they crazy?” he mumbled, turning to the window, which glittered with moonlight.
♦ BREWING ♦
Outside Archer’s moonlit window and down crooked Willow Street, across the barren treetops of Rosewood Park and beyond the winding canals that emptied into Rosewood Port, a man with a patch covering one of his eyes ran along a lamplit dock that dipped gently with the waves. The Eye Patch had a wooden case tucked under his arm, and his one visible eye searched the horizon. A darkened ship was entering Rosewood Port. The ship didn’t blow its horn, and its engine was low as it drifted past ice floes, sidled up to the dock, and dropped lines around bollards. Two silhouettes emerged on the deck. The Eye Patch called to them.
“You’re a sight for a sore eye!” His smile faded as he unlatched the wooden case to reveal a bundle of newspapers. “Birthwhistle is brewing a storm.”
♦ YEARS OF WONDER ♦
Archer awoke to a bustling and clanking of pots and pans. He rubbed his droopy eyes and hurried down to the kitchen. The stovetop was roaring, and Mrs. Helmsley was dashing this way and that, cooking everything she could get her hands on. Archer kept his distance, fearing she might fry him by mistake. His father sat alone at the table.
“Are Grandma and Grandpa home?” he asked.
Mrs. Helmsley nearly toppled onto the stove.
“Not yet,” Mr. Helmsley replied.
Archer wasn’t hungry, but he didn’t want to meet his grandparents on an empty stomach. He took a plate and a fork and went to the counter, buried beneath eggs and bacon and toast and pancakes and waffles and oatmeal—and his mother showed no sign of slowing.
“I can’t take much more of this,” she muttered, peering over her shoulder as Mr. Helmsley refilled his coffee. “I was at Primble’s Grocery yesterday, and when I got to the counter, they told me to take my business elsewhere! Where are we supposed to get food?”
“They’ll sort out whatever is going on,” Mr. Helmsley assured her. “In the meantime, I’d like them to have their room on the third floor.”
“But we’ve been using it for storage! It’s filled with boxes.” Mrs. Helmsley clicked off the stove and frantically wiped her hands on her apron. “We mustn’t upset them. They might get violent!”
Mrs. Helmsley hurried up the stairs. Mr. Helmsley sauntered after her.
Archer panicked, standing alone in the kitchen. He’d been waiting for this moment for as long as he could remember, but now he didn’t think it’d be anything like he’d expected. Overcome with an urge to retreat to his room, he made for the hall, but froze at the sound of a knock at the door.
All throughout Helmsley House, the animals erupted in joyous furor. Archer had never once heard anything like it.
“It’s time!” a porcupine bellowed. “It is time!”
“They’re home!” cheered a zebra. “How do I look? The stripes, I mean. I should have had them pressed!”
“Shut it, you fool,” the ostrich snapped. “And would someone take this blasted lampshade off my head?”
“Are you sick?” the badger asked Archer. “You look like you’re going to be sick.”
Archer was too fixated on the door to respond, and he was so flustered he didn’t realize he was still clutching a fork as he inched his way toward it.
“We’re gone for nearly twelve years and they change the locks?” came a voice on the other side.
“I’m sure they were changed the moment we left.”
♦ TEA WITH GIANTS ♦
Archer took a deep breath and opened the door wide. He was immediately engulfed in the blinding whiteness of snow whirling into the foyer. He couldn’t see anyone, but heard two voices, filled with laughter. Archer squinted. Two faces emerged. His eyes widened. Archer was staring at his grandparents.
“Why, hello there,” they both said, with smiles so large they might crack lesser faces.
Those three words filled Archer all the way to the top.
“Hello,” was his nervous and quiet reply. “I’m Archer Helmsley.”
“How can you be Archer Helmsley?” Grandpa Helmsley asked. “The Archer I had a brief encounter with many years ago was dressed something like a Christmas tree. And if I’m not mistaken, he also had a peculiar fondness for cucumbers.”
Grandpa Helmsley was as broad as he was tall. His beard, a mix of white and gray, matched his hair, which was pushed back from his forehead. But it was Grandpa Helmsley’s pale green eyes, sparkling with something wild, that held Archer entranced.
“I don’t think he’s that Archer anymore,” Grandma Helmsley said.
Grandma Helmsley was smaller but no less brilliant. Her plump figure was hidden beneath a thick coat and a faded red dress. The warmth beaming from her smile could have thawed the whole of Rosewood.
“He certainly isn’t,” Grandpa Helmsley agreed. Then he pointed to the fork still clutched in Archer’s hand. “You’re not going to… what I mean to say is, that’s a little…”
“Hostile,” Grandma Helmsley finished. “I believe that’s the word you’re looking for?”
“Quite.”
Archer blushed and dropped the fork into his pocket.
“Much better.” Grandpa Helmsley glanced over his shoulder as though they were being watched. “Now would you mind if we stepped inside? It’s no iceberg out here, but it is quite chilly.”
Archer’s grandparents stepped over the threshold and into Helmsley House as though they’d only just returned from a very long walk.
“Best shut the door, dear,” his grandmother said. “Rosewood has many prying eyes.”
Archer closed the door and put his back to it. Stomps and thuds echoed down the stairs.
“Would that be your parents?” Grandma Helmsley asked, hanging her snow-laden coat on a caribou’s antlers.
“They’re fixing your room,” Archer explained, his heart pounding.
“Very good. We did hope to have a moment alone with you.”
“Forks out of the way!” his grandfather whispered, and with a firm hand on Archer’s back, he ushered him down the hall and into the kitchen.
Grandma Helmsley inspected the countertop feast and poked a pancake. “Tea,” she said, shaking her head and taking a kettle to the sink. “Best to begin with tea. Builds an appetite for more.”
“Splendid!” Grandpa Helmsley pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. “And while the water boils, I have a question for you, Archer. Come have a seat.”
Archer wanted to pinch himself as he sat across the table from his grandfather. His grandparents were practically fictional characters to him. He’d read their journals. He knew their tales. They’d crashed planes in the desert and been lost