Prydwen Hall Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The Guide

Several hours later, the school was empty and silent. The amber light of evening flooded the rooms as Professor Loftiess lit the lamps in the Great Hall. He was explaining to Peter and Malcolm, who had reluctantly been following him, that there weren't going to be any other rooms lit but three--this one, the Dining Room and the Library.

“I realize that it will be dark in some areas," said Professor Loftiess, blowing out a match, "but better take a candle with you. It's simply too much trouble to light every room. Besides, I can't see any reason for you two to be roaming around at night other than in these front rooms. Now, I think we better go over the rules."

Professor Loftiess pulled out a long sheet from inside his jacket. Peter silently groaned as Loftiess cleared his throat.

"The most important rule," began the professor in a crisp, articulate voice, "You're not allowed to leave the grounds. No going through the kitchen pantry--Mrs. Penfield has been complaining about food coming up missing--especially pies and cakes. No going up on the roof, no flying kites on the roof, no sliding upon the marble floors. No running, jumping, skipping, skidding, skating, or flying through any part of the school. We don't want any broken bones, thank you. No bomb-making, no locking anyone in closets, no setting off fireworks of any kind, no putting frogs in anyone's bed, no putting live fish in anyone's soup, no spreading hair dye on anyone's head to maliciously change the color of their hair. No digging holes on the grounds and camouflaging it with leaves so that one will fall in, no swimming in the lake or roaming through the forest without Professor Bimble or myself to chaperone you--"

He droned on and on. Malcolm thought he was going to list every rule one could possibly imagine. He forced himself not to yawn, but it wasn't easy. He'd never been this bored in his life. Finally, Professor Loftiess stated his last rule: "Absolutely no disappearing for lengthy periods of time."

He folded up his paper and placed it neatly in his coat.

"You do realize, Peter," said the professor, eyeing him sternly, "that every rule I've listed you have managed to break. That's precisely why I felt it necessary to go over each of them with you this evening."

"Actually," said Peter, trying to hide a grin, "I did sense a familiar ring to them." Professor Loftiess frowned and patted his pocket. "I wasn't listing your achievements, so you can take that insipid grin off your face. You better behave yourself in the next ten days, young man. I may not be as tolerant as the good-natured Professor Underhill, your usual housemaster. That, my young friend, is your last warning."

Peter nodded, and glanced gravely at the floor as if to appear meek and sober. But, privately, he gave a little wink towards Malcolm, which caused Malcolm's eyes to widen and peer fretfully at the professor.

The professor hadn't noticed, as he tapped his chin with his forefinger. "Now, one last thing before I go. You and the other boys will dine in the kitchen. Mrs. Penfield believes it more convenient than serving you five in that huge Dining Room. At nine o'clock, you will be expected to be in your beds with the lights out. Breakfast is at seven, as usual. Any questions?"

Malcolm and Peter shook their heads.

Professor Loftiess bowed his head slightly. "Then I'll say goodnight. I'm retiring to my room now. You can always knock if there is an emergency-- and only an emergency. Goodnight, boys."

With that said, Professor Loftiess exited the Great Hall, leaving Peter and Malcolm staring after him.

"Well, I guess we'd better have a seat," said Peter, with a shrug. "There's nothing else to do but wait for dinner."

Malcolm followed Peter as he strolled over to the red velvet high-back chairs the professors had occupied earlier this morning. The throne-like chair was huge as Malcolm climbed up; he sat upright with his legs dangling down. Peter sat a little more casually--he threw his legs over the arm, cradling himself inside. He sighed peacefully and shut his eyes, his arms folded across his chest. To Malcolm's surprise, he appeared to be falling asleep.

Malcolm frowned at him, not liking the idea of being the only one awake in the Great Hall surrounded by dark windowpanes. The lamps the professor had lit gave off a warm glow, but there weren't nearly enough of them to light up such an enormous room. Only three small sections were illuminated; the rest of the vast room was shrouded in darkness.

The stone walls seemed to hover over him in a shadowy gloom; the banners above his head hung black and motionless. The atmosphere was chilly and depressing as if the room had retreated into itself, wilted as night crept in. This morning Malcolm remembered the Great Hall as being airy and enchanting, flushed with dazzling light. Now it was like a tomb--cold, hollow and grim.

It reminded him of his grandfather.

