Ophelia and the Marvelous Boy Read online

  ALSO BY KAREN FOXLEE

  The Midnight Dress

  The Anatomy of Wings

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2014 by Karen Foxlee

  Jacket art and interior illustrations copyright © 2014 by Yoko Tanaka

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.

  Visit us on the Web! randomhouse.com/kids

  Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at RHTeachersLibrarians.com

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Foxlee, Karen.

  Ophelia and the marvelous boy / Karen Foxlee. — First edition.

  p. cm.

  Summary: Ophelia, a timid eleven-year-old girl grieving her mother, suspends her disbelief in things non-scientific when a boy locked in the museum where her father is working asks her to help him complete an age-old mission.

  ISBN 978-0-385-75354-8 (trade) — ISBN 978-0-385-75355-5 (lib. bdg.) — ISBN 978-0-385-75357-9 (ebook)

  [1. Magic—Fiction. 2. Prisoners—Fiction. 3. Museums—Fiction. 4. Heroes—Fiction. 5. Wizards—Fiction. 6. Kings, queens, rulers, etc.—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.F841223Oph 2014

  [Fic]—dc23

  2013012236

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

  v3.1

  For my sister, Sonia

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part Two

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Part Three

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  THE NORTH WIND DOTH BLOW AND WE SHALL HAVE SNOW

  In the end the Queen was nothing like she was in the stories the Marvelous Boy had been told, first as a child beside the hearth and later by the wizards. There were no claws. No sharp teeth. She was young. Her pale hair dripped over her shoulders. She opened her blue eyes wide and smiled sweetly at the King.

  “I do not like him, my darling,” she said, not once raising her voice. “I do not like him one little bit.”

  “B-b-but he is my Marvelous Boy,” stammered the King. He hated to disappoint her; they were only newly wed.

  “That is the problem exactly,” she said. “They tell me he does not age. That he has been here ten years yet looks just as he did when he arrived. That his hair has not grown, nor his body. It makes me uneasy. I cannot sleep peacefully while he is free to roam. And this story they tell me, of the sword he carries. How can I feel safe when I hear such a thing?”

  “Now, now,” said the King. “For many years, he has been my faithful companion.”

  “I should like him locked away,” she said.

  “Locked away?”

  “We shall lock him away. He shall be locked in a room and allowed out only to be exhibited. He shall be displayed beside all my other precious things; he is a curiosity. I will feel safer.”

  “I don’t know,” said the King. “He is a good boy; he means no harm.”

  The new Queen narrowed her eyes at him.

  The snow had already begun by then, and now it did not end. It covered the palace grounds, the once-green gardens, the Herald Tree. It blanketed the hills and the fields. It covered houses. Whole villages simply disappeared. The lakes froze over, and then the sea. Children’s faces grew thin and gray. Old ladies keeled over and froze in the streets.

  When the room was ready, the Marvelous Boy was led along the great corridors. In the palace there were hundreds of rooms and hundreds of staircases and hundreds of glass cabinets. Displayed there were her jewels and her other still trophies: snow lions and leopards, white elephants, snowy owls—a whole room of them, frozen in time, their wings pinned open on the mounting boards.

  There were great mosaic floors depicting the wedding pageant of the King and Queen and wintry worlds and sea monsters eating boatloads of people.

  “Whatever made you think of that?” asked the King about the sea monsters.

  “It was a story I once heard,” said the Queen, “and I enjoyed it so.”

  She really was very cruel.

  The boy did not struggle as he was led to his room. He had struggled already. Three times since the wedding he had tried to run from the city, and three times he had been returned.

  Around the door there had been painted a mural of his marvelous journey. In the mural the boy stood with his magical sword raised, but at the door his sword was taken from him and handed to the King. His satchel too, which contained the instructions and his compass. The boy looked to the King, but the King would not return his gaze. Inside his room there was nothing but a bed and chair and one window, high up. The Queen smiled and looked very pleased. She fingered the key on the chain at her throat.

  “You have failed in everything you set out to do,” she said when they were alone, just the Marvelous Boy and her. “I do not know why the wizards chose you, such a poor, sorry thing. Why did they think you could defeat me?” She did not pause for his answer. “And this charm that is bestowed on you so that I cannot harm you—it is nothing but an irritation. When the charm has worn off, I will run you through with my sword. What are years to me? I shall build a clock to count the seconds and minutes and days and years, and when they are passed, its chimes will sound, yes, and I will harm you greatly.”

  She said it very pleasantly, as though she were talking about marshmallows or afternoon tea.

  “I will find the sword,” the boy whispered. “And the one who will wield it.”

  “It will be destroyed,” said the Queen, “melted down, chopped into a thousand pieces.”

  “We will find a way to defeat you,” said the boy.

