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Jacques seemed to ignore this question. Instead, he addressed the entire room in a booming, proud voice. “Comrades, Unadoptables, I would like to introduce you to our old friend Joffrey Unthank. Those of you who have met him before, I kindly suggest you reacquaint yourself and look upon a man reborn.” With that, he turned around and waved his hands, a magician revealing his final trick of the evening. The black turtlenecks parted and there sat Joffrey Unthank, his hair shorn to its usual cropped length, his face cleaned of the grime and filth. His blankets had been cast aside and his argyle sweater-vest and pleated slacks had been laundered and pressed. He looked, to Elsie’s estimation, as close a facsimile of the man who had been her employer and captor as you could imagine.
Jacques, the master of ceremonies, addressed the man. “Joffrey Unthank,” he said, “introduce yourself.”
Joffrey stood, somewhat unsteadily, and looked at the man who’d spoken. Finally, he said, “My name is Joffrey. Joffrey Unthank. Former Titan of Industry. Machine Parts.”
“Very good,” said Jacques, proud of his protégé. “Permit me this illusion. I am a stevedore, and I am standing guard at the front gate of Titan Tower. I will say this to you: ‘Mr. Unthank, what are you doing here?’” He adopted a low, gravelly voice for his stevedore impression.
Unthank paused, an actor calculating his lines. Finally, he spoke. “I’ve come to see my old friend Bradley Wigman.” That was it.
Jacques frowned. “And . . . ,” he said in the stevedore voice.
“I’m sorry for my transgressions. I would like to come back, to be a part of the Quin—the Quartet once more.”
“Very well,” said Jacques, smiling. “You may come in.”
“The Quin-Quar,” continued Joffrey, unabated, his voice becoming a singsong again. “The Quin-Quar and the humidor, billabore, dillabore. Tra la!” His formerly rigid posture dropped and his head slumped comically to one side. His feet began to shuffle in a kind of clownish dance.
“That’s enough, Joffrey,” said Jacques.
But Joffrey continued: “It was a Quintet, now it’s a Quartet, soon to be a trio and a duo and a solo and what comes after that? Tra la tra la!” sang the silly man, dancing his steps.
“Are you kidding me?” said Michael. “That’s how you’re getting in?”
“Yes,” said Jacques, rounding on the teenager. “If you have a better idea for bypassing a guarded, fortified wall and an encrypted security system that requires handprint and retinal identification, I’m happy to entertain it. For now, this is the best option we have.” He then walked over to Joffrey and grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him directly in the eye.
“Listen to me, Joffrey,” he said. “Listen close. I know you’re in there. We need your help. We can’t do this without you. If you want to bring Wigman down, if you want to rattle his chains, you’ve got to pull it together and help. It’s the only way.”
Joffrey had stopped dancing and was listening closely to what the man had to say. “Yes, Jack,” he whispered after a time.
“Why don’t you and me go find a place to talk, quiet. Titan to Titan,” said Jacques.
“Yes, Jack,” said Joffrey.
Jacques threw his spindly arm
over Unthank’s shoulder and led him, silently, through the crowd of watching saboteurs, past the table with the plans, and through the iron-belted door to the hallway, which, once they’d passed out of sight, slammed shut behind them.
Elsie watched this all proceed, quietly. The whole room retained a kind of wondering silence before Nico broke it by saying, “Okay, back to the plans.”
CHAPTER 11
Into Wildwood
Zita the May Queen sat quietly at the kitchen table and stirred her oatmeal. Her father sat in his usual spot, just to her right, his fingers threaded through the handle of his coffee mug. He was reading the paper, as he often did in the mornings, and grumbled beneath his white-flecked mustache as if he were conducting a moderated dialogue with the morning’s news. Zita brought her spoon to her mouth, blew the steam from the oatmeal, then set it back down into the bowl.
“No school today,” she said.
“Hmmm,” said her father.
“Headmaster said we should celebrate the return of the Bicycle Maiden.”
“Hmmm.”
“I was thinking I’d go over to Kendra’s. She’s doing flower pressing. The trilliums are in bloom.”
“Mm-hmmm.”
Zita stirred the oatmeal some more, the cream making a tight spiral into the center of the bowl. “I was wondering . . .” She paused here, measuring her words. “If I could take the motorcycle.”
