LITMIR.BIZ

      New York

      “That didn’t just happen,” Becca heard someone saying.

      She turned. It was Darrell.

      “Oh, it happened,” someone else said. That was Wade, who was looking at her when he said it. There was a hand on her arm, urging her gently out of the town car and onto the street. Even at night, New York City was noisy. And cold, bitter cold for the middle of March. But she hardly registered those things. Her head buzzed. Her eyes could barely focus enough to keep her from smashing into stuff.

      She had just attacked a man.

      Stabbed a man.

      No matter that he was a thickheaded creepy goon, or that he had mauled poor Lily and threatened to toss her off a bridge, or that three days ago his boss, Galina, had shot Becca herself with a gas-powered crossbow, giving her a wound that still hadn’t healed. Forget all that. Becca was a girl who read books, a girl with a loving family, a girl who was just a girl. The Hummer goon was maybe a goon, but he was also a human being, and she had stabbed him. With a dagger.

      She glanced at her hands. One was shaking like a leaf in a storm, but at least there was no blood on it. She would have freaked if there’d been blood on it. The other hand? Lily was holding it. Tightly. Comfortingly.

      “It’s okay, Bec,” Lily said, pulling her along the sidewalk by her unhurt arm. “You saved my life. You were awesome. Really. Thank you doesn’t begin to cover it. I was so scared and … well … I guess you knew that and that’s why you …”

      Becca’s cell phone vibrated suddenly, and she didn’t hear the rest. She pulled it out and glanced at the screen. She saw who was calling her. She let it vibrate.

      Before they had departed the San Francisco airport that morning, Uncle Roald had picked up new phones for each of them. Despite the danger of their phones being tracked, he said it was unrealistic to think that the five of them would always be in the same place at the same time. They needed to be able to communicate with one another at a moment’s notice. Though Lily had immediately cross-programmed the phones with all their numbers as well as family numbers, they all kept their batteries out most of the time. The first thing Becca herself had done was to call her mother to say she was safe. Her mother hadn’t answered. No one had answered. So she’d left a voice mail. She realized now that she must have forgotten to remove the battery, because someone was calling back.

      The dark screen was lit with four large white letters.

       Home.

      But how could she answer it? She had just … she had just …

      The phone stopped vibrating, and Becca watched the number 1 appear next to the voice mail icon. She slipped it back into her pocket. Lily was still talking.

      “… are definitely my hero, and I so owe you one, or probably way more than one, but we’ll round it off to one big one …”

      “Uh-huh,” Becca said. “Uh-huh.”

      What would Maggie say if she knew what I just did? Becca’s younger sister was the reason for so many things in her life. After nearly dying two years ago, Maggie was always on her mind, and when that creep grabbed Lily on the bridge, Becca saw Maggie in the thug’s powerful grip. How could she not jump at him? And if her hand went to Magellan’s dagger first, well, she couldn’t stop herself. But no way could she talk to anyone at home. Not yet.

      The doors of the Gramercy Park Hotel whisked open, and warm air engulfed them. After raising his hand to the man and woman behind the check-in desk, who smiled warmly, Terence Ackroyd led the Kaplans into the elevator, pressing the button for the seventh floor.

      It was Mr. Ackroyd who’d originally told them that Sara had disappeared. Sara was supposed to fly from Bolivia to New York to meet him, but her luggage arrived without her. His rescuing them in the car, not an instant too soon, was their first actual meeting with the famous writer, though Becca had started reading one of his books, The Prometheus Riddle. The spy thriller she’d picked up in Honolulu was like their lives now. Full of death and near death. She wondered where the novelist got his ideas. He didn’t look like a spy as much as a rich man. He was tall, casually dressed, with longish dark hair, graying at the temples. He moved easily among all the glitter and obvious wealth in the lobby, as if he owned the place.

      Maybe he did.

      She was coming back to herself now. Observing things. Beginning to remember stuff and hear things in real time. Happily, their limo driver was all right, just shaken up, and had already retired to his own room on a lower floor. Darrell’s forehead was gashed slightly from the limo’s ceiling light and had been bandaged using the first aid kit in Mr. Ackroyd’s car. There was talk about getting a doctor to look at her arrow wound, which she hardly felt at the moment.

      They entered the elevator. It was warm. Her breathing was slowing down, her breaths becoming deeper. She took her place between Lily and Wade at the back of the glass-and-wood-paneled car and clamped her elbow tightly on her shoulder bag. The bag held not only the cracked hilt of the Magellan dagger, but something even more priceless. The secret diary of Nicolaus Copernicus.

      Written by the astronomer and his young assistant, Hans Novak, from 1514 to about a decade later, the diary was the main source of what they knew about the time-traveling astrolabe. The book was composed in several languages and was heavily coded. Thanks to her maternal grandparents, Becca had a gift for foreign languages, and with the help of Wade’s science and math smarts she had already translated pretty good-size chunks of the diary into her red notebook. In fact, it was on the jet here from San Francisco that they’d discovered what Copernicus had come to call his time-traveling device.

       Die Ewigkeitsmaschine.

      The Eternity Machine.

      It seemed the perfect name for something so mysterious, and so deadly.

      “Here we are,” Terence Ackroyd said as the elevator opened directly into his suite.

      Whoa. The suite was huge, a multiroom apartment with broad windows looking out over lower Manhattan. It was furnished like a billionaire’s home, with a combination of antique chairs painted gold and white and modern leather sofas, two of which shared a lacquered Japanese coffee table that Mr. Ackroyd went straight to. He motioned for them to sit. “Please, rest, while we brew some fresh tea.”

       We?

      “I have it, Dad.”

      A boy entered the room, carrying a tray with a steaming teapot and several cups on it. He seemed a couple of years older than the kids, and had long, sandy-colored hair and very blue eyes. He set the tray on the table between the couches.

      “I’m Julian,” he said.

      Terence smiled. “My son. Excuse me for a moment.” Then he slipped off into a room with double doors, leaving them open. It was a study, from which a keyboard suite by Handel was playing softly from hidden speakers.

       Is that where he writes his thrillers?

      “I have to apologize for your welcome to New York,” Julian said with as pleasant a smile as his father’s, which he kept while they introduced themselves. “The Knights of the Teutonic Order have been violent since their first appearance in Jerusalem

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