  Which made the Queen very amused, so that she laughed quite merrily. Then she left him there, closed his door, and turned the key.

  1

  In which Ophelia Jane Worthington-Whittard discovers a boy in a locked room and is consequently asked to save the world

  Ophelia did not consider herself brave. She wasn’t like Lucy Coutts, the head girl in her grade, who once rescued a baby in a runaway stroller and was on the front page of all the papers. Lucy Coutts had heavy brown hair and pink cheeks, and she called Ophelia Scrap, which made everyone laugh, even Ophelia, to show she didn’t mind.

  Ophelia didn’t consider herself brave, but she was very curious.

  She was exactly the kind of girl who couldn’t walk pas
t a golden keyhole without looking inside.

  The keyhole was in a foreign city where it always snowed. It was on the third floor of the museum, in the 303rd room. Ophelia wasn’t at all sure how she got there, only that she let her feet take her wherever they wanted to go.

  Her father had taken a job at the museum. He had become, at the eleventh hour, the curator of Battle: The Greatest Exhibition of Swords in the History of the World. The previous curator had left without warning. In three days, Ophelia’s father was to prepare hundreds of swords to be exhibited on Christmas Eve.

  He also hoped that a week in a foreign city would be just the medicine for his daughters. They could explore and ice-skate while he worked. And they would have a white Christmas away from their home, which had grown so quiet.

  He was very busy, though, far too busy to spend much time with them. He told Ophelia she must stay close to her older sister, Alice. But Alice was not interested in seeing any of the attractions. She wanted to go nowhere and do nothing. She wanted to sit all day with her headphones, playing gloomy music and thinking gloomy thoughts. She’d been like that ever since their mother died, which was exactly three months, seven days, and nine hours ago.

  “I’ll take you ice-skating later,” Alice said, but in a very halfhearted way.

  So, all morning Ophelia had walked alone. She had been upstairs and down. She had climbed in and out of elevators that rattled and creaked between the floors. There were grand galleries filled with priceless treasures and glittering halls filled with dazzling relics. There were precious paintings by the old masters and glorious statues and huge urns, and the ceilings danced with painted angels. Ophelia tried, as hard as she could, to be interested in all these things.

  She leaned her head to one side and nodded approvingly.

  She looked up interesting facts in the rather useless guide.

  She tried to stifle all her yawns.

  But fortunately, these glimmering places also led to murky corridors. And these murky corridors also led to dimly lit rooms. And these rooms contained smaller, stranger collections. And it was these places that made Ophelia’s heart beat faster.

  She found a lonely room filled with teaspoons.

  Which led to a room containing only telephones.

  Which led to a shadowy arcade of mirrors.

  She passed through an exhibition of stuffed and preserved elephants. She tiptoed through a quiet pavilion filled with the threadbare taxidermied bodies of wolves. She squeezed through the crowd in the Gallery of Time and saw the famous Wintertide Clock. It ticked so loudly that people had to stick their fingers in their ears. She ran down a long, dim hallway filled with melancholy paintings of girls.

  It was very cold. Windows were left open to stinging sparks of sleet and snow. The wind whistled and moaned through the galleries and down the stairwells. It made the cobwebs on the chandeliers dance.

  Even with a map it was a very confusing place. Signs pointed in the wrong directions, and no one bothered about fixing them. The sign for Porcelains 1700–1850 AD led to Costumes and Culture of the Renaissance. The sign for Costumes and Culture of the Renaissance led to Bronze Age Artifacts. The sign for Bronze Age Artifacts led to an imposing red, locked door.

  There was no point in asking the guards. The guards sat in corners and knitted or dozed. Sometimes, they snarled and yelled like banshees for no good reason, and other times, they let children climb on the glass cabinets, using the brass handles for footholds. Sometimes, they came rushing at people who just happened to stand too long in one place, and other times, they smiled huge toothless smiles and offered old fruit from their large black handbags.

  The museum in the city where it always snowed was the type of place where a person could very easily get lost. Miss Kaminski, the museum curator, had said so herself. Miss Kaminski was dazzlingly beautiful. Her blond hair was tied in an elegant chignon, and she was surrounded by a cloud of heavenly perfume. She had smiled at Ophelia and Alice before placing a perfectly manicured hand on their father’s arm.

  “It is advisable that they do not wander alone,” Miss Kaminski said. “The museum is very big, and several girls have become lost and never been found.”

  But Ophelia didn’t feel afraid. It was much better on her own. It was a relief to be out of the workroom, where her father had begun work as soon as they arrived in the city. He was unpacking swords and polishing swords and cataloging swords endlessly. Her father knew everything there was to know about swords. His card read:

  MALCOLM WHITTARD

  LEADING INTERNATIONAL EXPERT ON SWORDS

  “I have a very tight deadline, Ophelia. Christmas Eve!” he said whenever Ophelia tried to talk to him. “I’m sure there are more than enough things here to keep you and Alice occupied.”

