Mrs. Colson returned, heels clicking across the marble entryway. She stopped in the doorway, a piece of stationery in hand, and glanced at her delicate wristwatch. “If you get down to the library before six, you might catch Mrs. Wagner before she heads home.”

Pigeon crossed to the doorway and accepted the pink slip of paper. “Thanks a lot, Mrs. Colson,” he said.

“My pleasure,” she replied, guiding him to the door.

“Come again, Paul,” Jasmine called.

Pigeon turned and waved. Mrs. Colson closed the door. That had gone smoothly! He wondered if the Sweet Tooth had made Mrs. Colson so obliging, or if perhaps he would not have needed the candy in the first place. He hurried down the driveway as the gates swung open. With Nile nowhere in sight, he set off along Sunset Place.

Sliding a hand into his pocket, Pigeon fingered the Brain Feed. What a remarkable creation! Without the kibble, Jasmine could not possibly comprehend English, which meant that the Brain Feed not only granted her the ability of speech, it also allowed her to instantly and effortlessly make sense of previous human interactions she had witnessed. Plus, the magical kibble functioned so naturally that the cat had not seemed a bit amazed to be conversing with a person. Pigeon determined that after visiting the library he would have to spend some time getting to know his dog.

Chapter Fourteen

The Library

Nate rapped on the door and Mr. Stott answered. “Come in, my boy,” he said.

“What’s going on?” Nate asked, stepping inside.

“I want to introduce you to a colleague of mine.” Mr. Stott closed the door. He led Nate down the hall and paused outside a door across from his bedroom. “We magicians sometimes employ engineered apprentices. Assistants whom we imbue with power to make them more useful.”

“Like the fat guy full of orange goop who works for Mrs. White,” Nate said.

“Precisely. I don’t as a rule tamper with my assistants, but many years ago, a loyal man who served me contracted a terminal illness. As the end neared, he urged me to preserve his life. The only hope within the parameters of my abilities was to drastically alter his physiology. I explained the hazards, and still he beseeched me to make an attempt.

“In many respects, the procedure went wrong. Although I succeeded in sparing his life, it came at the price of his humanity. Physically he was ruined, and mentally he had changed as well, grown simpler. I can still communicate with him, which is why you are here. He renamed himself the Flatman. I tell you about him in advance because his appearance is unsettling. Upon seeing him for the first time, two people, to my recollection, have passed out, and others have become nauseated.”

Mr. Stott opened the door. Nate walked into a dim room. Heavy drapes obscured the windows. A solid table stood in the middle of the room beside a wicker rocking chair. On the table sat a shallow aquarium filled halfway with fluid that reeked of formaldehyde. The Flatman floated on the surface of the fluid.

Half curious, half disgusted, Nate drew closer. The creature looked like a cross between a human being and a fried egg. About the size of a Frisbee, the Flatman was sheathed in pale human skin, complete with pores and faint wrinkles. He had one large eye, one small eye, and three misshapen slits—presumably two nostrils and a mouth. Four translucent fins flapped languidly, their form eerily reminiscent of hands and feet. The larger eye had a fleshy lid that opened and closed, while the smaller one perpetually stared. Nate could appreciate why people might pass out upon meeting the Flatman.

“Can he hear me?” Nate asked.

“Most assuredly,” Mr. Stott said.

“Can he talk?”

“Not as you or I speak. After completing the botched transformation, I assumed my assistant would not want to continue in this state. But his will to live was extraordinary—to this day he claims he is glad to be alive. Along with all he lost, he did acquire some new abilities. One side effect of the changes I wrought is that his consciousness drifts across time, allowing him to glimpse the past and the future.”

“Can he see outside this room?”

“He can see only places where he was or will be, and he has no conscious control over the ability. At times he becomes confused. The past is constant, but the future is always in motion. Some of the futures he glimpses never come to pass. Lately he has been observing a future without me in it to feed and take care of him. He has seen himself anonymously starving, unable to seek help. And then this afternoon he adamantly insisted I needed to give you the most powerful confection in my possession.”

“Give it to me?” Nate asked. “Does he know me?”

“Perhaps he overheard your name during a prior visit. More likely, he has observed you in the future. He stubbornly maintains that giving you the Grains of Time will be my only hope for surviving the looming hostilities. When he acts this resolute, I have come to rely on his predictions.” Mr. Stott held up a small hourglass on a silver chain. Ornately decorated, the hourglass contained blue sand in one chamber, red sand in the other, with a tiny yellow pellet plugging the gap between the two.

“What does it do?”

“I created the Grains of Time with the help of my master, who has since passed away. I do not believe I could devise another like it. Back then we took more pride in packaging our formulations, before the world fell in love with all things plastic and disposable. To function correctly, the grains must be consumed in the proper order—first blue, then red, then yellow. The blue will take you into the past, the red into the future, and the yellow will give you temporary dominion over the present. The three types of sand must be consumed in rapid succession or the spell will fail. Use the contents of this hourglass only in the moment of your most dire need. You will get only one chance.”

Mr. Stott handed Nate the hourglass.

“Do I wear it around my neck?”

“That would seem sensible,” Mr. Stott said.

“Are you sure you want to give this to me?”

“Sure enough. Tell me, has Pigeon had any luck locating the Stargazer?”

“I haven’t heard back yet,” Nate said. “Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”

Mr. Stott scratched his beard and shifted his feet awkwardly. He cleared his throat, coughing lightly into his fist. “Nate, if something should happen to me in the coming days, I’m wondering if you might keep an eye on the Flatman for me. He eats fish flakes and canned cat food. The mixture he floats in is three parts water, one part formaldehyde. He can help you learn the details. If other forms of communication fail, one blink means yes, two means no. Could you do that for me?”