The Thief's Apprentice by Bryan Methods

Author:Bryan Methods [Methods, Bryan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mysteries & Detective Stories;Action & Adventure;Fantasy & Magic;Adolescence;Adventure;Adventures;Bravery;Bryan Methods;Carolrhoda Books;Courage;Crime;Crimes;Danger;Families;Family;Family & Relationships;Fantasy;Friend;Friends;Friendship;Hero;Humor;Magic;Master Diplexito and Mr. Scant;Middle Grade;Mystery;Relationships;Secret;Secrets;The Thief's Apprentice
ISBN: 9781512418828
Publisher: Lerner Publishing Group
Published: 2016-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

IX

Smoke and Flash Powder

the time we were on our way back to London, I felt almost comfortable with the task ahead. After all, this wasn’t the first time I would break into a famous museum.

Diligently, I had done as Mr. Scant asked. I learned that the British Museum was home to the British Library, with most of the books housed in the famous dome of the Reading Room. The museum itself was not only large but continually growing. Mr. Scant said the current construction of a new wing, named the King’s Galleries in honor of the late King Edward, would simplify our entry.

Because agents of the Crown kept the library vault hidden from the public eye, Mr. Scant assured me that he did not anticipate any guards. “The grimoires are effectively national secrets. Therefore nothing about their disappearance reached the newspapers,” he explained. “The theft happened while the book was under the protection of a member of the Woodhouselee Society, and as such, there is no reason to suspect the Ruminating Claw.”

“If it’s underground and secret, doesn’t that mean getting inside is really hard?” I asked. “If they lock us in, won’t we be trapped there forever?”

“Not forever. Another king will need to be crowned some day.”

Our carriage was the same growler as before, neatly repaired after our visit to the gallery. Once we reached the center of London, Dr. Mikolaitis stepped down from the driver’s seat and thumped me on the chest—his way of showing affection. “Good luck,” he said. In the dim light, I could hardly tell his scars from his mouth, but I was fairly sure he had given me an approving smirk.

Unlike the National Portrait Gallery, the British Museum stood in its own grounds, with high iron railings surrounding it. However, some gates had been replaced with wooden ones while construction works took place. Mr. Scant opened them as easily as if they were old broken-down garden fences: after getting us through, he even put the padlock and chain back just as we had found them.

Though I had been to the museum before, I found myself completely disoriented. I would have recognized the main entrance’s Ionic columns and stone steps, but this construction site was wholly alien. Mr. Scant seemed to melt into the shadows of the walls, and before I knew it, he had forced open a window. Perched on its sill, he reached down a hand to haul me in from my place on the flagstones.

We dropped into a room that—to my slight disappointment—was filled with coins and pots. Mr. Scant brought out two torches and handed me one before leading the way through the gloom. A few rooms later, as the beams began to fall on enormous dog-headed gods and great blank-eyed, square-bearded faces, I struggled to contain my excitement. The Egyptian collection, in the dark. I wondered if this was how the men who explored ancient tombs must have felt, soon to be cursed for taking what was not theirs. Mr. Scant,

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