  If ever you have the chance to visit this museum, the keyhole to room 303 is quite close to a much-celebrated sea monster mosaic floor. It is marked on the maps by an octopus symbol. That first morning, Ophelia spent some time walking on the mosaic waves and the mosaic foam. She traveled the length of all eight glittering tentacles, observed the people falling back from the monster’s mouth. She bent over and looked directly into its eye.

  It was the sort of thing her mother would have loved. Ophelia Jane Worthington-Whittard wished more than anything that her mother were alive.

  Near the sea monster mosaic floor, she noticed a gallery with a red rope hung across its entrance. Ophelia slipped under the rope and went inside. It was a small exhibition of broken stone angels. There was no guard in the room, so she touched some wings, even though she knew she shouldn’t have. It was very quiet and very still. All she could hear was her own footsteps and her own breathing. It had a peculiar, empty smell. No one had been that way for a very long time.

  In the corner of the room there was a very normal-looking gray door. Above the door were the small silver numbers 302. Ophelia opened it.

  The room behind the ordinary gray door was also almost normal. The floor was checkerboard. The tall windows, with tatty velvet curtains pulled back, gave a view of the city. The sky was also gray.

  The room would have also been ordinary if it wasn’t for the little stage at its end and the faded mural of mountains and a blue sea and a boy with a sword. Above this scene, painted in golden letters, cracked and peeling, stretching in an arch, were the words:

  THE MARVELOUS BOY

  There was a small door. It was hidden among the peaked blue waves with their little whitecaps, and in the small door there was a golden keyhole.

  Ophelia crossed the checkerboard floor and climbed one step up onto the stage and walked across the floorboards. She knelt down to the keyhole and pressed her eye against it to see inside.

  She did it without thinking.

  It was the type of girl she was.

  She did not expect anything unusual.

  She did not expect to be looking straight into a large blue-green eye.

  “Hello,” said the owner of the eye, a boy’s voice. “I come in friendship and mean you no harm.”

  Ophelia was on her bottom, crawling backward away from the door. Her heart was lurching and leaping inside her chest. She felt for her puffer in her blue velvet coat pocket and gave herself a squirt.

  “Who are you?” she said, or at least tried; her words came out squeaky.

  “I don’t have a name,” said the voice. “It was taken from me by a protectorate of wizards from the east, west, and middle to keep me safe.”

  “But I don’t believe in wizards,” Ophelia said.

  “Come closer,” said the voice.

  Anyone would say, “Don’t go closer.” Ophelia wasn’t stupid. In fact, she belonged to the Children’s Science Society of Greater London, which met on Tuesday nights. Of course she wouldn’t go closer. It was only common sense.

  Ophelia knelt, staring at the mural. The beautiful mountain range, the turquoise sea, the boy with the solemn expression and his sword raised. She pulled down hard on her braids, because th
at sometimes made her feel better.

  “Why can’t you come out?” Ophelia asked.

  “I’m locked in.”

  “A prisoner?”

  “Yes,” said the voice.

  Ophelia could have walked away. She could have picked herself up and walked backward from the room. She could have followed her feet all the way past the stone angels and across the sea monster mosaic. She could have run down the long hallway of painted girls and squeezed through the crowd in the Gallery of Time. She could have raced down, down, down the damp, creaking stairs to her father, cataloging and classifying swords. When Mr. Whittard asked her what she’d been doing, she could have said, “Absolutely nothing. It’s very boring here.”

  But she didn’t. She walked on her hands and knees slowly toward the keyhole.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  The blue-green eye was surrounded by dark lashes. When the owner of the eye leaned back, she could see it was a boy. He had a pleasant enough face. He wiped his bangs out of his eyes. When he smiled, a dimple appeared in his right cheek.

  “I need your help,” the boy said, “to save the world.”

  Ophelia wasn’t expecting that. It made her cross.

  “I’m so glad you came, even if you are very late,” he continued. “I’ve had only Mr. Pushkinova to speak to and I haven’t been allowed out for ages now that the ending is near.”

  “Who’s keeping you in there?” Ophelia asked.

  “I am a prisoner of Her Majesty, the Snow Queen,” said the boy.

  “But I don’t believe in Snow Queens.”

  “Do you believe in magical swords?”

  “Well …,” said Ophelia. She didn’t want to sound impolite.

  “Great magical owls? Misery birds?”

  “Who?”

  “What about ghosts?” asked the boy, leaning forward again.

  She thought awhile. The smile in the large blue-green eye faltered; the lid closed momentarily.

  “Ghosts?” the boy asked again.

  Ophelia chewed her fingernail. “I might believe,” she said, “in the possibility of ghosts, but I’m not sure. I need to research the evidence more.”