Chapter 7
With an atlas sprawled out on her knees, and a row of yarn balls arranged in front of her, Katherine felt quite at home again. Even in the dusty stacks of the Burnt Umberland Library, a jolt of vitality tingled all of her senses down to her fingertips.
“What’s all this about, then?” Ruben asked, standing behind her and craning to see. He absently laid a hand on her shoulder and withdrew it sheepishly when she turned to look at him.
“Only one of the most important secrets of our phenomenally successful careers,” Mrs. Chrysler replied, oblivious to this exchange. “You, my creaky friend, are in for the treat of your life. Prepare to bear witness to the magic that is Katty the Mapmaker.”
“Honestly, Imogene,” Katherine said, stifling a laugh. “That’s enough. You’re starting to make me nervous. I haven’t done this in a while, you know.”
She drew the atlas a bit closer to her face for a better look, then fished the velvet sack out of her breast pocket and unsheathed the knitting needles within. They sparkled in the dull light of the library’s grimy lanterns.
Ruben whistled. “Those are a mite fancier than yours, Mrs. C., aren’t they?”
“Yes, well.” Mrs. Chrysler patted the loose bun that stowed the tools of her own trade. “Mine are what you might call all-purpose. Those… come out only on very special occasions.”
“This being one of them,” Katherine said. “All right then. If I’m going to do this properly, I can’t really have you two chattering in my ear. Please, give me some room.”
“We’ll be over here, Katty,” Mrs. Chrysler said, pulling Ruben a few paces along the bookshelf and directing him to sit down on a nearby stool.
She herself took a seat on a rung of a rolling ladder and watched eagerly.
“I never did get tired of watching her do this,” she whispered, “and it has been absolutely ages.”
“Do what?”
“Well.” Mrs. Chrysler drew a steadying breath to tone down her excitement.
“You were right about us being the greatest thieves of all time, you know. And one of the reasons—just one, though, mind you—is that we could spend a lot more time doing jobs and less time getting there. Thanks to my yarn and Katty’s needles. ”
The old man’s brow furrowed in incomprehension. Then some internal connection seemed to spark to life. “You mean, she’s…? She’s knitting a magical map? To my nephew’s house? Isn’t that a bit riskier than just renting a coach?”
“Not really. Just watch.”
She and Ruben sat quietly to observe Katherine at work, and they weren’t the only spectators.
The three cats had found a pool of sunshine on top of the stacks and peered down from the high bookshelf. Tilly was swishing her tail in agitation, stirring up layers of dust.
I thought she’d given this up a long time ago, she said.
Well, Tilly dear. Ember gave a gentle cough and waved the dust away from her face. It comes with the territory of doing a job, doesn’t it? Have to go where the trail leads.
We shouldn’t be on this trail at all. I don’t like it.
Well, what would you like? Mr. Scruffles asked. Going home? They’ve promised the woman in white. They’ve got to see it through. I think we can bear a bit more, can’t we?
We’re going to a potato farm… Tilly said. Your idea of adventure, is it?
Never know, Mr. Scruffles said. Could be home to some demented, toothed potatoes…
For all our sakes, I hope not.
“A little less yowling from you lot, if you please?” Katherine glanced in their direction and they settled down.
She selected the first yarn ball from the row and loaded her needles with bated breath.
Instantly her tools began to emanate a gentle warmth and low hum, vibrating a happy purr in her fingers. “All right, now, here we go.”
The tips of the needles erupted in tiny fireworks—Mrs. Chrysler nudged the transfixed Ruben excitedly—and the first few stitches began to take shape.
Soon, Katherine’s fingers were a whirling blur, and the yarn that streamed from them took on a silvery glow, shimmering and dancing in intricate detail.
As the needles clicked speedily along, greenish-brown blotches of fields manifested little whispers of potato plants.
The lanes that crisscrossed the emerging map appeared rutted from wagons and horseshoes, and the village near the farmlands became studded with buildings indicated by the atlas, lifted into life by tiny shimmering bricks and ruddy tile roofs.
The art of knitted mapmaking takes both accuracy and imagination, and Katherine was delighted that both seemed to still be with her.
Arthritis, and aging faculties, be darned.
Finally, she completed the finishing touches, the farmhouses and the barns and the outbuildings, and before she knew it, she was slipping the last of the yarn off of the needles and feeling them cool in her hands. She heaved an exhausted sigh.