If only he could have ran and hid under the bed the day when the old man came walking up the walkway three weeks ago. But, it wouldn’t have mattered. The stubborn old man would have waited months for him to finally crawl out and he would have been taken away, anyway, even if he had kicked and screamed and clawed the door till his nails were bloody.

He remembered his heart sank when he caught sight his grandfather that morning, clutching his hat and wearing his usual frown. Malcolm had been sitting with his little sister all morning helping her to cut out paper dolls--they had been in the midst of this activity when the bushy-browed old man walked in.

Taking one look at Malcolm, his nostrils flared and his face burned with indignant fury. He looked like a fuming Old Testament prophet standing up on a cliff with lightning forking the sky. Malcolm swung his head up at him in fright.

“What’s this I see?” he shouted to the top of his lungs, his bony finger pointing vigorously at Malcolm. "He's playing with paper dolls!"

“So?" retorted Malcolm's mother, coming up from behind him, her voice brittle and high-pitched. "What of it?"

"What of it?" shouted the old man. "Just look at him! He looks so much like a girl I can't tell him apart from his sister!"

Malcolm could feel himself sinking lower in his chair as his grandfather raged on and on about how Malcolm's father would not have approved of this sort of upbringing. It was such a familiar reprimand than Malcolm could have recited it word for word--he gave this speech every time he came for a visit! And it always ended the same way with slamming of doors and his mother beating a pillow in a state of fury.

The trouble was that his grandfather had been an over-achiever all his life, and because of this, he expected great things from Malcolm, too. He had been the son of a merchant in the horse and buggy days, and by the time Mr. McKinney was thirty, he had become a millionaire. He was a genius at accumulating wealth and lived in one of the finest mansions in Carlisle. He was well-respected and he enjoyed a reputation for being an extraordinary man who owned some of the largest factories in all of England. He was hoping that Malcolm would one day take on the responsibility of managing these fine factories as he had expected of his own son had he not faced an untimely death.

But, when Malcolm's mother remarried, Mr. McKinney’s plans for Malcolm were soon being challenged as Malcolm began to emulate his stepfather more and more. This is what set his grandfather's teeth on edge. His stepfather was so unlike Malcolm's father that the old man simply remained in a state of astonishment every time he looked at the odd fellow. Instead of a handsome, daring fighter-pilot, this man was a gawky, meek librarian, so timid he ran for cover if anyone came near him. One time, the old man found him up in a tree with Malcolm, actually hiding out from him! He was strangely withdrawn from life, preferring to stay indoors locked in his stuffy room with his books and didn't venture outside no matter how lovely the day. This odd behavior simply confounded the old man. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen before.

When the old man discovered that he and Malcolm's mother were devout Theosophists who strongly believed in the existence of fairies, it finally drove him to the breaking point. He was so incensed he began his revolt against them that very day. He sought to save Malcolm from their influence as fervently as a preacher trying to save a soul from damnation. For it became apparent to him after some investigation (that is, investing the help of spies and interrogating Malcolm’s little sister) that Malcolm’s mother and step-father were purposely creating in around their house the kind of atmosphere necessary to actually capture these fairy beings. They were going to extreme measures to try to lure these fairies to them. The grandfather simply could not believe that these two otherwise sound-of-mind adults could be serious about this, it was so appalling, but it was true, every single choice made about their home was done in courtesy to fairies. He feared this madness was sure to soften and feminize Malcolm to the point where he would be useless to him as a sensible, hardheaded businessman, and Malcolm‘s grandfather wasn‘t going to stand for any of it.

Mr. McKinney couldn’t believe his ears when Malcolm’s little sister told him that there were many “rules“ Malcolm and his sister had to follow. Loud shouting and noisy, boisterous movement were sure to scare the fairies away--therefore, these activities were frowned upon as well as rough-housing, wrestling, ball-chasing, tree-climbing or any activity that would be labeled loud and unruly. The fairies preferred a more serene, quiet atmosphere with books, puzzles, painting and bird-watching as pleasurable activities for children. No one was even to speak above a whispery tone. Even the furniture were chosen carefully so as to not offend with any gaudy colors that fairies were known to despise, and Moon chimes were placed just outside the balcony hoping its gossamer music would lure the fairies to them.

Malcolm didn't think it was a bad life. He couldn't understand his grandfather's problem with it. As a matter of fact, they were all very happy in their idyllic little world, except the old man wouldn't go away! He kept bursting in upon them!

Malcolm could see the old man in the parlor that day, thundering away at Malcolm's mother, shaking his fist in the air, sounding as if he'd reached the end of his rope, at last.

