The Magic Factory. Морган Райс

Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      CHAPTER ONE

      Oliver Blue glanced around the dark, dingy room. He sighed. This new house was about as bad as the last one. He clutched his only suitcase in his hands.

      “Mom?” he said. “Dad?”

      They both turned to look at him, scowling their ever permanent scowls.

      “What, Oliver?” his mom said, sounding exasperated. “If you’re about to say you hate this place, don’t. It’s all we could afford.”

      She seemed more stressed than usual. Oliver pressed his lips shut.

      “It doesn’t matter,” he mumbled.

      He turned, heading for the stairs. Upstairs he could already hear his older brother, Chris, thundering around the place. His mean, heavy-footed brother always tore through every new house in order to stake his claim to the best bedroom before Oliver got the chance.

      He trudged up, suitcase in hand. On the landing, he found three doors. Behind one was a bathroom; the next opened to a master bedroom with a double bed; and the third contained Chris, who was sprawled on a bed like a starfish.

      “Where’s my room?” Oliver said aloud.

      As if anticipating the question, his mother yelled up the staircase. “There’s only one room. You boys are going to have to share.”

      Oliver felt a swirl of panic in the pit of his stomach. Share? That was not a word that Chris took to well.

      Sure enough, Chris was up like a rocket. He barreled toward Oliver, pinning him to the wall. Oliver let out a loud oomph.

      “We are not sharing,” Chris hissed through his teeth. “I’m thirteen years old, I’m not sharing a room with a BABY!”

      “I’m not a baby,” Oliver muttered. “I’m eleven.”

      Chris sneered. “Exactly. A pipsqueak. So you go down and tell Mom and Dad that you don’t want to share.”

      “Tell them yourself,” Oliver grumbled. “Since you’re the one with the problem.”

      Chris’s scowl grew deeper. “And tarnish my reputation as the favorite son? No way. You do it.”

      Oliver knew better than to provoke Chris any further. His brother could fly into rages over the smallest of things. Over the years of having the bad luck to be Chris Blue’s younger brother, Oliver had learned how to tread carefully, how to tiptoe around his brother’s moods. He tried reasoning with him.

      “There’s nowhere else to sleep,” he countered. “Where am I supposed to go?”

      “Not my problem,” Chris replied, giving Oliver an extra shove. “Sleep in the kitchen cupboard under the sink with the mice for all I care. But you’re not sharing with me.”

      He waved his fist in the air, a threat that needed no explanation. There was nothing else to say. With a resigned sigh, Oliver collected himself from the wall, smoothed down his rumpled clothes, and trudged down the staircase.

      His huge brother thundered down the steps after him, shoving him with an elbow as he went.

      “Oliver said he won’t share,” Chris bellowed on his way past.

      From the living room, Oliver heard Mom, Dad, and Chris begin to argue over the sleeping arrangements. He slowed his pace, less than eager to become embroiled in the fight.

      Recently, Oliver had gained a new coping strategy for when the arguments erupted, and it involved sending his mind to a different place, a sort of dreamworld where everything was calm and safe, where the only boundary was his imagination. He went there now, closing his eyes and picturing himself in a huge brick factory surrounded by incredible inventions. Flying dragons made of brass and copper, huge steaming machines with turning cogs. Oliver loved inventions, so a big factory filled with magical ones was exactly the kind of place he wished he could be, rather than here, in this awful house with his awful family.

      Suddenly, his mother’s shrill voice brought him back to the real world.

      “Oliver! What’s all this fuss you’re causing?”

      Oliver swallowed hard and took the final step. By the time he reached the living room, the three of them were gathered, arms crossed, matching scowls on their faces.

      “You know there are only two rooms,” Dad began.

      “And you’re causing a stink, saying you won’t share,” Mom added.

      “What are we supposed to do?” Dad continued. “We don’t have the money for you both to have a bedroom.”

      Oliver wanted to scream at them that this was all Chris’s fault, but the threat of harm from his brother was too great. Chris stood there glowering at him. There was nothing Oliver could do except take his parents’ harsh, unjust words.

      “So?” Mom finished. “Where exactly is your Lordship planning on sleeping then?”

      Chris smirked as Oliver glanced about him. As far as he could see, the downstairs area was the shape of a letter L, with a living room leading to a dining room of sorts—which was really just a corner containing nothing more than a rickety table—and then a kitchen around the corner. There was no extra room downstairs, just an open-plan setup.

      Oliver couldn’t believe this was happening. All their houses had been horrible but at least he’d had a bedroom.

      Behind him, Oliver saw there was a slight indentation, perhaps from a fireplace that had been removed years before. It was little more than an alcove but what other option was there? He was going to have to sleep in a corner! With no privacy at all!

      And what about all his secret inventions, the ones he worked on at night when no one was looking? He knew if Chris found out what he was doing he’d ruin it. He’d probably stamp his inventions to dust. Without his own room and somewhere to keep all his secret bits and bobs, Oliver wouldn’t be able to work on them at all!

      Oliver genuinely considered the kitchen cupboard, wondering whether that might actually be better. But he decided mice nibbling on his inventions would be just as bad as Chris stomping on them. So he decided that, with a little imagination—a curtain, a shelf, some lights, that sort of thing—the alcove could almost be a bit like a bedroom.

      “There,” Oliver said quietly, pointing at the alcove.

      “There?” his mom exclaimed.

      Chris let out one of his bark-laughs. Oliver glared at him. Dad just tutted and shook his head.

      “He’s a strange boy,” he said flippantly, to no one in particular. Then he let out an exaggerated sigh, as if this whole disagreement had been very trying for him. “But if he wants to sleep in the corner, let him sleep in the corner. I’m beyond knowing what to do with him.”

      “Fine,” Mom said, exasperated. “You’re right, though. He’s getting more peculiar every day.”

      The three of them turned away, heading toward the kitchen. Over his shoulder, Chris grinned at Oliver and whispered, “Freak.”

      Oliver took a deep breath. He wandered over to the alcove and placed his case on the floor by his feet. There was nowhere to put his clothes; no shelves or drawers, and next to no space to fit his bed—assuming his parents even got him a bed. But he would make do. He could hang a curtain for privacy, make some shelves out of wood, and construct a pull-out drawer for under his bed—the bed he hoped to get—so there was at least somewhere safe to store his inventions.

      Besides, if he were to look on the positive—something Oliver always tried his hardest to do—he was right beside a big window, which meant he’d have plenty of light and views to gaze out at.

      He rested his elbows on the ledge now and gazed out at the gray October day. It was very windy outside, with rubbish blowing