Trouble & Treasure by Dave Moyer (robert munsch read aloud .txt) 📕

as I could, as carefully as I dared. I soon realized I was at the back of Elizabeth's property.

As I climbed the hill that led to the back of Elizabeth's well-appointed manor, hot tears began to streak down my face. Though I’d been through everything a woman shouldn’t have to go through in her pajamas in one night, I hadn't cried before, or at least not like this. Now the tears came, flowing, collecting along my chin and streaking down my throat, making the top of my pajamas wet. I couldn't stop them, not that I wanted to try.

Just like that – in a bedraggled, damp, shaking, tear-and-mud streaked fashion – I knocked wildly on the back door of Elizabeth's house.

It was some time before she came to the door, and during all of it wild flights of paranoia wheeled around my mind. I wondered whether every bad guy from my manor had somehow gotten here first and was about to play a wicked game of Red Riding Hood with me: dressing up in Elizabeth's hideous floral pajamas and slippers with curlers in their hair and a gun tucked behind their hot-water bottle. Or, you know, dashing out with a gun in hand and a balaclava on their head.

When Elizabeth opened the door, I lost it. I crumpled to my knees, tears so fast it must have looked as if I'd stood under a waterfall.

Elizabeth didn’t shrink from me; despite her eccentricities, she was a level-headed woman. The first thing she did was pick me up, looking me up and down for signs of injury as she ushered me inside, closing the door and locking it firmly behind her.

She pulled out a seat from the kitchen bench, manhandled me into it, stood at the other side of the bench and looked at me directly, a kindly but serious look on her face.

“Well then, girl, you better tell me what's going on.”

It was some time before I could speak, and I wiped wildly at my wet and dirty cheeks with the sleeves of my pajamas, doing nothing but mixing the muck around. I gave a heavy sigh. “You aren’t going to believe any of this, but my house... I, there were mercenaries in my house. There was a robber at my door. There was a helicopter on my lawn... there was a lawyer in my kitchen,” for some reason I chose to end on the most benign point.

Elizabeth didn’t burst into laughter, and nor did she call the local hospital to get them to send down a psychiatric assessment squad. She walked over to the kitchen door and pulled down the blind that looked out at her backyard.

“I see,” she said, voice even. “Sounds as if you've had an adventure.” She offered a wan smile and headed directly to the kettle opposite and turned it on. She pulled two brightly colored mugs from one of her cupboards and set them down.

I sat perched on the edge of the kitchen stool, clutching the fine silk cushion as I tried not to fall off, the sheer fright of the night catching up with me.

Had I been robbed, or nearly robbed, by criminals, burglars, and soldiers? Or was this all a dream?

“I think you'll need two sugars in your tea,” Elizabeth said as she tipped the sugar jar into my mug, “Perhaps three.”

“I...” I had no idea how to make any sense of it all.

“The first thing you need to do,” Elizabeth sat the tea down in front of me, turned the handle towards me, and waited with a stern look until I reached for it and clutched it to my chest, “Is to drink tea. The next thing to do is to take several deep and long breaths, have a sugary cookie, and tell me what happened – from the beginning.”

“Shouldn't...” I hesitated, “I don't know, call the police?”

Elizabeth waved a hand at me. “Darling, you never call the police until you have called a lawyer first. Trust me, you'll be safe here tonight, and I'll call my lawyer in the morning. No, you must get all this off your chest,” Elizabeth gesticulated and took a deep breath like an enthusiastic drama teacher, “Then you need to have a shower, and then you are going to go straight to bed.”

I narrowed my eyes, tasting a welcoming sip of tea. I thought calling the police was a better idea… but what if it wasn’t? Those men from the helicopter had looked official. I’d seen enough movies to know the police weren't always the good guys. I knew it sounded paranoid; I didn't care in my current state. I was so full of adrenaline and suppressed fear that the only thing I wanted to do was crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head. No matter how old you are, there's always safety in a blanket.

Maybe Elizabeth was right; maybe a lawyer would know what to do. At least then there would be more people involved in this, whatever this was. Having a lawyer onside surely couldn't hurt.

At the thought of how much trouble I was in, I shuddered, sucked in a hearty draft of my tea, and tried not to cry.

Elizabeth waited until I could speak, handing me a tissue.

I didn’t question whether sitting in her kitchen was safe. My pursuers could still be after me. Yet I felt safe. Or, more likely, so strung out I couldn't think straight.

