She hopped to the end of the pipe. Now she had to make a quick decision.
The whole school would be in the underground dining hall. No one would hear her if she knocked on the great oak doors. And if she rang the bell, who would open the door?
Weedon, the janitor, who had not an ounce of sympathy for an endowed child.
There was only one place she could go; only one man strong enough to demand entry to Bloor's Academy and rescue Tancred. Emma flew toward the Heights, a distant hill crowned by a thick forest of pines.
The Thunder House stood in a forest glade; visitors253to the place were few, for the surrounding air was always turbulent. Thunder growled above the trees and an incessant north wind carried hailstones, even in the summer.
Small birds became as helpless as toys when they drew near the Torssons' home. Tossed between clouds and deafened by thunderclaps, they could do little more than close their eyes and hope to keep airborne.
But hope was not good enough for Emma. In the world, no bird was as fiercely determined. She would reach Tancred's father, and he would save Tancred.
As Emma approached the mysterious house with its three pointed roofs, the wind increased its grip. She could hardly breathe as the current's iron fist tightened about her.
With a soundless cry of fear she gave in to the wind and allowed it to hurl her at the Thunder House.
When the wind released her, the bruised little bird ruffled her feathers and stretched her needle-thin legs. "Help! Help!" she cried; before she was254fully changed, she began to rap on the Thunder House door with a fist that still had not lost all its feathers.
When the door was opened, it would be difficult to say who was the most startled: the half-bird, half-girl on the step or the seven-foot-tall man with his moon-yellow hair and electrified beard.
They had met once before and Emma knew Mr. Torsson was a kind man beneath his stormy exterior. "It's Emma," she said. "I'm sorry I'm still not quite me." Then, reaching her full, featherless height, "Ah, here I am."
"Emma Tolly?" boomed Mr. Torsson.
"Yes," Emma shrieked through a thunderclap, and without pausing for another breath, she cried out her news. Every word she uttered increased the tempest that erupted from the thunder man, and before she had finished, her hand was seized in long, icy fingers.
"We'll ride the storm," roared Mr. Torsson, whirling Emma off her feet.255Afterward, Emma could never find the words to describe her journey through the air. She was flying, and yet she was not a bird. The storm lifted her, cradled her, swung her feet into its arms, and rushed her through the sky. The storm had moon-yellow hair and bolts of lightning grew from his beard. Beneath him the hooves of an invisible horse thundered over the clouds.
It was over in less than two minutes. They landed in the courtyard of Bloor's Academy, and before Emma could gather her thoughts, Mr. Torsson had mounted the worn stone steps. One blow from his icy fist sent the great doors crashing apart, their long iron bolts scudding over the flagstones.
"Where's my son?" roared the thunder man, striding into the hall.
"This way," cried Emma, running to the staircase.
The ancient wood groaned in distress as Mr. Torsson mounted the stairs. The railings rattled and the carpets sighed as hailstones bruised their thick pile.256"Hurry, please!
Hurry," called Emma, running down the hallway that led to the art room.
Voices could now be heard in the hall. "Who's there? What's going on?"
Easels clattered to the floor as Mr. Torsson marched through the art room. He reached the trapdoor and Emma pointed to the bolt that held it shut. She could hear the water gurgling beneath them. How high would it be now?
In almost one movement, the thunder man had pulled open the trapdoor and whirled down the spiraling steps. Emma, following, saw to her horror that the water was now level with the tigers' eyes. Tancred had gone.
"Don't touch the water!" Mr. Torsson commanded as he waded through the flood.
Shafts of electricity lit the water and the room was bathed in the reflected blue-white glow. The thunder man bent down and, with a dreadful sucking splash, lifted his son out of the water. Tancred's face was a deathly gray.257"NO!" With tears streaming down her face, Emma scurried back up to the art room. Thundering footsteps and the steady stream pouring from Tancred's clothes followed her up the steps and through the tangle of fallen easels.
Squelch! Squelch! Squelch! Mr. Torsson's wet boots punched damp holes into the floorboards as they hurried down unlit corridors until they came to the landing above the hall.
Dr. Bloor stood looking up at them. Behind him, some of the staff had gathered. They stared at Mr. Torsson, their mouths agape, like dying fish.
"You'll pay for this!" bellowed Mr. Torsson, raising the boy he carried.
Hissing blue water streamed down the polished staircase and spilled onto the flagstones.
Fearing electrocution, the crowd moved back with exclamations of alarm. But old Mr.
Ezekiel, in his rubber-wheeled chair, moved to the foot of the dripping stairs and croaked,
"Why should we pay? Your son has evidently made a mess. Must258have left the tap running and slipped in the water."
"LIAR!" boomed the thunder man.
Hailstones the size of oranges rained down on the terrified staff. Most ran, howling childishly, into the nearest hallway; a few, including Dr. Saltweather, raised their hands protectively above their heads and waited to see what would happen next.
They didn't have to wait long. The next minute a bolt of lightning whizzed around the paneled walls. Flames began to eat at the wooden signs above the coatroom doors, and then all the lights went out. When Mr. Torsson thumped down the staircase, the whole building shuddered. Distant bangs and crashes could be heard as paintings fell off walls, furniture toppled over, and cupboards flew open, disgorging their contents over anything and anyone in their way.
Down in the dining hall, children clutched their plates while knives and forks flew in every direction.
"Do not impale yourselves," Mrs. Marlowe, the259drama teacher, called theatrically through the darkness. "It's just a thunderstorm. Stay calm."
"A typhoon more likely," said Bragger Braine.
"A typhoon, definitely," echoed Rupe Small.
Crouching on the landing, Emma watched Mr. Torsson's huge silhouette move across the hall. In the dangerous flicker from tiny fires all around the room, she could just make out the retreating figures of Dr. Bloor and Mr. Ezekiel, in his wheelchair.
With a final, deafening crack of thunder, Mr. Torsson stepped between the open main doors and down into the courtyard. Emma longed to follow him, but she didn't dare to move. She stayed where she was while the staff rushed around, shining flashlights and setting things right again. And then she crept up to her dormitory and waited to tell Olivia the unbelievable, heartbreaking news.
Charlie sat huddled in a corner of the Gray Room. He guessed that the violent thunderstorm must have260had something to do with Tancred. But what had happened?
He longed to know.
When the storm had passed, a profound silence settled into the hallway outside. It was as though the grandfather clocks and mechanical toys were holding their breath. A minute later they started up again, even louder and faster than before.
Charlie looked at his watch. Nine o'clock. Had they forgotten his existence? Did they intend to starve him? He was too hungry and too cold to sleep.