“Oh, Katty!” Mrs. Chrysler squealed, simply giddy with excitement. “It’s lovely! You’ve outdone yourself. Really.”
Ruben joined her at Katherine’s side and squinted at the knitwear, visually comparing it to the atlas. He scratched the whiskers on his chin and remarked with awe, “It sure does look like Tuck’s village. But,” he went on, more uncertainly, “you’re sure it’ll take us there?”
“As sure as I am about anything.” Katherine stowed the needles securely back in her vest and called for the kitties to come down. “About time we were heading out, wouldn’t you say, Imogene?”
“Yes, yes. Not even waiting for it to get cold, this one!”
“Now, Ruben, which farm is your nephew’s?”
“Here,” he indicated, pointing at a homestead outside of the small village.
“All right, then. Gather round, everyone. Tilly? You too, dear.”
The cats gathered at her skirts, one more reluctantly than the others, and trod on the scarf she lowered to them, while Mrs. Chrysler gathered up the remaining yarn balls and hoisted her bag onto her shoulder.
“Uh, Katty, we’re inside, you know.”
“Oh, yes.” She looked around them. “Open that window, will you? That should be enough.”
Mrs. Chrysler caught sight of the narrow, thick-paned window behind the shelving and obliged, cranking it open with some effort.
“You ladies really did this all the time?” Ruben asked, inspecting the knitwear with suspicion. “Not doubting your extraordinary talents, of course.” He adjusted his robe nervously and fidgeted with his scarf. Katherine bade him grab a corner and began to rotate the brooch.
“Ruben,” Mrs. Chrysler replied, “we did this very thing this morning. All of us.”
One turn.
“Did what?”
Katherine looked up into his wide-eyed face, and squinted.
Two turns.
“How do you think we got to the Gilded Midden this morning, Ruben?” Mrs. Chrysler asked slowly.
“Got to the where—?”
“Excuse me, the library will be closing soon.” Katherine looked up to see a young woman calling to them from the passage at the end of the stacks, a trolley laden with books in front of her. “Would you please prepare to leave?”
“No problem!” Mrs. Chrysler said.
Three turns.
Poof.
“Well, would you look at that!” Katherine gazed around them with a satisfied grin, having landed their party exactly where she’d expected to.
They stood at the end of a short carriage drive, at the other end of which stood a multi-story, whitewashed brick farmhouse with a slate roof.
Potato fields stretched away as far as the eye could see.
It was clearly peak harvest season, and the crop rows were bustling with people, even as the late-autumn sun was getting low.
“Helps to be working with an atlas that isn’t so old, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Chrysler said happily.
“I’ll say. My thanks to the cartographers.”
Katherine gently shook the rigid claws from her scarf—the cats let go with audible pops—and wrapped it more comfortably around herself. “A bit chilly here, isn’t it?”
“It is that.”
“Well, I’ll be,” Ruben breathed. He looked around and was patting his robe absently, as if making sure all of his parts were still there.
“That’s Tuck’s house, and, and… over there—there’s his family in the fields.
Oooh.” He shuddered. “Not that I’m keen to meet them again anytime soon… Not the friendliest sort.”
“Let’s remember why we’re here, Ruben,” Katherine said, absently straightening his scarf and then abruptly adjusting her own instead after catching his melting expression. “Your things. Your nephew has them. And we need them. Or the old contract, at least. Now, which is he?”
Ruben lifted a wizened finger in the direction of a stout, middle-aged figure who was pushing a wheelbarrow in the potato field.
The figure’s knees and elbows sported assorted patches of different patterns, and the overall effect rather reminded Katherine of a scarecrow.
The man had clearly spotted them, though, and was now looking at them curiously.
Recognition must have dawned because he suddenly flung down the barrow and began marching toward them across the field.
A few other people paused momentarily in their work and squinted in their direction, but they soon shrugged carelessly or shook their heads and returned to their hoes and trowels.
“Oh good, he’s seen us,” Mrs. Chrysler said. “Spares us from having to go out into the field and get that nice clean robe all muddy.”
They shuffled down the lane a bit, approaching the house on an interception course with the scarecrow man, who was increasingly flushed and angry-looking.
“Uncle Ruben?” the man bellowed when they were within shouting distance. “What in the gods’ names are you doing here?”
“Seems like a nice fellow,” Mrs. Chrysler said.
Katherine thought she heard Ruben groan softly.
“Tuck,” the old man began, standing slightly behind his companions. “Tuck, good to see you, boy.”