the kitchen, Mrs. Pinch?” he called. No reply.
“Good heavens, Mrs. Pinch, where are you?”
“Blind me!” the old woman said finally. Her voice sounded muffled, but the irritation in her tone was clear. “Heaven forbid I should drop what I’m doing just to talk to
you!”
“Are the ovens
Carolyn Faulkner, Abby Collier