called Islington. When you get out, you’ll be on Essex Road. Go right. Walk for about a minute until you reach Pennington Street. Hang left and look for 54a.
Knock. Wait for someone to open door. Rinse and repeat as necessary until door opens.
Love,
Your Runaway Aunt
P.S.
You will notice that an ATM card for Barclays Bank is also in this envelope. Of course, it wouldn’t be safe to write the PIN number down.
When you get to 54a, ask the person who lives there, “What did you sell to the queen?” The answer to that question is the PIN. When you’ve solved that, you may open #3.
54a Pennington Street, London
She was standing somewhere in Heathrow Airport. She’d been shuffled off the plane, had pulled the notorious backpack from the luggage carousel, waited in an hour-long line to get her passport stamped, and been ignored by some customs officers.
Now she was staring at a London tube map.
It looked like a nursery school poster designed to attract the eyes of toddlers. It was stark white, with bright primary-colored lines snaking around it. The stops had solid-sounding names, like Old Street and London Bridge. Royal sounding: Earl’s Court, Queensway, Knightsbridge. Entertaining: Elephant & Castle, Oxford Circus, Marylebone. And there were names she recognized: Victoria Station, Paddington (where the bear lived), Waterloo. And there was Angel. To get there, she’d have to change at a place called Kings Cross.
She pulled out her £10 note, found a ticket machine, and followed the instructions. She walked up to one of the entrance 23
aisles and faced a pair of metal doors, almost like saloon doors.
She looked around, unsure of what to do next. She tried to push the gate gently, but nothing happened. Then she saw a woman next to her put her ticket into a slot on the little metal box next to her, and the doors opened. Ginny did the same. The machine sucked in the ticket with a satisfying swoosh, and the doors clapped open and she passed through.
Everyone was moving in the same direction, so she kept going, trying not to stumble against the backs of the bags other people were wheeling. When the train slid up to the stark white platform, she didn’t think to unhook herself from the pack, so when she got on, she could only fit on the very edge of a seat.
It wasn’t like the subway she had taken in New York. These were much nicer. The doors made pleasant bonging noises as they opened, and a British voice warned her to “mind the gap.”
The train moved aboveground. They were riding along behind houses. Then it was back underground, where the stations became more crowded. All kinds of people shuffled on and off, some with maps and backpacks, others with folded newspapers or books and blank expressions.
The cooing British voice said, “Angel,” a few stops later. She couldn’t turn around, so she had to back off the train, feeling for the space with her foot. A sign suspended from the ceiling said WAY OUT. As she approached the exit, there was another set of metal gates. This time, Ginny was certain that they would yield when she approached, kind of like an automatic door. But they didn’t. Not even when she walked right into them.
An annoyed British voice from behind her said, “You have to put in your ticket, love.”
24
She turned to face a man in a navy blue uniform and a bright orange work vest.
“I don’t have it,” she said. “I put the ticket in the machine. It took it.”
“You’re supposed to take it back,” he said with a sigh. “It comes back out.”
He went over to one of the metal boxes and touched some unseen button or lever. The gates clapped open for her. She hurried through, too embarrassed to even look back.
The first thing that hit her was the smell of a recent rain. The sidewalk was still wet and was fairly thick with people who politely moved around her and her backpack. The street was jammed full of real London traffic, just like in the pictures. The cars were
Knock. Wait for someone to open door. Rinse and repeat as necessary until door opens.
Love,
Your Runaway Aunt
P.S.
You will notice that an ATM card for Barclays Bank is also in this envelope. Of course, it wouldn’t be safe to write the PIN number down.
When you get to 54a, ask the person who lives there, “What did you sell to the queen?” The answer to that question is the PIN. When you’ve solved that, you may open #3.
54a Pennington Street, London
She was standing somewhere in Heathrow Airport. She’d been shuffled off the plane, had pulled the notorious backpack from the luggage carousel, waited in an hour-long line to get her passport stamped, and been ignored by some customs officers.
Now she was staring at a London tube map.
It looked like a nursery school poster designed to attract the eyes of toddlers. It was stark white, with bright primary-colored lines snaking around it. The stops had solid-sounding names, like Old Street and London Bridge. Royal sounding: Earl’s Court, Queensway, Knightsbridge. Entertaining: Elephant & Castle, Oxford Circus, Marylebone. And there were names she recognized: Victoria Station, Paddington (where the bear lived), Waterloo. And there was Angel. To get there, she’d have to change at a place called Kings Cross.
She pulled out her £10 note, found a ticket machine, and followed the instructions. She walked up to one of the entrance 23
aisles and faced a pair of metal doors, almost like saloon doors.
She looked around, unsure of what to do next. She tried to push the gate gently, but nothing happened. Then she saw a woman next to her put her ticket into a slot on the little metal box next to her, and the doors opened. Ginny did the same. The machine sucked in the ticket with a satisfying swoosh, and the doors clapped open and she passed through.
Everyone was moving in the same direction, so she kept going, trying not to stumble against the backs of the bags other people were wheeling. When the train slid up to the stark white platform, she didn’t think to unhook herself from the pack, so when she got on, she could only fit on the very edge of a seat.
It wasn’t like the subway she had taken in New York. These were much nicer. The doors made pleasant bonging noises as they opened, and a British voice warned her to “mind the gap.”
The train moved aboveground. They were riding along behind houses. Then it was back underground, where the stations became more crowded. All kinds of people shuffled on and off, some with maps and backpacks, others with folded newspapers or books and blank expressions.
The cooing British voice said, “Angel,” a few stops later. She couldn’t turn around, so she had to back off the train, feeling for the space with her foot. A sign suspended from the ceiling said WAY OUT. As she approached the exit, there was another set of metal gates. This time, Ginny was certain that they would yield when she approached, kind of like an automatic door. But they didn’t. Not even when she walked right into them.
An annoyed British voice from behind her said, “You have to put in your ticket, love.”
24
She turned to face a man in a navy blue uniform and a bright orange work vest.
“I don’t have it,” she said. “I put the ticket in the machine. It took it.”
“You’re supposed to take it back,” he said with a sigh. “It comes back out.”
He went over to one of the metal boxes and touched some unseen button or lever. The gates clapped open for her. She hurried through, too embarrassed to even look back.
The first thing that hit her was the smell of a recent rain. The sidewalk was still wet and was fairly thick with people who politely moved around her and her backpack. The street was jammed full of real London traffic, just like in the pictures. The cars were
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