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“This is a spell to summon the Slave of the Carpet—how strange. The Slave of the Carpet.” Mr. Dickinson puckered his forehead at me and was quiet awhile.
    I got my voice back into my throat and said, “What’s strange about it, sir?”
    â€œWell—everyone has always supposed that this—fabric, shall we say?—was a tapestry. It’s so absolutely gorgeous! But it’s barely possible that it might have been a carpet. The coincidence is that in the thing there’s woven the figure of—a genie.”
    At that moment I knew. The wind blowing through me had only been hope. But now I was sure. After all, it stood to reason that if the spell was going to work anywhere, it surely would right in front of the carpet. Mr. Dickinson called it “coincidence.” Some people say “fate” or “luck” or “chance.” But there are times when everything fits together, like one of Mr. Dickinson’s broken pots. I knew. And I was petrified! Because anyone who fools around with the Occult Sciences is asking for trouble. There are lots of things that ought to be kept out. But there was no help for it—I had to go on. And it had to be today.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Dickinson.” I stood up, and my legs felt as shaky as my voice. “I think I’ll just have a look at that tapestry.”
    â€œYes, I daresay you will.” I was out the door and heading for the staircase when he called, “Now don’t be too disappointed if—” But I had already stopped hearing him.
    I know the National pretty well, and I was making a beeline for the Near Eastern wing when this bell went off. I didn’t even know I’d heard it until a guard grabbed me by the arm and said, “Closing time, young man.”
    â€œSir,” I tried to explain, “I have to see the Wizard’s—”
    â€œMy boy—” he began propelling me back where I’d come from—“when the National closes, it closes for everyone!”
    â€œYes, sir.” I gave up—hope, too, almost—and went back through the Renaissance rooms toward the entrance.
    But then I came to the Fourteenth-Century Florence room. It was empty. The guards had cleared everybody out. I saw this big wooden chest, with carvings all over it. And right away I said to myself, If the lid lifts—yes! If it’s locked, then no … I’m not usually superstitious, but I sure was that day.
    The lid lifted. I went in like an eel, lowered the lid over me, and began my wait. In the dark.

5
    Abdullah
    I was scared three ways, the hours I lay in that chest. First, because of what I knew I was going to have to do; second, I thought a guard might find me and think I was one of those creeps who steal paintings from museums; and third, I was afraid for Sam. I could imagine him padding out from the bushes and looking up the stairs for me. But I trusted Sam. He always usually does what he’s told.
    For the first few hours I could hear the charwomen sloshing and slopping around on the floor. I only hoped that nobody thought to clean inside an antique. And they didn’t.
    Then there came an itchy time when I was dying to lift the lid and look out, but didn’t dare. A good thing, too. The guards were making their rounds, and every half hour or so I’d hear a man’s step going klomp klomp klomp through the Renaissance rooms—much harder than the sloshing of the charwomen.
    But then came the worst time of all: a dead silence. I still didn’t dare to lift the lid. I had to, though—I was getting buggy.
    Through the crack I could see that there was a little weak light drifting in from somewhere into the room outside. The room was empty. I guess the lid didn’t really creak like breaking wood as I squeaked my way out, but it sounded that way to me.
    The most important thing, at this point, was that I didn’t want to be alone. I went