The magic misfits the fo.., p.1
The Magic Misfits: The Fourth Suit, page 1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Text and illustrations copyright © 2020 by Neil Patrick Harris
Story illustrations by Lissy Marlin. How-To illustrations by Kyle Hilton.
Cover art by Lissy Marlin. Cover design by Karina Granda. Cover art copyright © 2020 by Neil Patrick Harris. Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Harris, Neil Patrick, 1973–author. | Azam, Alec, author. | Marlin, Lissy, illustrator. | Hilton, Kyle, illustrator.
Title: The fourth suit / by Neil Patrick Harris & Alec Azam ; story artistry by Lissy Marlin ; how-to magic art by Kyle Hilton.
Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2020. | Series: The Magic Misfits ; 4 | Audience: Ages 8–12. | Summary: “The Magic Misfits confront their greatest enemy in this final story told from Ridley’s point of view”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020030157 | ISBN 9780316391955 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316391948 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316391931 (ebook other)
Subjects: CYAC: Magic tricks—Fiction. | Hypnotism—Fiction. | Friendship—Fiction. | Mothers and daughters—Fiction. | Humorous stories. Classification: LCC PZ7.1.H3747 Fou 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020030157
ISBNs: 978-0-316-39195-5 (hardcover), 978-0-316-39194-8 (ebook), 978-0-316-70334-5 (int’l)
E3-20200808-JV-NF-ORI
TABLE OF CONTENTS
COVER
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
STOP! HALT! WHO GOES THERE?
ONE—Chapter one, but this time for book four.
TWO—How many chapters came before this one? Easy, the—
THREE—Answer is one! (Or is it two?)
FOUR—Probably, two. Wait, now is it three?
FIVE—Three or four? Doesn’t matter, since here we are at Chapter Five.
SIX—Every time I write a sixth chapter, a magician learns a trick.
SEVEN—Rarely do I write a sixth chapter, though, so magicians must also practice, practice, practice!
EIGHT—Tell me what happens when a magician writes an eighth chapter?
NINE—I am not sure either!
TEN—Though I bet it must be something fantastic.
ELEVEN—Let’s just say that most magic wouldn’t exist without the number eight. Or eleven for that matter.
TWELVE—Eleven comes right before twelve, which is the number of this chapter!
THIRTEEN—Shucks, we’re already halfway there!
FOURTEEN—Brilliant, because I’m ready to get to the story part of this book.
FIFTEEN—Oh boy! The story parts of books are the best parts.
SIXTEEN—Okay, though, it’s true that some people love reading chapter titles.
SEVENTEEN—But those people must be overly obsessive
EIGHTEEN—Unless they know something the rest of us don’t, like
NINETEEN—Titles of chapters sometimes hide secret codes.
TWENTY—Can you imagine a writer going to all that trouble, just to add a code to a table of contents?
TWENTY-ONE—Okay now, let’s get back to the matter at hand.
TWENTY-TWO—Danger, mystery, intrigue, surprise, and transformation
TWENTY-THREE—Each of those words describes what you’ll find in this fourth book.
TWENTY-FOUR—So, remember way back in the first book?
TWENTY-FIVE—Your Magic Misfits have changed a lot since then.
TWENTY-SIX—All I ask is that you never forget what they’ve taught you. The Misfits won’t forget you either.
OUR GRAND FINALE—Yay! We’ve reached the end of the chapter titles. Quick! Turn the page.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
To David: the Other Mr. Harris, and the center ring of our family circus
STOP! HALT! WHO GOES THERE?
Oh, it’s you again!
Thank goodness.
I was here in the dark, when I felt a presence and was worried that someone was reading this who shouldn’t be. That’s not to say you shouldn’t be reading this. You should most definitely be reading this.
You don’t mind waiting a moment while I turn on a light, do you?
There we are. Much better.
I apologize for my jumpiness. Thinking about everything that is forthcoming has made me slightly anxious. But being here with you, of all people… well, I’m quite happy you’re here to keep me company as we begin the fourth—and final—tale of our adventurous Magic Misfits.
As I’m sure you’re aware, the conclusion to an epic chronicle can be nerve-racking. And after learning all you have about Carter, Leila, Theo, Ridley, Olly, Illy, Ozzy, Izzy, Dante, the Other Mister Vernon, Presto, Change-O, Top Hat, and Theo’s doves, I’m sure you’re as worried about them as I’ve been. (Presto, Change-O, Top Hat, and the Doves sounds like a stupendous name for a band. Just sayin’.) You must be itching to find out how things have progressed for each of them since the disastrous end to our previous tale.
I’ll admit, I’ve shed a tear or two myself at the thought of Vernon’s Magic Shop lying in ruins. All those tricks, all that joy, all that sparkle burned to a crisp thanks to the villain Kalagan, who still lurks about the streets of Mineral Wells, watching from the shadows as our Misfits begin another year of school. I’m sure he’s only biding his time until he’s ready to strike again.…
Eep!
