We aren‟t supposed to be up here,” Sterling Harrington said in the superior tone of an older brother, a tone Nathanial had heard all too often in his eight years. Even at age eleven, Sterling already sounded like the earl he would one day be, at least to his youngest sibling.

“I daresay it won‟t be a problem if we don‟t get caught.” Quinton Harrington pushed past

Sterling, moved away from the stairs and farther into the attic. As Quinton carried the candle, his brothers weren‟t far behind.

Quinton was two years younger than Sterling and a year older than Nathanial. While Sterling was always the leader in any of the trio‟s escapades, Quinton was more often than not the brother who came up with the idea in the first place. Their governess, Miss Thompson, said Quinton had an adventurous soul, and even though it didn‟t sound like a compliment to Nathanial, Quinton took it as such. Sterling, however, was the responsible brother, as Miss Thompson often said in an approving manner; as befit the future Earl of Wyldewood, she would add.

Sterling was the one who took the blame when things went awry. He said it was his duty,

although why anyone would want to take the blame made no sense to Nathanial. It was another one of those things he assumed he‟d probably understand when he was older.

When Nathanial had suggested they grow frogs in the bathtub on the third floor, Sterling claimed it was his idea when maids found a tub full of squirming tadpoles. Girls certainly did make a fuss over things like that. When the boys lost a ball down the old well in the back garden, Quinton was the one who proposed lowering Nathanial into the well to retrieve it because he was the smallest. Nathanial never would have told his brothers that it was much darker in the well than he had expected, and more than a bit scary. But it was Sterling who told Father it was his idea, and Sterling who was punished, even if Quinton did then come forward.

Miss Thompson said that at least the scamp had a conscience, whatever that was, although she apparently thought it was a good thing. And when the governess read them a story about a Greek boy who tried to fly with wings made of feathers and wax, it was Sterling who scoffed and said they should have used glue. But it was Quinton who managed to find the glue and feathers and sticks they needed to build their own wings.

It had taken them nearly a week. When they finished, they used an old rose trellis to climb to the roof of the gardener‟s cottage. Nathanial, of course, was picked to make the flight. Being the youngest and smallest did have its drawbacks. If they hadn‟t tied a rope around his waist—to make certain he didn‟t fly away—he might have been hurt. As it was, he ended up dangling from the roof in need of adult rescue. They were all punished for that adventure. The trellis had now been removed, bathtubs were only to be used for bathing, and the well had been filled in. But Nathanial would still follow his older brothers anywhere.

“It‟s rather too dark to see anything,” he said now, as if stating a fact and not at all bothered by the dark.

The rain thrummed against the roof of Harrington House, a sound not nearly as ominous on the lower floors. If he had been alone, Nathanial might have found the dim, cavernous attic a little frightening. On a sunny day, the garden of the family‟s London home and the parks nearby

provided ample opportunity for adventure, but it had been raining off and on for three days now, and the boys were confined to the house. As was Miss Thompson. Perhaps it was that last prank they pulled that had been the final straw. Miss Thompson was the only girl they knew who didn‟t seem at all bothered by frogs, but finding one in her desk drawer today did seem to upset her, oddly enough. She‟d sent the boys off with orders to read, and then retreated to her private sitting room. She did that on occasion. Usually when it rained.

“So.” Quinton surveyed the attic, holding the candle high. He already looked like a pirate, and as soon as they found pirate clothes, they all would. “Where should we begin?”

“The trunks,” Sterling said. “There will be pirate clothes in the trunks.” He led the way toward the far recesses of the attic, a rather dark and scary place, Nathanial thought, if truth were told.

But his brothers were with him so he needn‟t worry.

“Which one?” Sterling studied the various assorted trunks that looked exactly like pirate treasure chests. Only bigger.

“The biggest of course.” Quinton flashed a grin at his younger brother. “The biggest always has the best treasure.”

“Very well.” Sterling lifted the lid on the largest trunk and the boys peered inside.

“There‟s only clothes in there.” Nathanial grimaced. He had rather hoped they would indeed find treasure.

“These aren‟t just clothes.” Quinton handed Nathanial the candle, then reached into the trunk and pulled out a red coat that looked like one on their painted tin soldiers. “These are clothes for pirates and knights.”

“And adventurers,” Sterling said. “And explorers.”

“I want to be an explorer,” Nathanial said quickly. “Or an adventurer.”

“Look at this.” Sterling pulled something else out of the trunk.

Quinton grimaced. “It‟s a book.”

“It‟s a journal.” Sterling moved closer to the candle and flipped through the journal. “It‟s great-grandmother‟s.”

“It‟s still just a book,” Quinton said.

“I know,” Sterling murmured. “But it might be a good book.”

Quinton scoffed. “How good can a book be?”

“You like books about pirates,” Nathanial offered.

“This one is about smugglers.” Sterling paged through the journals.

Quinton brightened. “Great-grandmother knew smugglers?”

“I think,” Sterling said slowly, “Great-grandmother might have been a smuggler.”

“Read it,” Nathanial said.

“Very well.” Sterling nodded.

The boys sat cross-legged on the floor. Sterling took the candle from Nathanial and positioned it to cast the best light on the pages. For the next hour or so he read to his brothers of the adventures of their great-grandmother, who apparently was indeed a smuggler, pursued by a

government agent—a previous Earl of Wyldewood.

At last it stopped raining and Sterling closed the journal. “I don‟t think we should tell Mother about this,” he said firmly.

“Because then we‟d have to tell her we were in the attic?” Nathanial asked.

“No.” Quinton scoffed. “Because she might not like having a smuggler in the family.”

“Oh.” Nathanial thought it was rather interesting to have a smuggler in the family. It might be rather interesting to be a smuggler. “Let‟s be smugglers instead of pirates.”

“We can‟t today,” Sterling said. “Miss Thompson will be wondering what became of us. But we can come up here again and read and play smuggler perhaps.”

“Can we have smuggler names as well?” Eagerness rang in Nathanial‟s voice.

“Smuggler names.” Quinton laughed. “What are smuggler names?”

“They‟re like pirate names only for smugglers,” Nathanial said in a lofty manner. “And I shall be Black Jack Harrington.”

The two older brothers traded glances. Sterling shook his head. “We don‟t think that‟s quite right for you.”

“Why not?”

“Because your real name isn‟t Jack, for one thing. We‟re not just playing you know,” Quinton explained with the superiority of an older brother. “It‟s quite a serious thing to have new names.

Even smuggler names. Your smuggler name has to make sense with your real name.”

“Nate,” Sterling said abruptly. “Sounds like a smuggler, and you can be Quint.”

Quinton frowned. “It‟s not very exciting.” He thought for a moment. “What about Peg Leg Quint or Quint the Wicked?”

“More likely Quint the Scamp.” Sterling smirked.

“And who will you be?” Nathanial—now Nate—asked. “What will your smuggler name be?”

“I shall remain Sterling.”

Quint snorted. “Not much of a name for a smuggler.”

“Oh, I shan‟t be a smuggler.” Sterling grinned. “I shall be the intrepid Earl of Wyldewood, agent of the crown, fearless hunter of smugglers. And I shall be the rescuer of the fair maiden, her hero.”

“Girls can‟t play,” Nate said firmly. “They‟re girls.”

“Then I shall be Quint.” Quinton planted his fists on his hips and puffed out his chest. “Daring, bold King of the Smugglers.”

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