"You are destroying that boy! He will hate you one day for robbing him of his birthright. His father is in him, mark my words--and he won't go away so easily!"

This seemed to strike a chord in Malcolm's mother. Suddenly, she was silent, surveying him seriously for the first time.

" I never meant to erase Robert's memory, Mr. McKinney," she said, gravely. "But I see your point. Malcolm does need the chance to know who his father was, and whether or not he favors him."

She proposed to send Malcolm to Prydwen for one year--if he seemed to like it and wanted to be more level-headed like his father, he could go the way of the McKinneys with no opposition from her. If he hated it, he could come home and they could resume their quiet life as before with no more visits from him.

"Agreed," said his grandfather and he shook her hand, the first smile Malcolm ever saw creeping along his dry, wrinkly lips.

A tear came to Malcolm‘s eye, remembering leaving his sister this morning at the door with Olga, their housekeeper who was holding her little hand. He had wept all the way to the school which was a good long drive. He was too miserable at the time to notice where they were going or in what direction--he didn’t care to know. His mother kept telling him to be brave, that he would be fine once he settled in but it only made him cry harder. He was happy at home. He loved his life there. He missed his room, the security of their routine, their breezy old house filled with books.

His only fervent wish is that he had caught a fairy in a jar and proved without a doubt that they do exist. He almost laughed to think of the expression on the old man’s face if Malcolm had actually brought him a fairy in a jelly jar. He probably would have keeled over dead.

Malcolm didn’t care to think about it anymore. It was too depressing. How he wished he could go home! Couldn’t his grandfather see how stupid all of this was? He could never fit in here. After the gawks and laughter he got from the other boys this morning, it was absolutely clear to him that this was a miserable mistake. He was nothing like his father and nothing like any of the boys he saw this morning--and certainly nothing like Peter.

Malcolm turned to Peter, resting peacefully in the chair, sandy-blonde hair falling over his brow. Not only was Malcolm nothing like Peter; he didn't even understand Peter. The whole afternoon Malcolm had been totally bewildered by his peculiar behavior.

He had followed Peter all afternoon as he led him through endless corridors that ran through four stories of dormitories, the three large chambers of the Main Hall, and the countless smaller rooms in between which were the studies of the professors. They went outdoors, speeding past classrooms, through courtyards and gardens, around fountains, over brick walls, through athletic fields, passing a swimming pool and tennis courts with Peter always ahead of him, light and swift, and with Malcolm trudging behind, heavily frowning. The sun was high but Malcolm felt none of its warmth. He only felt the cold wind blowing in his ears.

Inside the school, Peter completely vanished several times, and Malcolm walked up and down the hallway, looking for him. Just when he despaired of ever finding him, Peter jumped out and tapped him on the shoulder, scaring the life out of him. He had no idea where he came from, how he had disappeared--it was truly infuriating, and set him a little on edge. Peter must have thought it wonderfully good fun, for he kept doing it even after Malcolm pleaded with him several times to stop.

After the last time, Malcolm began to feel not only annoyed with Peter, but a bit anxious as well. These aggravating little pranks of Peter's were making Malcolm feel there was something strange and untrustworthy about him. Knowing he had ten long days to spend with this prankster was beginning to look very grim, indeed.

He was now changing his mind about wanting to be Peter's friend. He was thinking, instead, of making friends with Duncan, Theo and Byron. That option seemed extremely appealing after having gone through today's harrowing adventure; surely it would make him feel better, too, being around boys of his own type, boys who liked to read and draw and play quiet games. He now questioned whether Peter’s description of those boys was true. What did he call them again, “Sons of Frankenstein’?

Well, Malcolm would find out for himself if they were really that strange. Malcolm was ready to settle for anyone else, if the truth be known. Peter was just too wound up with energy. Malcolm had been exhausted just in the first five minutes of following him around. Surely those boys couldn't be as bad as Peter made them out to be. It was probably another little joke of Peter's to make Malcolm think the worst. They couldn't be that weird--after all, they were students of Prydwen, weren't they?

Malcolm wished the time would go by faster so that he could go to dinner and finally meet them. It could be just like home, he thought, hopefully--being around boys more like himself. If only the time would hurry by!