My apologies. I thought I heard a noise. Perhaps I shall turn on another light.
Now, allow me to catch you up on everything you need to know going into the coming adventure. The Magic Misfits are comprised of Carter Locke, who makes things vanish; Leila Vernon, who escapes from tight spots; Theo Stein-Meyer, an aficionado of levitation; Ridley Larsen, a tinkerer proficient in the magical art of transformation; and Olly and Izzy Golden, gymnastic, musical comedians who keep their friends laughing no matter the circumstances.
Of course, who could laugh when a showdown with a powerful magician bent on revenge is imminent? I’m not sure I could. Nevertheless, you must read on. The only thing left for me to share with you now is…
HOW TO
Read This Book!
I know, I know. At this point in the game, this little section seems redundant. Yes?
You already know how to read this book!
So allow me to refresh: There are parts of this book that tell a story. And in between those story sections, I will share with you a few magic tricks. If you’ve been with us since the beginning, and if you’ve been paying attention and practicing all that I’ve taught you so far, you may have realized that these tricks are leading up to something big. A grand finale, if you will!
So, for the first time, I shall ask that you not skip our magic lessons as you read Ridley’s story. You’ve already learned and practiced so many magical tricks that you mustn’t give up now (though my guess is that you’re no quitter and that you’ll want to study them and practice, practice, practice until you’re quite perfect)!
Are you ready?
Then please do turn the page!
ONE
Ridley Larsen’s life was a locomotive barreling toward an unknown destination. The events of the past summer made her feel like she was moving through a dark tunnel, one filled with smoke and the occasional screaming whistle, and if she came upon a sharp curve, she feared she might come completely off the tracks.
On this particular morning in early October, Ridley was traveling with a woman her mother had hired to take over Ridley’s homeschooling, Ms. Parkly, and the reason she was thinking about her life as a locomotive was because she and Ms. Parkly were literally riding in a train. The wheels of Ridley’s chair were strapped to a spot beside one of the windows, and the outside world whizzed by, the foliage of early autumn blurring with the crisp and slanted morning light.
Her teacher sat in the row in front of her. Facing backward, the woman was focused on Ridley’s splayed hands. “Do it again! Again!” Ms. Parkly squeaked with excitement.
Ridley was performing a magic trick for her teacher. “Watch closely now,” she said, amused that Ms. Parkly sounded like an amazed little kid visiting Mr. Vernon’s old magic shop. Ridley held out her ha nds, empty palms facing upward. She curled her fingers into fists. “Pick a hand.”
Ms. Parkly pointed to Ridley’s left.
Ridley covered her left fist with her right hand and then gave them both a rough shake. When she opened her left hand again, a small illustration of the word nope had appeared, printed onto her palm. Ms. Parkly laughed.
“Wrong choice,” said Ridley, now opening her right hand to reveal a small silver screw in her palm. Ms. Parkly offered quiet, excited applause.
Ridley smiled, an odd sensation given the way she’d felt the past several months. After the disaster at the Mineral Wells Talent Show, and the destruction of Vernon’s Magic Shop, pieces of Ridley’s life felt like they’d been transformed as well: her town, of course; her relationships with her closest friends; her beliefs about how life should be. About how she should be. Calm? Tough? More trusting? Or someone who always trusts her gut?
Ridley wondered what her friends would prefer, especially after the way she’d treated them lately—insisting on her own way, barreling forward without a thought for everyone’s safety. Still, she’d had the best of intentions. Didn’t her friends know that?
(Ah, a good question. Have you ever felt uncertain about who you are? About the real you? I know I have. Come to think of it, I’ve never revealed who I am… so perhaps I should stop asking questions!)
“I don’t know how you do it, Ridley,” Ms. Parkly said. “You impress me.”
Ridley shrugged. “If I had a nickel for every time someone said that, I’d be rich.” Then she chuckled. “But probably cranky from all the bags of loose change lying around.”
Ridley’s mother had hired Helena Parkly to be Ridley’s homeschool teacher at the beginning of September, just before Ridley’s father had left on one of his long sales trips. The teacher was a thin woman, slightly taller than Mrs. Larsen. Other than her strawberry-blond bob, Ms. Parkly dressed like someone twenty years older than she actually was—often in a buttoned-up blouse and a scratchy wool jacket and skirt that draped just past her knees. When Ridley had first met her teacher, she’d thought the woman looked professional and intelligent. But she also knew that looks could be deceiving. For one thing, the woman was extremely clumsy, constantly knocking things over or tripping. And very easily distracted by Ridley’s simplest magic tricks.
One of the first things that Ms. Parkly had done after learning about Ridley’s knack for invention was to sign her up for a regional young inventors’ fair in nearby Bell’s Landing, where the two were traveling now. If it had been a ploy to win Ridley’s favor, it had worked. After years of tinkering and imagining impressive machines with little to show for it, Ridley was finally going to prove to herself that her hobby was worthwhile. Useful.
