about the treasure—it’s about the hunt.”
“That, Miss Rook, is an irresponsible and irrational sentiment, and one of your finest qualities.” He plucked the glass tumblers from his sack and nestled them into the sand. “Shall we drink to the Bold Deceiver, then?” He took the bottle out of the lockbox and wiggled loose the cork.
“How about we drink to adventure, instead?”
“After my own heart.” Jackaby gave me a proud smile.
My father drank whiskey. He used to say it tasted smoky, like a fine cigar. Fleming’s whiskey tasted like turpentine and rotten shoe leather, and it sucked the moisture from my mouth as though I had swallowed a sponge. Jackaby managed to stop coughing before I did, but he kept smacking his lips and rubbing his teeth with his tongue.
“I’m no connoisseur,” I croaked when I could feel my face again, “but I think perhaps these spirits passed their prime after the first hundred years or so. Oh, lord, I’m still tasting it.”
In the morning, the goblins—as meticulous about collecting dues as they were about paying debts—would come searching for the borrowed dirigible, and I would never again be so grateful to repay a loan. Chief Nudd would invite us aboard, polishing off the rest of the bottle and cackling as he listened to our story, and Jackaby and I would be back in New Fiddleham by teatime. For that one night, however—my night—we lay on either side of a campfire on a magical floating island, watching the setting sun cast ripples of amber across the vast Atlantic.
My birthday did not pass unmarked, as I had hoped. Far better, it was marked with a big red
X
.
Published by
Algonquin Young Readers
an imprint of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of
Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2015 by William Ritter.
All rights reserved.
eISBN 978-1-61620-584-3
First Edition
“That, Miss Rook, is an irresponsible and irrational sentiment, and one of your finest qualities.” He plucked the glass tumblers from his sack and nestled them into the sand. “Shall we drink to the Bold Deceiver, then?” He took the bottle out of the lockbox and wiggled loose the cork.
“How about we drink to adventure, instead?”
“After my own heart.” Jackaby gave me a proud smile.
My father drank whiskey. He used to say it tasted smoky, like a fine cigar. Fleming’s whiskey tasted like turpentine and rotten shoe leather, and it sucked the moisture from my mouth as though I had swallowed a sponge. Jackaby managed to stop coughing before I did, but he kept smacking his lips and rubbing his teeth with his tongue.
“I’m no connoisseur,” I croaked when I could feel my face again, “but I think perhaps these spirits passed their prime after the first hundred years or so. Oh, lord, I’m still tasting it.”
In the morning, the goblins—as meticulous about collecting dues as they were about paying debts—would come searching for the borrowed dirigible, and I would never again be so grateful to repay a loan. Chief Nudd would invite us aboard, polishing off the rest of the bottle and cackling as he listened to our story, and Jackaby and I would be back in New Fiddleham by teatime. For that one night, however—my night—we lay on either side of a campfire on a magical floating island, watching the setting sun cast ripples of amber across the vast Atlantic.
My birthday did not pass unmarked, as I had hoped. Far better, it was marked with a big red
X
.
Published by
Algonquin Young Readers
an imprint of Algonquin Books of Chapel Hill
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225
a division of
Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014
© 2015 by William Ritter.
All rights reserved.
eISBN 978-1-61620-584-3
First Edition
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