The school was really beginning to give him the creeps. He remembered his first sight of it this morning when they were pulling up the drive and now couldn't believe that this was the same building. It had loomed up before him like a storybook palace, grey stone swathed in ivy, with towers and turrets, conical roofs, and rows and rows of blue gables sheltering miniature windows. High above, near the battlements, he had seen four twisted chimneys puffing out black clouds of smoke. It was really enchanting and he even had stopped crying for a moment to take in a few fascinating details as they were approaching the steps.

Yes, it was all amazing and delightful when he was walking up the wide grassy stone steps this morning, looking eagerly around at all the extraordinary details, but now he was feeling afraid of this enormous place.

Something about the forest spooked him this afternoon, that was when he first had a bad feeling. A melancholy stillness resided in those dark aisles of trees that hovered along the edge of the trimmed lawns. The wind eerily stirred the branches within, and he felt the hairs on his neck prickle. There was something disquieting and strange about it that made him feel frightened, as if some presence were warning him to stay away, was telling him that nothing here was what it appeared to be. Just beyond the boundaries resided a terrible presence, he could feel it inching closer towards him. He was relieved when they went inside, but with all the students gone now and the silence deadening the hollow halls within, it wasn't much better indoors.

He could not shake the feeling that some horrible entity was surrounding the place, was hovering close by. His eyes darted around, looking into the darkness that engulfed most of the room, wondering if something was clawing its way through the walls to get inside, something ugly and vile.

He heard a creak in the far corner and jumped up rather violently.

Peter opened one eye and peered at him. "Are you always this nervous?"

"I'm not nervous," said Malcolm, biting his nail. "I'm just hungry."

"Hungry?" said Peter, sitting up. "Being hungry makes you jump five feet from your chair?"

Malcolm frowned. "Maybe," he retorted. "What is it to you?"

Peter smiled to himself, waving him away. "Oh, it's nothing to me at all. Don't worry. It's just a little weird, that's all."

Malcolm said nothing, just looked away. An uncomfortable silence formed between them as Peter leaned back in his chair, staring ahead, Malcolm trying to keep his eyes away from the far end of the room. He, instead, stared at his shoes. After a long moment, Malcolm couldn't stand the silence anymore. He had to say something.

"What's it like here?" he asked, not really caring what the answer might be.

"Well, Malcolm," said Peter, turning to him, suddenly serious, "do you want the honest truth?"

"Of course," said Malcolm, frowning.

"Are you sure? I don't want to scare you."

Malcolm swallowed, nervously. "Yes, I think so. Tell me."

"Well, it's not good," began Peter, "For one thing, the teachers are really boring and mean. They drill us on assignments so that all we're doing is just repeating what they tell us for hours and hours. If we get it wrong, they whack us with a stick. We're not allowed to ask questions or speak up no matter what. And then there's the food. It's terrible! The meat is either too tough or it's bloody and cold. We get one potato per day and it's usually pretty small with a rotten core. One time I found a dead worm in mine! The porridge is always burnt at breakfast and all of us have to sit crammed together at this long table while Headmaster Grimm and his cronies eat at a table nearby with a lace tablecloth and china, wolfing down a steak feast right in front of us. If we ask for more than our small portion because we are so starved, we get beaten--actually, we get beaten everyday no matter what--"

"Wait a minute!" said Malcolm, as if an idea was beginning to dawn on him. "That sounds just like Oliver Twist. You're describing that orphanage!"

Peter doubled over in laughter, slapping his knee while Malcolm glared at him.

"Oh, so you read that book, too, eh?" chuckled Peter.

Malcolm folded his arms. "Aren't you ever serious?"

"Yes, I can be serious," replied Peter, rolling his eyes. "Your problem is that you're too serious. You need to get a sense of humor."

“Well, "said Malcolm, "I don't know how you get a sense of humor. I'm just not in a funny mood. It's my first day here, you know. I'm a little depressed."

"Oh, I know how you feel," said Peter, sighing. "I was there once myself. Except I was only ten and my buddy deserted me on the first day."

Malcolm noticed that Peter's face changed, a somber mood seemed to come over him. Curious, Malcolm forgot his own troubles, and leaned towards him.

"You were ten?" he said. "What was that like?"

"As bad as you can imagine. My first day here I was chased through the school by a bunch of jocks. When they caught me, they gave me a black eye and punched me in the stomach. They beat me up everyday after that and forced me to do their work for them. I lived that way for three months or so until I figured out a way to make them leave me alone."

"How did you make them leave you alone?" Malcolm asked, eyes wide.

A sly smile crept across Peter's lips. "I got some one to take care of the situation for me."

