Wildwood Imperium (Wildwood Chronicles 3) - Page 32
“I suppose,” said the attaché in the midst of this action, “you could go to the archives.”
“The archives,” repeated Ambrose, his arm a blur above the pages he was gracing with his scribble. “Oh yes, the archives.”
“The archives?” asked Prue.
“I suppose,” said the attaché, “there might be a record in the archives.”
Prue waited for more information, but the two figures were silent, lost in their work. “So . . . ,” she prompted.
“What?” asked Ambrose, looking up from the papers.
“Where are the archives?” asked Prue.
“Oh,” said Ambrose. “Here, in the Mansion. Ask one of the staff; they can direct you. But first you’ll need a request, signed, dated, and notarized by the Interim Governor-Regent-elect.” He said that as if it were an obstacle too high to hurdle.
“That’s you,” said Prue.
“Oh,” said the possum, seemingly surprised by the suggestion. “Right. Sorry. Fairly new to the job.” He continued signing papers.
“I’d like to do that,” said Prue. “Get access to the archives.”
“Very well,” said Ambrose. “Mr. Secretary, if you wouldn’t mind getting the girl a . . . what’s the bloody name of the form?”
“A 651-C-5, I believe, sir,” said the attaché. “I have one right here.” He reached into a filing cabinet off to one side of the desk and retrieved the document. Setting it down on the only clear space on the desk, he spun it around so that it was facing Prue. “You’ll need to sign here,” he said, pointing to a series of empty blanks on the page. “Here. And here. And initial here. And sign here. And fill in your intent here, e.g., looking for a record of two exiled toy makers.”
“Only one,” said Prue. “I need to find only one. Carol Grod.”
Ambrose looked up from his signing. “But you’ll need both makers,” he said. “Isn’t that what you said?”
“No. Just the one. I’ve found one. I just need
to find the other.” She said this as she scanned the very small print on the piece of paper she was presently signing and initialing, distracted by its very complicated layout. “Only the two of them can make the thing, the cog that will bring him back to life.”
“Oh,” said Ambrose. She didn’t see that he’d stopped in his labors and was making eye contact with the attaché. “Where is he, this other maker—the one that you’ve found?”
Prue, in her distracted state, had quite forgotten the plan, that Esben’s location remain secret until she found Carol and could reunite them. “He’s safe,” she said. And that was all.
The Interim Governor-Regent-elect shrugged and continued scribbling away at the pages that the attaché slid in front of him in a shushed conveyor-belt-like activity. Prue finished signing the form she’d been given and handed it back to the attaché, who promptly slid it in front of the possum.
“For the girl, sir,” said the attaché.
Ambrose signed it and handed it back to Prue, saying, “Good luck with this one, Bicycle Maiden. May the Blighted Tree light your way.”
“Thank you,” said Prue hesitantly. She took the piece of paper and wheeled about, heading for the double doors on the opposite side of the room. Halfway across the carpet, she paused. “Okay. Wish me luck.”
The possum looked up from his paperwork to say, “If you stood up to the SWORD and stormed the South Wood Prison, I suppose a few harmless revolutionaries could hardly stand in your way.”
“Right,” said Prue, taking a deep breath. “Here we go.”
And she stepped out of the office and back into the heart of the Mansion.
CHAPTER 9
Where the Air Comes From;
The Second Thing
They cleared the table in the center of the room with a flourish; a heavyset man who’d been introduced as “Le Poignard” unfurled a large blueprint map and stretched it out on the table’s wooden surface. A host of Chapeaux Noirs gathered there like priests unveiling a holy writ. The glow of a single lightbulb, from above, illuminated the blue ink on the waxy paper: an incredibly detailed architectural diagram of what appeared to be a very tall and very fortified building. On the bottom of the sheet was written TITAN TOWER in the perfect symmetry of architectural script. The Unadoptables all crowded around one edge of the table and peered down at the blueprint, their eyes wide. Jacques Chruschiel loomed over them, his hand tracing little imaginary lines on the paper.
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