The Doldrums and the Helmsley Curse. Nicholas Gannon

      “No,” Archer replied, watching snowflakes whirl past the window. “They never sent me a letter.” He turned to his father, suddenly feeling more frightened than nervous. “Are they home?”

      “Not yet. And you mustn’t take it personally, Archer. They’ve been cryptic ever since news broke that they were still alive. From what little I’ve heard, they should arrive any day now.”

      ♦ THAT HORRIBLE THING IS BACK ♦

      The taxi slid to halt before Helmsley House. Archer and his father lugged the scarlet trunk up the icy front steps and heaved it into the foyer. It landed with a thud. Mrs. Helmsley poked her head from a door at the end of the hall. Archer’s mother was usually quite poised and proper—a model for model citizens. But in that moment, she more resembled the frazzled Mrs. Glub.

      “Oh! I thought you were them,” she gasped.

      “Any word?” Mr. Helmsley asked.

      “No. And I know you don’t think it necessary, but you must review the brochures. These facilities might be able to help them.”

      Mrs. Helmsley stepped down the hall, approaching Archer the way one might approach an old land mine, unsure if it was still active. She bent down, gave the land mine a kiss on the forehead, and proceeded to study it carefully.

      “Mr. Churnick seems to have been quite the miracle worker,” she said, her hands clasped behind her back. “He told me you were one of the finest students he’s ever had. He even speculated your tendencies were a thing of the past.”

      Tendencies. That was the word Mrs. Helmsley gave to the many things Archer had done that she disapproved of, such as accidentally lighting a dinner party guest on fire. Archer suspected it also had something to do with a similarity between himself and his grandparents, but having never met them, he didn’t know that for sure.

      “Does that mean I don’t have to go back to Raven Wood?” he said hopefully.

      Archer knew in an instant that it was a silly thing to ask. It was clear his mother thought the land mine required further testing.

      “Mr. Churnick has done tremendous work with you. You must remain under his guidance. And I’d like to know his secrets,” she mumbled.

      “But we do have some news that might make you happy,” Mr. Helmsley said, nudging Mrs. Helmsley.

      “Yes. After careful thought, your father and I have agreed that it will only help to foster your progress if you spend more time outside the house while you’re home.”

      Archer’s jaw nearly hit the floor. Ever since his grandparents had vanished, he’d been kept a virtual prisoner inside Helmsley House.

      “Now hurry upstairs and wash. You smell like a stale train car. The Glubs are expecting us any minute.”

      Mr. and Mrs. Helmsley disappeared down the hall. Archer stood frozen in the foyer, staring around at the familiar treasures and taxidermied animals collected by his grandparents. His old friend the badger, perched on a small table, was dressed in a Christmas sweater.

      “Welcome home, Archer,” the badger said miserably. “Would you mind helping me out of this thing? Why does she do this to me every year?”

      “She thinks it makes you look like a gentleman,” Archer said, pulling the tiny sweater over the badger’s head.

      The badger huffed as Archer smoothed its fur. “I was neither gentle nor a man in life, and I don’t see why I should be made such things in death!” The badger lowered its voice. “And while I’m glad you’re back, Archer, I must say there’s something strange going on. Why did Benjamin say you’re going to hate him? Why haven’t you heard a word from your grandparents? And why was that Mrs. Fig so furious at them? I’m not sure what it’s all about, but I think it’s bad.”

      Archer stared at the badger. “How do you know all that?”

      “I know it because you know it.”

      “What’s going on?” the ostrich shouted from the next room over. “I can’t see with this lampshade on my head! Is that thing back? Don’t tell me the thing with dirty hands is back!”

      ♦ JUST A CHRISTMAS PARTY ♦

      Next door, the Glubs’ house was filled with people and music and all sorts of delights. Everyone gathered in a room that, despite its chipping paint and loose floorboards, was called the great room. And it was great. Adélaïde was seated on a plaid couch before a crackling fire. Next to her were three tall windows overlooking the snowy gardens. Oliver scurried into the room and plopped himself beside her.

      “I put more logs on,” he said, sticking his shivering hands toward the fire. “It’s freezing out there. You can go next time.”

      Adélaïde pointed to her wooden leg. Oliver rolled his eyes.

      “How long are you going to milk that?”

      Adélaïde smiled and got comfortable on the couch.

      A few feet away, in the corner of the room, Oliver’s younger sister, Claire, was digging beneath a tree decked in tin ornaments and lights.

      “What’s she doing?” he asked slowly.

      “She’s moving her presents to the outside and yours to the inside.”

      Claire peeked over her shoulder at Adélaïde. Both started giggling.

      “I don’t like this at all,” Oliver grumbled, and turned back to the fire. “The two of you are not becoming friends. I forbid it.”

      Lovely smells wafted from the other side of the room. Mrs. Glub was dashing between the kitchen and the great room, keeping a long table overflowing with food.

      “Mind yourselves!” she called, setting a spiced pecan pie on the table. “Piping hot!”

      Miss Whitewood, invited at Adélaïde’s request, was also at that table, filling a plate and explaining her duties as the Willow Academy librarian to Belmont Café’s barman, Amaury Guilbert. But Amaury was clearly more interested in the duties of Mrs. Glub’s pastries, which, of course, were to be eaten.

      “These strudels are delicious,” he said, glancing over at Mr. Belmont. “We should be selling these at the café!”

      Mr. Belmont wasn’t paying attention. He had gifted an espresso machine to the Glubs and was showing Mr. Glub how to operate it by brewing a brand-new espresso blend he’d been working on and was finally quite pleased with.

      “And then you simply pull this lever here.”

      A small cup filled with a dark, steamy brew.

      “Most remarkable!” Mr. Glub said. He lifted the cup and took a sip. “And most delicious! But tell me, François… what am I tasting? Wait—it’s hazelnut, isn’t it? Yes, that’s certainly hazelnut!”

      “It should be toffee,” Mr. Belmont said, frowning. “Hints of toffee?”

      “Toffee?” Mr. Glub took another sip. “How fascinating! You’re a genius, François! I had no idea toffee could taste just like hazelnut.”

      Mr. Belmont opened a notebook and crossed something out while muttering in French. Mrs. Glub returned from the kitchen, this time with a tray of cherry almond cookies, and shook her head at them.

      “I like your family,” Adélaïde said. “I wish mine was more like yours.”

      “Sure,” said Oliver. “They’re great. But when’s Archer getting here?”

      “The Helmsleys should be arriving any minute,” Mrs. Glub said, stepping up behind the couch. “So I’ll say it one last time: you two are not to tell Archer anything about the newspapers or his grandparents.”

      “But they’re his