Free The Door in the Moon by Catherine Fisher Page B

off the biggest, most sensational, most daring heist ever in the history of the world. A real adventure. Just like in the old days.”
    â€œBut—”
    â€œJust listen, okay? On Midsummer Eve 1798, while Paris is all in riot, a bloke called the Vicomte de Sauvigne goes ahead with the Midsummer Ball at his château. He’s the owner of a stonking great necklace called the Sauvigne emeralds—big heirloom, costs a king’s ransom. At the ball, hundreds of guests, entertainment, fireworks, you name it. But that night the mob come marching out from the city and the château gets burned to a crisp. The Sauvigne emeralds are never seen again. Which is where we come in, Jake luv.”
    He couldn’t believe it. “Are you crazy, Moll! All I want is to find my father, that’s all I’m thinking about, and you snatch me here for some stupid, what . . . jewelry theft? In one of the most dangerous times in modern . . .”
    He petered out, because her face was so bright and excited.
    â€œIt’s going to be such fun!” She dropped the knife with a clatter and leaned toward him. “It’s not just the loot. It’s you and me, out there, plotting and planning and escaping. I’ve dreamed of it, Jake, for years, and now it’s here. We’ll have such a time! And”—she sat back—“of course there’s something in it for you. I’ve
journeyed,
Jake, been lots of places. Seen stuff. Found things out.”
    He stared at her. “You mean . . . ?”
    â€œSpot on, cully.” She took a huge bite of scone. Indistinctly, through the cream she said, “You help me out. In return, Jake, I tell you where I saw your dad.”

    Wharton was lying on a striped recliner on a pile of sand among the trees. On his right was a round table and on the table a glass of bright orange fizzy liquid, a knotted straw angled in it. Next to that was a plateful of sticky cakes topped with icing, and an ice-cream sundae.
    He frowned.
    â€œWhat?” One of the Shee that Summer had assigned to look after him darted immediately from nowhere. There were four of them. His jailers. “What? What’s wrong?”
    â€œMy ice cream’s melted.”
    The Shee, a pretty female in a brown dress as ragged as a moth’s wings, stretched a dainty finger and touched the glass. A cold crackle of frost solidified it immediately.
    â€œBetter?”
    The Shee, Wharton was beginning to realize, like children, took everything to extremes. They knew nothing about subtlety. He gazed at the impenetrable mass of ice and said, “Thanks for that.”
    The moth-creature looked relieved. “Anything you want, mortal, you just say.” It turned sideways, became a patch of bark on a tree-trunk. Then he couldn’t see it at all.
    He wondered how many of them were all around, watching him. He reached out for the orange drink, and drew back. He broke off a lump of cake, crumbled it warily on the plate, and looked at it.
    Best not.
    All the folktales said if you ate the fairy food you were doomed to be in their power for all eternity.
    Besides, the cake had the texture of mushy leaves.
    He pushed it away. Lying back in the seat, he gazed up at the flawless blue sky and thought about that word.
Eternity.
    How long had he been here? Had years passed in the outside world? He dared not think that. To him it seemed like an hour or so, but nothing had changed; the sun had not moved by a fraction. Presumably he hadn’t grown even a second older, though, which was one good thing. He was in a timeless non-place, with no past or future, just an endless now.
    It must have been like this for Gideon.
    He pulled a face. He knew there was little chance of the boy coming back. Couldn’t blame him. No, he, Wharton, had to take charge of the situation. He was a prisoner of war. He’d seen all the training films. He knew what he had to do.
    You