I spilled the beans. I told Elizabeth all about finding those globes in my great-uncle's attic. I even told her all about the treasure up there with them. Elizabeth, bless her eccentric soul, barely shrugged at the mention of treasure two houses down. The only comment she could muster was it must have been colorful. As if color was the most interesting fact about a hoard of gold, diamonds, and pearls.

I continued to tell Elizabeth that Imelda had left me the task of selling off the dregs of Alfred’s collection. In a stroke of what I now labeled idiocy, I’d googled the spotting globe. It hadn’t taken long to realize they could go for a tidy sum. I’d played with the idea of snapping some photos and putting it up for auction on eBay, but that’s when I realized I still had the contact for the auction house my great-aunt often used.

I’d enthusiastically arranged to see the head of the auction house. The poor man, realizing who my great-aunt was, had thought that I was going to sell something fantastically expensive. When I brought the globe to him with a stupid grin on my face, he’d been disappointed. He agreed to the auction anyway, possibly out of allegiance to my great-aunt.

And that there had been the worst mistake of my life. I should have stayed at my old great-uncle's manor, clearing out his estate, spending my nights tucked in the library, a small fire in the hearth as I read through my great-uncle's exciting journals. But oh no, I’d put that globe up for sale. I even went to the auction in person, where I made my greatest mistake of all.

I didn’t bat an eyelid when the auctioneer called me, a spike of excitement in his voice. There was considerable interest in my item; a record number of people ringing ahead to ensure there would be space at the auction and that the item hadn’t already been sold.

I did bat an eyelid when the bidding shot through the roof. The asking price was a touch over £100. In the space of precisely one minute that sum rose to £200,000. People were clamoring so much they were standing, some on top of their seats as they shouted to be heard, their hands waving up in wide arcs as they drew the price higher and higher.

I stood off to the side of the room. When the price reached £15 million, I staggered. Others in the audience were still willing to bid, some rising to their feet in anger as the auction hammer went down.

It seemed there’d be a riot.

Before I could run from the room in shock, I was approached by a man in a fine cream linen suit. He must have known I was the owner, because he bypassed the auctioneer, large brown eyes locking on mine, a large smile spreading his lips. “I will offer you £50 million for the item.”

£50 million? Though I came from a well-off family and I had a trust fund, this was insane.

Rather than squeak at the man that I would talk to the auctioneer to see whether the auction could continue, I blurted out the dumbest thing I ever had in my entire life. Shaking, I tilted my head to the side, pulled my lips back in a supremely awkward grin and blurted, “But there are four more.”

There were four more, four more spotting globes from my great-uncle's collection. Well, technically.

The auction house that seconds before had been ready to explode became still and cold like the depths of space. You could have dropped a snowflake and heard it hit the ground.

“I see,” was all the man had said.

And that right there had started this all. All that business with burglars in my hallway, mercenaries in my drawing-room, lawyers on my lawn, and soldiers in my kitchen; it was then and there it had begun.

Elizabeth sent me to bed in short fashion, insisting I brush my teeth on account of how much sugar I’d consumed. It was a surreal experience to be ordered to clean my teeth before bed, barely an hour after being chased through a forest by soldiers with guns.

Yet as soon as my head hit the pillow I fell asleep, and I didn’t wake until morning. Chapter Four

Amanda Stanton

The second I awoke, I had a feeling I couldn't remember something, something important. For a few blissful moments I lay there, warm in bed as I tried to remember what it was I’d forgotten. Was I meant to call my great-aunt today? Was there a fair in the local village? Had I organized to meet a friend in town?

Then in a snap, I remembered everything. I had no idea how I could have forgotten; it was the only night of my life that had involved so much action, so many guns, and so many people out to capture me.

I lay in bed, flashes of last night chasing through my mind as I curled up, clutched the cushions beside me, and I tried not to fall apart.

It wasn't too long until Elizabeth called me down to breakfast. The smell of freshly-cooked pancakes with apple and blueberry sauce wafted up the stairs, and it was enough to see me lift my face from the warm press of my pillow. If there was one thing that could distract me from my paranoid thoughts, it was food.

Elizabeth called me down stairs again, her sophisticated accent tinkling like a bell, worlds apart from the guttural screams and shouts of last night. From her tone to the pleasant aroma in the air, I was starting to believe that last night had been nothing more than a nightmare.

As I padded out of bed, hair a mess at the top of my head, I caught a glance of my