The Last of the Gullivers by Carter Crocker Page A

thinking?!
    The Artists and Professors weren’t amused: the thought of their models next to one from that peasant girl . . . it was
unthinkable!
They threatened to withdraw, but the Grand Panjandrum calmed them. Only days remained and the competition would be closed, he reminded them. Young Miss Dryth would surely tire of the project before then.
    But Burra spent every minute working, all day and all through the night. She couldn’t afford proper materials and built her model from scraps she scavenged in the village, from cardboard and kindling. When she was at last done, she brought it to the town center. A crowd gathered for another good laugh.
    But there was no laughter that day.
    Her model was unlike anything they’d ever seen: simple, graceful, beautiful, it towered over the others in every way. Its slender walls were cut with long flowing windows, as lively as waterfalls, rising from the ground to an immense stone-tiled dome. The thing was colossal and delicate, majestic, yet welcoming, vast and personal, classical and revolutionary; like their music, it was many ideas at once.
    â€œBut this is ridiculous!” someone snorted. “Un
build
able!” another sniffed. Those walls will never support the dome! The whole thing will crash down and kill everyone inside!
    But the Dean of the Architects studied Burra’s work and checked each dimension, calculating, recalculating, testing its engineering and the stresses it could hold. The structure, he finally announced, was sound. Burra Dryth had designed a perfect building. In a show of respect, he removed his own model from the competition and Burra was chosen the winner.
    Work began right away. A building this size would need all their effort. They would hew massive timbers, carve giant columns, cast thousands of tiles. Michael helped as he could, chiseling stones into blocks. He worked every day until his hands were cramped and blistered.
    One day, a Tuesday, he lost all track of time. He stayed too long, making stacks of blocks, and was about to be late for his Court check-in. He raced from the garden and ran the miles back to Moss-on-Stone.
    He was running up Sheep Street when Nick and the Boys found him and boxed him in the narrow lane. “We need to talk.”
    â€œCan’t talk now, Nick. I’m going to be late.” The town bell was ringing six fifteen.
    But Nick needed to know: “Why do you keep letting me down?”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    THE MAHARAJA’S DAUGHTER
    A police car slowed and swept its spotlight over the dim street. The Boys slipped into shadow and Nick called from the dark, “Last chance, you dumb squit. Be at the mill tonight, ten o’clock.”
    Michael hurried on to the Court and was there in time for check-in, barely. He was home and in bed and asleep by nine. When he didn’t show at the mill at ten, ten thirty, or eleven, Nick angrily told the Boys they’d deal with him later.
    They were hitting another big house on the hill; Peter had checked it and found the owners were away on holiday. The place was long and narrow and golden stone, set close to the street, a long hedge to one side. Nick waited down the block in the old Victor, and the Boys set to work on a window. They jimmied it partway, but it wouldn’t go wider. Michael could’ve slipped through with no problem, but it was a tight fit for the rest of them.
    Phil and Peter got in, but Gordy’s thick gut wedged him tight. “Somebody help me,” he squealed.
    â€œWhat’s your problem?” Peter snapped.
    â€œI’m stuck, for God’s sake! Can’t you see I’m
stuuuck
!” Gordy squealed.
    â€œStop squealing,” Phil told him.
    â€œI’m not squealing!” Gordy squealed again.
    The house was empty, Peter was right about that. Except for the German Shepherd. The dog hadn’t taken a holiday. Gordy’s squeals brought it running. It raced for the Boys and they ran for the