And where they are. And they could be anyone. They could be" - he turned to look at my mother - "anywhere."
Chapter Nineteen
Number of hours I wandered around the mansion, going nowhere: 6
Number of secret passageways I looked for in the hopes of going somewhere: 27
Number of secret passageways I found that were actually still working: 1 (But it only went to the kitchen.)
Number of cookies I swiped while in the kitchen: 1 (Oh, okay, 3 - but they were really little cookies.)
Number of times I wanted to cry: 9
Number of times I changed my mind: 9
And so I just kept walking - through the library with its rows of books and dying fire, past the elevator that could no longer take me to Sublevel Two. The halls were quiet and dark, as if the mansion itself were sleeping - resting up for a new day. And then I stopped at the Hall of History and stared at the sword of Cava, realizing that for the first time since November, I was actually alone.
Well . . . almost.
"Hello Ms. Morgan." A deep voice cut through the darkness behind me.
Sure it was two in the morning on a school night, but somehow I wasn't surprised when I turned and saw Mr. Smith. Well . . . actually . . . the fact that he was walking around in slippers and one of those old-fashioned nightshirt did surprise me; the fact that he was awake did not.
"I . . ." I started. Somehow, even though I technically wasn't doing anything wrong, I felt like I'd been caught. "I couldn't sleep."
"It's okay, Ms. Morgan." He came to stand beside me in the warm glow of the sword's glass case. Protective beams rippled through the room like waves.
I glanced at my teacher. Maybe it was the hour, or the fact that one of us was wearing a dress (and it wasn't me), but I dared to ask, "So what's your excuse?"
"A seasoned operative should always check his or her perimeter at unexpected times and in unexpected ways." I glanced at Mr. Smith's nightgown - I mean shirt . . . nightshirt. If unexpected was what it took to stay safe, then Mr. Smith was going to be alive forever.
"You will do well to remember that, Cammie."
"Yes, sir." I stared at the sword. "Thank you. It's actually kind of nice . . ."
But then I trailed off. I didn't dare say what I was thinking.
"It okay." There was a knowing wink in Mr. Smith's eye. "You can say it."
I glance down at the floor. "It's nice getting some actual Covert Operatives Advice. I've missed it."
"Mr. Townsend is a fine operative, Cammie."
"Yes, of course, I didn't mean to imply -"
"Ambitious. Proud. Calculating . . . but he is perhaps not a natural for the classroom?"
"No," I agreed. "He'll never be as good as . . ." nut I stopped short, suddenly unable to say the name aloud.
"No, he isn't what you're used to," Mr. Smith agreed.
"I believed him." I don't know where the words came from, but there, in the light of that sword, I simply had to set them free. "Joe Solomon is a liar. And a traitor. And I believed him. Even after London . . . He was talking crazy and I still -"
"Was he crazy, Cammie? Was he really?"
I looked at the most careful spy I'd ever known - stared up into the fifth face I'd seen him wear, and tried to focus on the eyes that hadn't changed since my first day of seventh grade.
"Joe Solomon is many things, Cammie. But crazy? Crazy is the one I don't think I'll ever believe."