Once Upon a Wardrobe(56)

I shake my head, look behind Padraig. When a car passes, I think it might be Mum and Dad and they’ll wonder why I’m standing outside in the snow with a boy they don’t know. But it’s not them. “That’s impossible. George can’t take that kind of journey and—”

“I have it all figured out.” Padraig jabs his finger at the spot on the map. “Well, perhaps not all figured out, because that’s part of the fun of an odyssey, not having it all squared away. Don’t you agree? But I have enough of it figured out to get us there and back home safely.” He pauses. When I have nothing to say, he plows ahead. “The castle is near my hometown of Crawfordsburn.”

“No,” I say even as I want to say yes. I must be sensible. If Margaret Devonshire is anything, she is sensible. I shake my head, then make a resolute face.

“I sort of expected you’d say that,” Padraig says with no hint of giving up. “That is, of course, a perfectly logical reaction.”

I want to be insulted, to be indignant and have a quick-witted response, but I fear he’s right. These last few days I’ve been questioning the fundamental value of only logic. Of logic’s ability to withstand what lies ahead in my life, in all our lives.

“Hear me out, Margaret Devonshire.”

I laugh when he uses my full name, then place my hand over my lips.

“It is an eight-hour trip. A day to be sure. A journey, but worth it, and such beauty along the way.” He opens the map wider and it flaps over his hand. “We drive from here to Holyhead, then take the car ferry to Dublin. After the boat ride, it’s a three-hour drive to the castle.”

“To the castle . . . ,” I say, like I’m starting to believe.

“Yes, but if we’re to keep to my schedule, we’ll have to go now.” He looks at his watch. “It will be dark early, and we’ll need to get up to the northern tip of Ireland. No worries about food. I have a full picnic basket and a thermos of warm cocoa. I have a blanket in the back seat where George can lie down and—”

“So that means we’ll need to spend the night. Do you intend for us to sleep on the side of some Irish road?” I am clicking through every reason that this adventure is a terrible idea even as a growing and frightening giddiness indicates resistance is futile.

“My aunt Mary lives in Crawfordsburn. Well, honestly, many of my aunts and uncles and cousins and second cousins live there, but Aunt Mary is my favorite. She’ll take us in without alerting the family forces, I know it.”

“My parents will never allow it. Not at all. Not for a minute.”

“Are they home? I can talk to them.” He grins. “I’m good with parents.”

“I’m sure you are. I’m sure you’re charming enough to talk anyone into almost anything, but they aren’t home, and besides that, they aren’t easily charmed.”

“I don’t want to charm anyone, Megs. I want to take you and your brother on an adventure for Christmas. I want George to see the place he longs to see. I want to spend today with you.”

I could not have been more stunned if he’d picked me up and swung me around and kissed me again—but this time on my front stoop. A flash of sadness told me that the snowbank kiss was a one-time thing. A mistake at best.

“That is so nice, Padraig, but we just can’t. I just . . . can’t.”

“You wanted adventure . . .”

“I never said that.”

“Okay, then it’s George.” He smiles because he knows that will hook my heart like a fishing line.

“I can’t take him away from home on Christmas Eve . . . Eve.”

“We’ll be back home in time for Christmas Eve, for whatever your family has planned. To my mind, there’s no time like the present.”

“What if we get stuck? What if—”

“What if we don’t go and your brother never has his adventure? Actually, your parents not being home might be just the thing. We’ll leave a note. We’ll be safe. I promise.”

We’ll be safe. I promise.

I believe him. I believe the deep echo in his voice. The sky clear and bright, I think of George in front of the fireplace asking for only this for Christmas. I think of next Christmas when George likely won’t be here, and me wishing I’d taken the chance, broken through the stone wall of logic and fear. There is a courageous girl I want to be—not this girl I am at the moment.

I look into Padraig’s green eyes and I believe him.

We will be safe.

“Wait here,” I say.

I rush inside, running toward an adventure. Before I fully know what I’ve done, I write Mum and Dad a note.

Please forgive me in advance. I am taking George on a short overnight trip. I promise he will be safe and warm.



My heart is hammering with delight. Something is coming alive in me, racing toward the unknown. It’s an untested feeling I indulge, a surge toward adventure.

This is dangerous and wrong.

It is safe and right.

Everything is all mixed tighter.

I am taking him to Ireland to see the castle. We are with Padraig Cavender from university. His father is a mathematics professor at Reading, and Padraig has an aunt at Crawfordsburn. We will stay at her house. All will be well. I am sorry to take him without permission, but this is all he has asked of me for Christmas.