desk in the corner of the room. “Grab a pencil and paper. I always find it helpful to make a list.” A few minutes later, Timothy had written out several lists summarizing everything he thought he knew and everything he was unsure of, everything he’d been through and everything he feared was coming.
Zilpha eyed the list and shook her head. “Can you think of anything else to narrow all this down? Anything at all?”
From outside, the familiar old foghorn called a lonely cry over the river. The sound struck Timothy as odd. The weather had been clear all day.
Timothy glanced over his shoulder toward the French doors. Though the sky was now dark, Timothy watched as strange clouds obscured a bright moon coming over the horizon. He rose from his chair and went to the window. From all directions, the weather seemed to be gathering, like a hurricane eye, drawing an ominous target around New Starkham. “Something’s happening,” said Timothy. “Look.”
Zilpha joined him at the window. “At what?”
“The clouds. I’ve seen them before, in a painting at the museum this week.” The foghorn cried again.
“I don’t see any clouds,” said Zilpha.
Timothy shivered. This must be the curse, coming for him again. “The Edge of Doom,” he said.
“The edge of what?”
“That’s the name of the painting. It’s the jawbone. I’m seeing things.” Timothy remembered the image: the pit of fire, the glowing sky.
“For the past few months, whenever I saw something scary,” said Zilpha, “I tried to figure out some way to get around it. When the ceramic monkey my husband gave me on our fortieth anniversary snarled at me, I smashed him on the floor, then swept up the pieces. That’s how I’ve survived these past months—little tricks. How did you get away from the dragon?”
“Turpentine,” said Timothy. “I washed out his eyes.”
“Brilliant!” said Zilpha, grabbing his good hand. “You’ve got to find something like that to combat what you’re seeing now.”
“But what’s coming is really bad,” said Timothy, shaking his head. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be much bigger than the graffiti dragon. Jack is trying to stop us. We’re running out of time.”
“That’s what he thinks,” said the old woman, twisting the tail of her head wrap around her wrist. “He’s forgotten who he’s dealing with here. He hasn’t stopped me yet.”
Timothy opened the door and stepped onto the roof deck. “Can I?” he asked Zilpha. She answered by following him. The clouds were getting darker, edging closer, surrounding the city, covering what now appeared to be a full moon. The foghorn cried again. Timothy crossed to the far railing so he could see the river, the bridge, and beyond that, Rhode Island. Something flashed at the river’s edge. The lighthouse was up and running.
Then it hit him: A light in the darkness.
In Hesselius’s abandoned office, those words had been written on the mat of the lighthouse photo on the wall. His brother’s motto. This was his order amidst the chaos. In the photo, the lighthouse had been called Hesselius’s Illuminarium. The professor had even designed it. According to the articles Abigail had shown him at the library, the cults had built their temples at the convergence of great chaos. Crossroads. Mountains.
Rivers?
“I know where she is!” said Timothy.
In the elevator, halfway to the ground floor, Zilpha became flustered. “How are we getting there? I don’t think a taxi will drop us off on the edge of a cliff. I wish Georgia didn’t hate me right now, or I’d ask her.”
“I’ve got a car,” Timothy blurted.
“Oh, yes,” said Zilpha. “You did mention that, didn’t you?”
The elevator stopped, the doors slid open. Timothy crossed slowly through the lobby with Zilpha. Mario opened the front door. “Good night, Mrs. Kindred,” he said with a worried look.
“Thank you, Mario,” she answered with an emphatic smile. “Good night.” In the garden, she changed her tone. “I don’t know about this, Timothy. You shouldn’t be driving at your age, and at my age, my eyes aren’t very good. We cancel each other out.”
“My dad owns a garage,” he said. “And I made it here by myself. We can make it a little farther together, don’t you think?”
41.
Zilpha fussed in her seat as Timothy turned left at the stop sign. He headed toward the bridge. More and more, the atmosphere resembled the painting at the museum. The black clouds now filled the entire sky, spiraling slowly like a whirlpool. Zilpha still didn’t seem to notice. Timothy thought about what she’d said: little tricks would