The Orb of Kandra

But the guard looked at it with an unimpressed expression before handing it back to her.

“A real one, missy,” he said. He sounded very bored, like a couple of kids trying to sneak into a library was little more than an inconvenience to him. “Not this fake thing.”

Oliver racked his brains. Esther’s attempt to create a credible-looking ID card had failed. He’d have to think of another plan.

He glanced about for inspiration and saw a trash can just the other side of the steps. Quickly, he used his powers to make smoke come from it.

“Oh no! I think the trash can is on fire!” he cried.

The guard quickly ran to attend to it. Oliver and Esther took their chance and ducked inside the building.

“Good thinking,” Esther said as they hurried through the corridor.

It was a bit like a maze inside. It reminded Oliver of a hospital rather than a laboratory, other than the strange chemical smell, of course.

They stopped beside a sign that showed which floor each of the different disciplines occupied.

“Physics Department,” Oliver said, pointing. “Top floor.”

They trudged up the staircase. A long corridor stretched ahead of them. Gold plaques with the names of professors and lecturers were affixed to each door. They began to walk along the corridor, reading the names.

“Here he is,” Esther said.

Oliver turned to see her standing by a door. Professor H. Nightingale. His heart began to race. Was he about to get the answers to his questions?

Oliver swallowed his nerves and knocked.

Nothing happened. It remained completely silent. He tried again.

Again, there was no answer. Oliver looked over at Esther. She shrugged and boldly tried the handle.

“It’s not locked,” she told him.

She pushed the door and it swung all the way open. The room was completely empty.

Oliver gasped. “Oh no. He must not be here anymore.” He felt a horrible leaden sensation in his stomach as disappointment gripped him.

“Don’t worry,” Esther said. “We’ll track him down.”

In the corridor behind them, a professor was walking past. Esther turned.

“Excuse me. Do you know where we might find Professor Nightingale?” She pointed to the plaque on the door.

The man didn’t even slow his brisk pace. But he did reply, speaking over his shoulder as he hurried onward. “Nightingale? He hasn’t worked here for years. Not since he was kicked out.”

CHAPTER NINE

Oliver and Esther exchanged a glance.

“Kicked out?” Oliver repeated, his heart sinking. “I’ll never find him now.”

Esther shook her head. “We’re not giving up that easily. Come on.”

Esther marched across the yard and into one of the coffee shops that surrounded it. There were computers at the back. She took Oliver right over to one.

“Um, Esther, I think you’re supposed to buy something? You can’t just come in and use the computers for free.”

“Okay. A chocolate brownie would be nice.” She took her seat and grinned up at him. “Thanks.”

Oliver went to the counter and bought them a brownie to share. By the time he made it back to Esther, she was already scrolling through a website of local people.

“N… Night… Nighting…. Here. Nightingale!” She grinned at Oliver. “There’s only one in Cambridge. It must be him!”

She quickly scribbled the name and address down. “Told you we weren’t giving up.”

Then she stood, grabbed the brownie from the plate, and marched to the door.

Head spinning from the speed with which Esther worked, Oliver blinked at the crumbs lying on the plate.

“Oliver!” she called from the door. “Come on!”

Oliver dumped the plate on the counter and hurried after her.

*

The address Esther had found led them to a quaint side road right beside a quiet park. The streets were cobblestoned, looking like they belonged in the Victorian era. The houses were more like country cottages—all made of brick and built in a long row, with stone facades.

They stopped opposite the house. It had a wooden door with green paint that was peeling, and an overgrown rose bush growing up beside it. Just behind the branches and flowers, a faded sign read Professor H. Nightingale.

Esther and Oliver exchanged a glance.

“Here goes nothing,” Oliver said.

He knocked.

A muffled voice called out, “Coming.”

Oliver glanced at Esther nervously. She gave him a reassuring nod.

They heard the sound of a latch clicking, then the door slowly creaked open.

A figure shuffled into view. He was very old with a wiry white beard. His eyes appeared to be misted over. He was wearing a brown corduroy cardigan.

“Yes?” the man asked in a raspy voice.

Oliver’s throat felt thick with nerves. “My name is Oliver. This is my friend Esther. We wondered if we might be able to ask you some questions.”

“Questions?” the old man asked. “Not another survey. I’ve already answered enough of those.”