“Hey, get down!” Harvey told him.

The cat didn’t care to take orders. He hoisted himself up onto the rim of the pan to sniff at its contents, his tail flicking back and forth. The next moment, disaster. The tail danced too close to one of the burners and burst into flames. Clue-Cat yowled, and tipped over the pan he was perched upon. A wave of boiling water washed him off the top of the stove, and he fell to the ground in a smoking heap. Whether drowned, scalded or incinerated, the end was the scone: He hit the floor dead.

The din brought Mrs. Griffin hurrying back.

“I think I’m going to go eat outside,” Wendell said as the old woman appeared at the door. He snatched up a couple hot dogs, and was gone.

“Oh my Lord!” Mrs. Griffin cried when she set eyes on the dead cat. “Oh…you foolish thing.”

“It was an accident,” Harvey said, sickened by what had happened. “He was up on the stove—”

“Foolish thing. Foolish thing,” was all Mrs. Griffin seemed able to say. She sank down onto her knees, and stared at the sad little sack of burned fur. “No more questions from you,” she finally murmured.

The sight of Mrs. Griffin’s unhappiness made Harvey’s eyes sting, but he hated to have anyone see him cry, so he fought back his tears as best he could and said: “Shall I help you bury him?” in his gruffest voice.

Mrs. Griffin looked around. “That’s very sweet of you,” she said soy. “But there’s no need. You go out and play.”

“I don’t want to leave you on your own,” Harvey said.

“Oh, look at you, child,” Mrs. Griffin said. “You’ve got tears on your cheeks.”

Harvey blushed and wiped them away with the back of his hand.

“Don’t be ashamed to weep,” Mrs. Griffin said. “It’s a wonderful thing. I wish I could still shed a tear or two.”

“You’re sad,” Harvey said. “I can see that.”

“What I feel is not quite sadness,” Mrs. Griffin replied. “And it’s not much solace, either, I’m afraid.”

“What’s solace?” Harvey asked.

“It’s something soothing,” Mrs. Griffin said, getting to her feet. “Something that heals the pain in your heart.”

“And you don’t have any of that?”

“No, I don’t,” Mrs. Griffin said. She reached out and touched Harvey’s cheek. “Except maybe in these tears of yours. They comfort me.” She sighed as she traced their tracks with her fingers. “Your tears are sweet, child. And so are you. Now you go out into the light and enjoy yourself. There’s sun on the step, and it won’t be there forever, believe me.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“I’ll see you later then,” Harvey said, and headed out into the afternoon.

V. The Prisoners

The temperature had risen while Harvey had been at lunch. A heat-haze hovered over the lawn (which was lusher and more thick with flowers than he remembered) and it made the trees around the House shimmer.

He headed toward them, calling Wendell’s name as he went. There was no reply. He glanced back toward the House, thinking he might see Wendell at one of the windows, but they were all reflecting the pristine blue. He looked from House to heavens. There was not a cloud in sight.

And now a suspicion stole upon him, which grew into a certainty as his gaze wandered back to the shimmering copse and the flowers underfoot. During the hour he’d spent in the cool of the kitchen the season had changed. Summer had come to Mr. Hood’s Holiday House; a summer as magical as the spring that had preceded it.

That was why the sky was so faultlessly blue, and the birds making such music. The leaf-laden branches were no less content; nor the blossoms in the grass, nor the bees that buzzed from bloom to bloom, gathering the season’s bounty. All were in bliss.

It would not be a long season, Harvey guessed. If the spring had been over in a morning, then most likely this perfect summer would not outlast the afternoon.

I’d better make the most of it, he thought, and hurried in search of Wendell. He finally discovered his friend sitting in the shade of the trees, with a pile of comics at his side.

“Wanna sit down and read?” he asked.

“Maybe later,” said Harvey. “First I want to go look at this lake you were talking about. Are you going to come?”

“What for? I told you it’s no fun.”

“All right, I’ll go on my own.”

“You won’t stay long,” Wendell remarked, and went back to his reading.

Though Harvey had a good idea of the lake’s general whereabouts, the bushes on that side of the House were thick and thorny, and it took him several minutes to find a way through them. By the time he caught sight of the lake itself the sweat on his face and back was clammy, and his arms had been scratched and bloodied by barbs.

As Wendell had predicted, the lake wasn’t worth the trouble. It was large—so large that the far side was barely visible—but gloomy and dreary both the lake and the dark stones around it covered with a film of green scum. There was a legion of flies buzzing around in search of something rotten to feed on, and Harvey guessed they’d have no trouble finding a feast. This was a place where dead things belonged.

He was about to leave when a movement in the shadows caught his eye. Somebody was standing further along the bank, almost eclipsed by the mesh of thicket. He moved a few paces closer to the lake, and saw that it was Lulu. She was perched on the slimy stones at the very edge of the water, gazing into their depths.

Speaking in a near whisper for fear he’d startle her, Harvey said:

“It looks cold.”

She glanced up at him, her face full of confusion, and then without a word of reply—turned and bounded away through the bushes.

“Wait!” Harvey called, hurrying toward the lake.

Lulu had already disappeared, however, leaving the thicket shaking. He might have gone in pursuit of her, but the sound of bubbles breaking in the lake took his gaze to the waters, and there, moving just below the coating of scum, he saw the fish. They were almost as large as he was, their gray scales stained and encrusted, their bulbous eyes turned up toward the surface like the eyes of prisoners in a watery pit.

They were watching him, he was certain of that, and their scrutiny made him shudder. Were they hungry, he wondered, and praying to their fishy gods that he’d slip on the stones and tumble in? Or were they wishing he’d come with a rod and a line, so that they could be hauled from the depths and put out of their misery?

What a life, he thought. No sun to warm them; no flowers to sniff at or games to play. Just the deep, dark waters to circle in; and circle, and circle, and circle.

It made him dizzy just watching, and he feared that if he lingered much longer he’d lose his balance and join them. Gasping with relief he turned his back on the sight, and returned into the sunlight as fast as the barbs would allow.

Wendell was still sitting underneath the tree. He had two bottles of ice-cold soda in the grass beside him, and lobbed one to Harvey as he approached.

“Well?” he said.

“You were right,” Harvey replied.

“Nobody in their right minds ever goes there.”

“I saw Lulu.”

“What did I tell you?” Wendell crowed. “Nobody in their right minds.”

“And those fish—”

“—yeah, I know,” Wendell said, pulling a face. “Ugly boogers, aren’t they?”

“Why would Mr. Hood have fish like that? I mean, everything else is so beautiful. The lawns, the House, the orchard…”

“Who cares?” said Wendell.

“I do,” said Harvey. “I want to know everything there is to know about this place.”

“Why?”