If You’re Reading This, It’s Too Late by Pseudonymous Bosch Page B

members — in a way. Terces members. At least, almost.”
    “True,” Max-Ernest reflected. “And it doesn’t say you have to be a
museum
member — you could be a member of anything!”
    Cass tried the handle and the door swung open with surprising ease.
    They found themselves in a small waiting room that looked like it belonged in a Victorian mansion rather than under a mini-mall. Persian carpets were piled haphazardly on the polished wood floor. On the walls, portraits of famous magicians — some in tuxedos, others in robes and turbans — hung from satin ropes. And in the corner, perched on a brass stand, an iridescent green parrot preened in front of a full-length mirror.
    An attractive but aloof-looking woman wearing black-framed glasses and a black satin suit sat behind a cluttered desk. Above her, flyers advertising museum events were posted on a bulletin board:
    THE MAGICAL MIMES:
    Quietest Magic Show on Earth
    Next month:
    THE OLE TIME TRAVELING CIRCUS REUNION
    She smiled coolly at the two young people in front of her. “I’m sorry, the museum is closed to the public,” she said.
    “Members only! Members only!” the parrot squawked.
    “Owen told us to come,” said Cass, suddenly aware for the first time how they must look in their muddy clothes and ocean-washed hair.
    “Does Owen have a last name?” asked the receptionist, expressionless, consulting her computer.
    Cass shook her head hesitantly.
    “Well, he probably does,” Max-Ernest corrected. “We just don’t know it. We don’t even know if Owen is his real name. Sometimes he calls himself Mr. Needleman.”
    “Sorry, that name doesn’t ring a bell, either. If you’d like to come back — we offer tours on the third Sunday of every month.”
    “What about Pietro Bergamo?” asked Cass. “He’s a magician — don’t you know him?”
    The woman shook her head.
    “Members only!” the parrot repeated, as if speaking for her.
    A youngish man with longish hair and a shortish goatee on his chin walked in from outside. He wore round wire-rimmed glasses, and his eyes flickered briefly over the kids before he nodded at the receptionist.
    Then he looked directly at the parrot. “Password please,” he said in a precise English accent.
    “Make a spell. But don’t try very hard,” replied the parrot.
    The Englishman thought for a moment. Then he said:
    “Abraca-dabble.”
    The parrot’s eyes glowed red and he spread his wings with the squeak of a hinge.
    “I thought the parrot was real,” Cass whispered.
    “I think it is — or was. It’s taxidermy,” Max-Ernest whispered back.
    Behind the parrot, the full-length mirror swiveled on its axis, revealing a dark hallway. Without another word, the Englishman strode through the opening. The mirror closed behind him.
    “Well, if you have no further questions, it’s time for my break now,” said the receptionist, standing. The kids expected to be ushered out but instead the receptionist smiled at them and exited the building, leaving them alone inside.
    “I can’t believe she just left us like that,” said Max-Ernest.
    “I think she did it on purpose,” said Cass. “I don’t know why. Like, she knows we’re not allowed but she wants us to get into the museum anyway. . . . Either way, let’s try to get in fast.”
    Cass walked up to the parrot and looked it in the eye. “Abraca-dabble!” She stepped toward the mirror but the parrot didn’t move — and neither did the mirror.
    “I bet the password changes every time,” said Max-Ernest. “That’s why he had to ask for the clue.”
    He looked at the parrot and said, “Password please.”
    “Demand entry,” said the parrot. “But don’t forget to feed me.”
    “What kind of clue is that?”
    “It think we’re supposed to put two words together — you know, like
Shampooch
,” said Max-Ernest. “
Abraca-dabble
is
abracadabra,
which was the spell part, plus
dabble,
which means not trying very hard.”
    Cass looked skeptical.