"Who?" Malcolm whispered, excitedly. "A thug?"

"No," said Peter, giving Malcolm a mischievous look. "A teacher."

"Oh," said Malcolm, disappointed. "A teacher."

Peter's smiled turned bitter. "Those jocks beat me up everyday and nobody cared. Everyone just turned their heads. There was not one person I could turn to. I had to think of something, but I didn't know what.

“And then I heard a weird rumor about a certain professor. I caught sight of him one day as I was going down to class. Given the way he looked, I almost believed the story myself. He just looked strange, the way he was so pale --he looked like he just stepped out of a coffin. Anyway, the kids used to whisper about him every night when the lights went out, I could hear them talking about him in the dark, how they found this old book in his room full of demonology. They said he'd read it when he was casting his evil spells. They said he also kept children's organs pickled in jars on a shelf and would sample them from time to time as a late night snack.”

Malcolm was trying not to show that he was on the edge of his seat as Peter leaned forward for dramatic effect, seeming to enjoy the petrified look on Malcolm’s face. He began to speak in a raspy whisper which was really creeping Malcolm out. One thing was for certain, Peter could tell a good story, even if he had no other good qualities to speak of. Malcolm gulped, just listening to that whispery voice of his!

Peter continued on, as if trying to be very secretive, looking back at the door to make sure no one was overhearing him. "Then, if you can believe it, one night they told an even stranger tale. They said that a couple of kids spied on him in his room. The door was slightly opened and they could see him standing in front of this cauldron stirring it with this old stick with steam bubbling up. And in this boiling pot, they saw a boy's bloody foot and a hand bobbing up on top--like he was boiling a kid in it."

Malcolm gasped. "Are you telling me the truth?"

"That's what I heard," Peter said, with a shrug.

"But why would he be boiling a kid?

"Beats me."

Malcolm gave him a suspicious look. "It all sounds made up to me. He couldn't have been boiling a boy. It's just impossible. For instance, how did he bring up the hot water? He would have had to make a large fire to keep the water at boiling temperature. And that cauldron must have been huge--how did he get it up the stairs in the first place? And also--"

Peter threw his hands up. "Well, who cares, Malcolm? I'm trying to get to my point, which has nothing to do with whether any of the stories are true, or not. It only matters that they believed it. Because the more stories I heard, I saw that everyone feared him; really feared him. It was then that I was able to formulate a plan. Do you get it now?"

Malcolm nodded.

Peter sighed in relief, and went on. "I started hanging around this professor, wanting everyone to see me with him so they'd think I was his apprentice or something. Every time I saw him I ran up to him and just hung around. I don't know if the professor was aware of this, at first, but after a few more times, I think he guessed I was up to something. So, he asked me point-blank one day if I wanted something from him. So, I came out with it: I wanted him to scare off those jocks that kept torturing me.

"'And what if I do?' he says in this eerie kind of voice. "What will you do for me?"

"I'll pay you', I said to him. He rubbed his chin and I could tell he liked that idea. So, I sent a letter to my great-grandmother that day and asked her for the sum, which was pretty hefty. I told her I needed a special racket for the junior tennis competition and it had to be in cash. She sent it to me right away--actually had it hand-delivered by her driver.

"In less than two days after I gave him the money, my problem was solved once and for all. You should have been there to see it--it was amazing."

Peter paused to smile, as if remembering the event fondly.

"What?" demanded Malcolm. "What happened?"

"Oh, sorry," Peter said, laughing at himself. He quickly went back to his creepy, whispery voice, continuing the tale. "It happened that morning when I was walking down the hallway and, as usual, they were behind me, laughing and poking me in the back. We turned the corner and, out of the blue, there's the professor standing over us. The jocks almost jumped out of their pants when they saw him and I would have laughed, but the professor even had me spooked. He looked positively wicked. He had this mean grin on his face and his eyes were shining like he was possessed by the devil.

"He motioned for me to leave and I turned and ran. When I got to the end of the hall, I looked back--they had all disappeared! Just like that.

"I don't know what he said to them or what he did, but the next time I saw them, they didn't want to be in the same room with me. They'd run away in a panic if I came anywhere near them. In less than two weeks, they all left the school--got transferred to someplace else--but they never told anyone what happened to them or why they wanted to get away from here.

“I asked the professor several times but he never answered me. He just stood there and smiled."

"Is that professor still here?" asked Malcolm, with another gulp.