Her project was about transforming shared spaces so that anyone could navigate them with ease. After brainstorming for many hours with her father before he’d left on his latest trip, Ridley had developed a manual crank system that would allow her to move up and down the stairs in their house without having to leave her chair. Ropes, pulleys, wheels, and cogs would temporarily tilt the steps into a ramp formation. Along with a display board that described the mechanics of the device, Ridley had brought along a miniature proof-of-concept model, both of which were packed into the bag lying on the floor beside Ridley’s chair.
“Will you teach me that trick?” Ms. Parkly asked hopefully. “How’d you do it?”
“I should probably start thinking about my invention presentation,” Ridley answered pointedly. She was most definitely not going to reveal the mechanics of her trick to someone she’d only known a month, no matter what the teacher had done for her.
Ms. Parkly smiled. “Ah, you’re right. I’m distracting you.”
“It’s fine. I just need to get back to work.” Ridley pulled her notebook from the compartment in the armrest of her chair and flipped it open. She focused on the pages until she saw Ms. Parkly turn to sit back down, though the teacher first had to disentangle the cuff of her blouse from a loose screw sticking out of her seat.
“Oof!” Ms. Parkly said as her sleeve came loose and she landed with a whump! She let out a strange little giggle, and for the second time that morning, Ridley found herself unexpectedly smiling.
With its cobblestone streets and century-old architecture, Bell’s Landing had a similar charm to Ridley’s hometown, though it was much larger. The buildings were taller, the parks wider. The theaters seated more people. The smokestacks and engines of multiple factories produced products even faster. The stores had more departments and sold a wider variety of goods.
Instead of a resort on a nearby rise, like the Grand Oak back home, Bell’s Landing had Bell College, which was located in the flatlands beside the winding river that connected this city to Mineral Wells. The structures that formed Bell College were built of granite and marble and, in a most impressive illusion, the buildings appeared to be held up by vines of ivy that were just starting to turn a reddish hue in the early October shift of sunlight.
After they’d stopped for lunch, Ridley and Ms. Parkly made their way to the college’s front gate—a black wrought-iron monstrosity decorated with blackbirds, which gave off an aura more of intimidation than of education. It took a lot to intimidate Ridley, though, so she wheeled quickly through the college’s entrance, her bag in her lap. One would never have guessed that her heart was a steam engine pounding in her chest. Ms. Parkly followed rather wide-eyed behind her.
Across the quad, Hampshire Hall was a great gray structure, with tall windows, a red-slate roof, and an impossibly large staircase leading up to a front door.
“Follow me,” Ridley said. “And watch out for that.” She pointed at a potted plant someone had knocked onto the bluestone path. Ms. Parkly nodded her thanks, though Ridley still heard a quiet “Ouch!” and the tinkle of broken pottery as she sped to the side of the hall. There she found a door that was level with the lawn. She released a clasp on the underside of her chair’s armrest and grabbed the hook apparatus that she’d attached for moments like this. Pulling on one end of it, Ridley felt the hook arm extend and click into place. She swung it toward the door and seized the handle. Moving her thumb along the switch at the arm’s base, she tightened the hook, twisted her wrist, and pulled.
The door swung outward. Ridley inched her chair forward and caught the door with her footrest, propping it open. She then released the hook device, reattached it to the underside of the chair’s arm, and turned to Ms. Parkly. “In we go,” she said.
“Why, thank you,” her teacher replied, giving that strange little giggle again and stumbling slightly as she moved past Ridley.
After blindly navigating the snaking halls inside Hampshire Hall for several minutes, Ridley encountered some kids who were carrying strange-looking gadgets. “This way,” she told her teacher. Ridley followed the kids to a giant classroom, inside of which many tables were arranged in rows. A line had formed at a desk just inside the door, and three adults in stiff tweed suits sat behind it, waving participants forward.
Ms. Parkly started to say, “I’ll just check us i—” But Ridley shook her head sharply, hurrying forward.
“Ridley Larsen, here for the inventors’ fair.” She tried to sound cool and collected, though her nerves were buzzing.
One of the tweed-suited adults handed her a slip of paper with a number on it. “Welcome. Your spot is in the row closest to the windows. Can’t miss it.”
“Thank yooo-oou,” Ms. Parkly said in an odd singsong voice, bumping into the registration table as she passed, causing a loud screech as its legs scraped the marble floor. The tweed-suited people grimaced.
“Soooor-ry!” she said again, smoothing her skirt and hurrying after Ridley, who was already well ahead.
They passed by other participants. Glancing at their poster boards, Ridley noticed a variety of project titles: THE AUTOMATIC PAGE TURNER, THE EASY RAKE WITH ATTACHED LEAF-COLLECTION BAG, THE REMOTE-CONTROL LIGHT SWITCH, THE LOST MARBLE LOCATOR. She wasn’t sure what some of them were, but it was possible one of them would blow her invention right out of the water.
“Are you as nervous as I am?” Ms. Parkly asked. The little laugh again.
