Free Through the Hidden Door by Rosemary Wells Page A

I jabbed the blade into the bottom of the pit. I wriggled my hand, working the point deeper into the sand.
    “What is it? A dirt bottom? Clay? What do you feel?” Snowy asked.
    “Wait a sec. Stone, it seems like.”
    “Well, the whole cave’s made of rock,” said Snowy. “Don’t expect too much. It’s probably just the floor of the cave.”
    “Damn it. I wish I did have a shovel.” Sand began trickling back into the opening.
    “We’ll never make a dent in all this,” said Snowy. “It may be just three feet deep, but you might as well try to move the Sahara.”
    I didn’t answer. I forced my hand down as far as it would go. Then I groped around in the icy sleeve of sand and slid my fingertip back and forth, to make sure I was right, and yanked out my arm. The entire hole caved in as if it had never been dug.
    “What did you find?” Snowy asked.
    “Just stone. But there’s something different about it.”
    “What?”
    “It’s not the same bumpy stone that’s in the rest of the cave. It’s as smooth as marble. But the funny thing is, there’s a crack in it.”
    “So?”
    “Well, the crack felt like a straight line. As if it was cut against a ruler. You know? Not some zigzag crack like you find anywhere. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe it’s nothing.”
    Snowy dived headlong into the sand. He stuck his hand down as far as it would go, but his arm was too short to hit bottom. He took it out, and we watched the hole fill right up again. “Still, we’ve got something to dig for now,” he said. “Next time we’ll bring shovels. And blankets too, to kneel on.”
    “Next week,” I said gloomily, “is Christmas vacation. You’ll be here, I guess. Exploring away.”
    Snowy set his trowel down and brushed off his hands. “I’m supposed to go to my mother,” he said slowly.
    “Where?” I asked.
    “Out of the country,” he answered. “But I can always tell her I’m going to my uncle.”
    “Where’s he?” I asked.
    “I could tell my uncle, of course, that I’m going to mother’s. Neither of them would know, you see. They haven’t spoken to each other in years. So they won’t check. I’ll stay here,” he said, satisfied with this arrangement. “How about you?”
    “I’m spending Christmas Day in Denver with my dad. On the twenty-sixth I’m supposed to go on to Aspen, where my cousins are skiing. My dad can’t ski because of his back, so he’s flying straight on to Europe for a big auction in London. Months ago, when my dad arranged this, he told me to bring a friend for two weeks of skiing. I was going to ask Rudy or Danny. Isn’t that a laugh! I think I still have to go skiing, though. I mean, my dad won’t be home, and there’s no place else for me to go.”
    Snowy messed with some more sand, building a little castle. “I thought you hurt your back,” he said with a bland smile.
    I grinned back broadly. “I forgot about that,” I said. “It’s not as if I’d disappoint anyone if I didn’t go skiing. My cousins are all older than I am. They think I’m just a cute little kid.” I cleared my throat. “Would the Finneys take me in too?” I asked.
    “I’ll see what they say. I’ll drop a note in your box.”

Chapter Eight
    O N THE SECOND NIGHT after Christmas the Finneys were polite but frosty. Finney himself watched me as if from a great height. I did the dishes, I brought in firewood, and I even walked the dog. I combed my hair three times an evening, made sure not to put my elbows on the table, and stood up like a jack-in-the-box when Dr. Dorothy came in the room.
    On the fourth night I offered to strip and refinish a Georgian drum table. Finney said I should stop acting like a valet, as he was not General Zia. Then he showed me his wooden leg.
    “It’s beautiful!” I blurted out before I thought about what to say.
    Finney chuckled proudly. He’d pulled his pants leg up to the knee to display it. The leg was made of laminate—slivers of different-colored woods