"No, he was fired about two years ago for strangling a kid. It took five other schoolmasters to pry him off. He had to leave that very day. I don’t know what ever happened to him. I never saw him again. It’s too bad, really. I liked him."

Malcolm raised his brow. "You liked him?"

"Yeah, I can't explain it, but I liked him."

That figures, thought Malcolm. Anything completely dumbfounding was just Peter’s speed. His personality made no sense whatsoever. But he wasn’t going to press him for details since Peter had already proven to be touchy about questions. Malcolm would just have to let it go as yet another one of Peter’s quirks.

The clock in the hall suddenly chimed the dinner hour. Peter rose to his feet and Malcolm quickly joined him. After that weird story told in this cheerless Hall, Malcolm was in a hurry to get out of there and into a more cozy environment.

"Well, let's go see what's for dinner," said Peter.

As they neared the tall, arched doors, Malcolm saw an amazing thing in the corner of his eye and had to stop.

"What is that? Feet?“ he inquired, pointing to two large feet that were planted against the wall in the distance. The legs were so huge they couldn’t be real.

Peter looked over to where he was pointing. "Oh, that's just a statue, Malcolm."

Peter walked over to it and Malcolm hesitantly followed him, not sure now if he wanted to get closer.

"It ‘s really huge," said Peter, nonchalantly. "It’s too dark to see its face but tomorrow I can show it to you.”

Malcolm strained his neck to look up and still saw nothing, only two legs stretching up into the darkness. Malcolm could now see, as his eyes traveled downward, that the feet were clawed and the legs had coarse scales.

It seemed to be watching him from high above. . Malcolm grew alarmed. The overpowering presence that he had felt outside now seemed to be inside. It was standing in front of him, waiting and watching. He looked away, afraid that if he looked hard enough he could see the face of the one that was peering down at him through darkness.

Malcolm wanted to leave, he felt afraid, but Peter seemed to be unbothered. As if terrifying statues were ho-hum to him.

"His face is really ugly,” Peter went on, as if trying to scare Malcolm even further. Malcolm silently begged him to be quiet, he didn‘t want to hear anymore.

Peter continued, watching Malcolm’s face. “He has horns going through the sides of his head that wrap around the inside of his neck and sharp teeth that cover half his face and two slits for eyes.”

“Why is this thing in here?” exclaimed Malcolm, horrified.

“All I was told is that it’s been in this Hall for centuries and no one knows why. This place used to be a castle.”

Peter turned and pointed towards the other side of the room. “It still has most of the old features. If you look up there you can see the Minstrel's gallery. I don't know if you can see it now--it's pretty dark."

Malcolm looked up and saw far across the room a shadowy opening behind a balcony. He couldn't see anymore than that, but Malcolm was already familiar with what a Minstrel's gallery looked like since he had read a lot about castles and life in the Middle Ages.

“ A boy was killed up there years ago,” said Peter. “He got trapped and had an asthma attack. They didn't find him for three days. Anyway, they sealed off the entrance. It's been closed a long time."

Malcolm cringed, finding all of this horribly gruesome. This was a terrible room and he wanted out of here. He tried to take a few steps towards the door without seeming to be in a hurry.

“Let’s go, now,” he said, his voice quivering.

"Well, there are plenty of things I could show you around this place," said Peter, coming away from the statue. "It’s going to be boring for the next few days if we don‘t find something to do. We could explore some secret rooms, hidden passageways--if you like that sort of thing."

"Yes, that sounds like fun,“ said Malcolm, not really that interested, but trying to seem as if he were. He hurried his steps, hoping Peter would not notice how fast he was walking.

Peter strolled behind him, his voice still carefree and unconcerned. “There are some amazing rooms here, Malcolm. You’re going to see some things you're not going to believe."

Malcolm felt himself becoming annoyed. “I don‘t know, Peter Are you going to run so fast tomorrow, so I have to run my legs off to keep up with you? If you are, then I think I‘ll pass.”

"No, don‘t worry" said Peter, as they turned to walk towards the doors. "I'll slow down."

"You’re not going to hide again and jump out and scare me?" asked Malcolm, a disgusted look on his face. “Because if you are, I’m not interested.”

"No," said Peter, going through the arched doors. "I won't jump out and scare you."

Malcolm didn’t know if Peter was going to keep his word, but he didn’t think he could stand to walk around this place all alone. He would have to trust him.

All the same, he felt like a wee, little lamb with a very clever wolf and it was not a pleasant feeling, at all.