Читать книгу The Gargoyle at the Gates - Philippa Dowding - Страница 6

The Apple Bitten

Christopher made it through day three at his new school. The teacher was assigning their math homework for the evening. “Be sure to practise your multiplication up to the fifteen times tables.”

A girl two desks down groaned and slammed her book shut. Her friend, a girl named Kathleen or something, looked gloomy.

The teacher dismissed the class and they all filed out into the hallway. Christopher grabbed his backpack then headed down the old marble stairs and out the front door. As he stood at the streetcar stop, one of his classmates joined him. It was the girl named Kathleen, or something.

They were the only two people at the stop. He looked up at the sky and started rocking back and forth on his feet. He did that whenever he was nervous. Christopher was good at new schools, he’d been to so many. Making new friends, though? Well, that was something different.

The girl turned toward him, clearly trying to think of something to say. Finally she said, “You’re … Christopher, right?”

“Uh-huh. Christopher Canning. My family calls me C.C. for short.” He said this so quickly he wasn’t sure the girl understood him. Christopher rubbed the top of his shoe against his calf then pushed his glasses up his nose. The girl could see he wasn’t going to say anything else.

“I’m Katherine. Newberry,” she said, smiling a little. “Nobody calls me K.N., though. Just Katherine.”

“Oh. Hi,” Christopher said. It was all he could think of. He vowed then and there to start paying more attention to how his sister Claire started such easy conversations with strangers.

The streetcar rattled to a stop and opened its doors. They got on and found seats near the back. The streetcar rattled on its way again.

Katherine got out her notebook and started doing math. Christopher stared out the window. Katherine was saying quietly to herself, “Fifteen times eight. Fifteen times eight,” and tapping the pencil on her chin.

“One hundred and twenty,” Christopher blurted out.

“What?” she said, surprised.

“One hundred and twenty. Fifteen times eight, it’s one hundred and twenty,” he said, pointing to her math book. “Oh!” She gave a little smile and wrote down the number in her book. “Okay, what’s fifteen times nine? Quick!”

“One hundred and thirty-five,” Christopher answered immediately. Katherine scribbled.

“Fifteen times ten?”

“One hundred and fifty.” Katherine scribbled again.

“Fifteen times eleven?”

“One hundred and sixty-five.” Another scribble.

“And fifteen times twelve?”

“One hundred and eighty.”

Katherine wrote down the last answer, slammed her math book shut, and jammed it back into her backpack. “Thanks!”

They were nearing his stop. It was just past an old pub and a tiny library, in front of a bright-red store with a green door, called “Candles by Daye.” There was an extra “e” on “Daye,” which was kind of funny, but he wasn’t quite sure why.

“Well, see you,” he said, getting to his feet.

Katherine got up and swung her backpack onto her shoulder. “It’s my stop, too. See you later,” she said, then pushed open the streetcar doors and stepped onto the sidewalk. She walked ahead of him then disappeared into Candles by Daye. As the store door opened, he heard a little bell ring, and for a second he caught the heavy scent of cinnamon. The door shut and it was quiet again. He stared for a moment at the shop window filled with candles shaped like skulls, dragon statues, and yoga books, but he caught Katherine looking at him through the glass, and he quickly looked away.

Christopher was alone. He looked across the street. His huge old house was waiting, but everyone was still at work or school. His parents’ car wasn’t in the driveway, and there were no brothers or slightly-older-sister reading on the front porch. He crossed the street at the crosswalk and found himself standing in front of the locked iron gates of the little park. There was no one around, not even cars passing by, and he was alone except for an old man with a dark coat, a hat, and thick glasses sitting on a bench way down the sidewalk.

The gargoyles were perched on the gateposts above the locked gate. He studied them for a moment. He looked into the locked park, at the stone seahorse fountain bubbling away, and the inviting benches just out of his reach, then back up at the gargoyles. They were dripping wet and very dark and shiny looking. There were little wisps of steam coming off them.

Then he realized that one of the gargoyles was clutching an apple in its claw.

And someone had taken a bite.