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Thompson.”
    The pharmacist nods and smiles, her curly brown hair bobbing. “You’re looking for the costume party, right? They have one every year, don’t they? First week of December. It’s like the start of the Christmas season here.”
    I pause for just a little too long, but Tyler comes to the rescue. “That’s right. We’re supposed to deliver some … ah … costumes.”
    â€œOur parents forgot to pick them up,” I say. “From a shop nearby …”
    The pharmacist chuckles. “No costume shops here! There might be one in Saffron.”
    I groan. If there’s a party going on, it’s going to be hard to get time alone with the current owner of the house. On the other hand …
    â€œWhere’s the house?” I ask.
    She gives me directions—the house is no more than ten minutes’ walk from the village center. Shorter if we cross a field, but in this weather she wouldn’t recommend that. “You’ll get all muddy!”
    Outside, Tyler and I discuss our strategy.
    â€œIt’s obvious, isn’t it?” he says. “We get some costumes and sneak in as guests.”
    I like the plan. We catch the bus back to Saffron Walden, hoping to hunt down some costumes. What worries me is that we don’t know who lives there
now
, whether they have any connection with Thompson at all. The fact that the pharmacist recognized the name doesn’t mean much—he was a famous archaeologist, after all. It could be his heirs living there … or anyone, really.
    I’m kicking myself that we didn’t ask more questions. I need to get better at this, and fast.

5
    The village bus service makes it to Saffron Walden just as the stores are closing. We run around like loons asking for the “costume shop.” Just our luck—it’s as far away as possible, right at the other end of town. We arrive out of breath and sweating, in time to see the manager closing up. He can hardly make out what we’re saying, we’re panting so hard.
    â€œPlease … need costumes … tonight.”
    â€œGood Lord, boys, take a breather, why don’t you? Now then, this would be for the party at the Thompson place?”
    Great—a Thompson still lives there.
    â€œWell, as you can see, we’ve just closed.”
    We’re bent over, trying to catch our breath. With my head somewhere around my knees, I say again, “Oh, come on. Please. We’ll get into big trouble with our parents.”
    The shop manager is a man in his late forties, with a big mop of messy, sandy-colored hair that gives him a sympathetic look. He hesitates. “Okay. But this is just a normal shop, youknow. There’s no magic portal to Diagon Alley, if that’s what you’re looking for.”
    He’s still chortling away at his joke as he unlocks the front door.
    The place isn’t a real costume shop but a charity store with a few costumes in the secondhand clothes section. In the window, a child-sized mannequin is dressed up like a fantasy hero, with a sword, shield, amulets, and everything.
    We check through the collection. There are maybe three costumes that would fit me. Two of those are for girls—flowing white dresses.
    â€œThat one’s multipurpose,” the manager says helpfully. “The Snow Queen, White Witch of Narnia, Arwen from
Lord of the Rings
. Or a ghost, if you wear a hood as well.”
    Tyler turns over a pair of costumes that I realize are perfect the minute I see them.
    â€œHey, look, Josh. Batman and Robin.”
    â€œI call Batman!”
    The shop manager weighs in. “I shouldn’t lend you the Batman. Only the Robin. I already rented out another Batman suit. Bad form to turn up in the same costume as another guest.”
    Tyler picks up the Batman costume, holds it against himself. “Wouldn’t fit me anyway. It’s about two inches too small.”
    â€œThat