was reminded of the other paper. He brought it out for Astara to see.
“That’s our clue,” Astara said, looking at it. “It’s the only real thing we’ve got.”
“Right,” Bran said, taking a deep breath. “If only we knew who Nigel Ten was.”
“Well, Nigel Ten’s not a person,” Bran heard Mr. Cringan chuckle behind him.
Bran stiffened and turned, not having realized that he could still hear them.
“It’s not?”
“Of course not,” Mr. Cringan said, slapping some books onto a crate. “Where’d you get an idea like that?”
Bran blinked at him, and then he glanced at the note paper. “I just…found it.”
“No, no,” Mr. Cringan said, coming forward and wiping his hands. “The Nigels are a set of apartments that were owned by millionaire Nigel Stoffolis over by the docks. They were converted out of a mansion, and the rooms are rented out by the year to sailors and travelers and whatnot. There’s about sixty rooms I’m guessing, all in the manor.”
“So Nigel Ten isn’t a person at all,” Bran stammered.
“No,” Mr. Cringan spread his hands apart. “Nigel Ten is a room.”
Chapter 7
Finding Nigel Ten
The idea had never once occurred to Bran, and now he felt as if he was hotly onto something. Mr. Cringan saw that it was important and turned to the wall, where a calendar and a big, tattered map were pasted.
“Look, it’s over this way, not too far,” he said. “Don’t see why you’re interested in going to the Nigels, though.”
“It’s not really that important, I guess,” Bran said, though he knew his face told the opposite because Mr. Cringan lifted his eyebrows. There was no fooling him. But he was the type of person who wouldn’t meddle into anybody’s business unless they asked for it, and so he finally relented and traced his finger along the road.
“But if it ever does in the future become of any importance,” he said pointedly, “the best route is to follow along this way here, by the marina.”
“Good thinking,” Bran said. He knew he was already caught, even as Mr. Cringan turned again and walked off. Bran looked at Astara. Neither of them spoke.
“I’m going there,” Bran finally said.
“I’m coming,” Astara added, not leaving any room for him to refuse. It was close enough to lunch that she had an excuse to leave for a while, even though Bran could see that Mr. Cringan had his suspicions. Astara had a bike that was just about as cheap as Bran’s own, black with parts of the paint worn off, but he was so used to cheap things he didn’t really notice. It was a warm trip that was mostly flat ground and easy riding, until it got to a few more hills as they got closer to the docks.
Bran had gotten down this way before but usually only came to this side of town when he had to get something special for Mabel at Larak’s Bakery. There were tall hills around with mansions dug into the sides, overlooking the river like bird nests. He knew the streets well and found the one Mr. Cringan had pointed out, biking down halfway and then skidding to a stop.
“Here we are,” Bran said, catching his breath. Both of them paused on their bikes for a moment. Off to their right and ahead a way, the road had a sharp drop-off. A steep hill bordered the harbor, with boats parked in docks and people all about. That was Lake Norton, which flowed downstream until it reached the ocean many miles away. There was a muddy beach somewhere down there, though it wasn’t close enough to see.
Off to their left, however, between a bunch of fancy seafood restaurants and buildings lining the busy street, stood a large, white mansion with tall columns in the front. It was significantly worn and old, parts of the roof sagged, and bits of the steps were broken in places. It looked as if at one time it had been something breathtaking but had aged in recent years. There was a wide wooden sign sticking out of the ground in front that read simply: The Nigels.
“There it is,”
“That’s our clue,” Astara said, looking at it. “It’s the only real thing we’ve got.”
“Right,” Bran said, taking a deep breath. “If only we knew who Nigel Ten was.”
“Well, Nigel Ten’s not a person,” Bran heard Mr. Cringan chuckle behind him.
Bran stiffened and turned, not having realized that he could still hear them.
“It’s not?”
“Of course not,” Mr. Cringan said, slapping some books onto a crate. “Where’d you get an idea like that?”
Bran blinked at him, and then he glanced at the note paper. “I just…found it.”
“No, no,” Mr. Cringan said, coming forward and wiping his hands. “The Nigels are a set of apartments that were owned by millionaire Nigel Stoffolis over by the docks. They were converted out of a mansion, and the rooms are rented out by the year to sailors and travelers and whatnot. There’s about sixty rooms I’m guessing, all in the manor.”
“So Nigel Ten isn’t a person at all,” Bran stammered.
“No,” Mr. Cringan spread his hands apart. “Nigel Ten is a room.”
Chapter 7
Finding Nigel Ten
The idea had never once occurred to Bran, and now he felt as if he was hotly onto something. Mr. Cringan saw that it was important and turned to the wall, where a calendar and a big, tattered map were pasted.
“Look, it’s over this way, not too far,” he said. “Don’t see why you’re interested in going to the Nigels, though.”
“It’s not really that important, I guess,” Bran said, though he knew his face told the opposite because Mr. Cringan lifted his eyebrows. There was no fooling him. But he was the type of person who wouldn’t meddle into anybody’s business unless they asked for it, and so he finally relented and traced his finger along the road.
“But if it ever does in the future become of any importance,” he said pointedly, “the best route is to follow along this way here, by the marina.”
“Good thinking,” Bran said. He knew he was already caught, even as Mr. Cringan turned again and walked off. Bran looked at Astara. Neither of them spoke.
“I’m going there,” Bran finally said.
“I’m coming,” Astara added, not leaving any room for him to refuse. It was close enough to lunch that she had an excuse to leave for a while, even though Bran could see that Mr. Cringan had his suspicions. Astara had a bike that was just about as cheap as Bran’s own, black with parts of the paint worn off, but he was so used to cheap things he didn’t really notice. It was a warm trip that was mostly flat ground and easy riding, until it got to a few more hills as they got closer to the docks.
Bran had gotten down this way before but usually only came to this side of town when he had to get something special for Mabel at Larak’s Bakery. There were tall hills around with mansions dug into the sides, overlooking the river like bird nests. He knew the streets well and found the one Mr. Cringan had pointed out, biking down halfway and then skidding to a stop.
“Here we are,” Bran said, catching his breath. Both of them paused on their bikes for a moment. Off to their right and ahead a way, the road had a sharp drop-off. A steep hill bordered the harbor, with boats parked in docks and people all about. That was Lake Norton, which flowed downstream until it reached the ocean many miles away. There was a muddy beach somewhere down there, though it wasn’t close enough to see.
Off to their left, however, between a bunch of fancy seafood restaurants and buildings lining the busy street, stood a large, white mansion with tall columns in the front. It was significantly worn and old, parts of the roof sagged, and bits of the steps were broken in places. It looked as if at one time it had been something breathtaking but had aged in recent years. There was a wide wooden sign sticking out of the ground in front that read simply: The Nigels.
“There it is,”
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