Читать книгу The Orb of Kandra - Морган Райс, Morgan Rice - Страница 14

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.”

He went to close the door on them. Oliver held his palm out to stop it from being closed. He spoke with a voice that sounded far more confident than he felt.

“It’s not a survey. I’m looking for someone. Someones, actually. My parents.” Oliver took a breath to steady his nerves. “I have reason to believe you might know them.”

The man’s eyes searched Oliver’s face. Oliver could tell he didn’t have good vision by the way he squinted.

“Your parents?” he said in a croaky voice. “What makes you think I’d know anything about that?”

“I’m a seer,” Oliver blurted.

The old man paused. “A seer?”

“We both are,” Esther added.

The man looked from one to the other. “Both of you, eh?”

They nodded in unison.

The professor reached for the watch on his wrist. He unhooked it with shaking, wizened fingers, then turned it over and held it out to Oliver. There was an inscription on the back. A ring with three eyes.