This, Myles knew, was a metaphor, and as a scientist he felt obliged to dissect it.
“Fire being analogous of crime,” he said. “So, if I take your meaning correctly, you are saying that on occasion the only way to defeat a criminal is to turn his own methods against him.”
Artemis Senior had laughed and tousled his son’s hair. “I’m just thinking out loud, son. The Fowls are out of that game. Now why don’t we forget I ever mentioned criminal masterminds and just enjoy the view?”
A view that was utterly ignored by Myles now, as he attempted to slow his energetic brother’s trip to their front door. He felt confident that once they reached the door he would be able to argue legal precedent through the intercom for hours with the waiting nun until the cows came home—or at least until he could fill in his parents on the situation. The problem would be how to contain Beckett.
As it happened, this problem never materialized. When they reached the front door, it was already open. The nun had stepped from the rescue basket and was closing her fingers over a hockey-puck-size device strapped to her palm.
“There you are, chicos,” said the nun. “The door simply opened of its own accord. Increíble, no?”
Incredible indeed, thought Myles. This nun may not be as virtuous as her clothing suggests.
The woman at Villa Éco’s front door was indeed a nun, but her habit was a little more stylish than one would usually associate with the various religious orders. She was dressed in a simple black linen smock that could have indicated that she liked Star Wars films or had just discovered an amazing young designer. The smock was cinched with a wide satin belt that nodded toward ancient Japanese culture. Her hair was too golden to be natural and was arranged in that bouffant style known in salons as 1980s News Anchor, on top of which perched a veil of black polyester secured with a jeweled hat pin.
“Buenas tardes, chicos,” she said. “I am Sister Jeronima Gonzalez-Ramos de Zárate of Bilbao.”
Beckett didn’t hear anything after the first name.
“Geronimo-o-o!” he cried enthusiastically, throwing up his arms.
“No, niño,” said the nun patiently. “Jeronima, not Geronimo.”
Beckett altered his cry appropriately—“Jeronima-a-ah!”—and segued into a couple of blunt questions: “Sister, why are you red? And why do you smell funny?”
Jeronima smiled indulgently. These were the questions that most people wished to ask but would not. “You see, chico, my skin has the slight tinge because of my order: the Sisters of the Rose. We stain our flesh red with a nontoxic aniline dye solution to demonstrate our devotion to Mary, the rose without thorns. And the odor is from the dye. It is like the almonds, no?”
“It is like the almonds, yes!” said Beckett. “I love it. Can I stain my skin, Myles?”
“No, brother,” said Myles, smiling. “Not until you are eighteen.”
Myles was less smiley in his attitude toward the nun.
“Sister Jeronima,” he said, “it would seem that you have broken into our home.”
Jeronima joined her hands as though she might pray. “I am a nun. I would never do this. As I think I said, the door was open. Perhaps your EMP affected the locks, no?”
Myles was glad the rose-colored nun had lied. At least he knew where they stood now.
“You are, at the very least, trespassing on private property,” he countered.
Jeronima waved his point away as though it were a pesky mosquito. “I do not answer to your country’s estúpido laws.”
“I see,” said Myles. “You obey a higher power, I suppose.”
“Sí, absolutamente, if you like.”
“A higher power in the helicopter?” said Beckett.
Jeronima smiled tightly. “Not exactly, niño. Let us simply say that I am not bound by the rules of your government.”
“That’s very nice,” said Myles. “But we are not donating today. Can you please call again when my parents are home?”
“But I am not here for donations, Myles Fowl,” said Jeronima. “I am here to rescue you.”
Myles feigned surprise. “Rescue us, you say, Sister? But we are in the safest facility on Earth. In fact, I am disobeying my parents’ instructions by speaking with you. So, if you don’t mind…”
He attempted to close the aforementioned door but was thwarted by the nun’s left knee-high leather boot, which she had jammed between door and frame.
“But I do mind, niño,” she said, pushing the door open. “You are unsupervised minors under attack from an unknown assailant. It is my duty to escort you to a place of safety.”
“I would like to be escorted in a helicopter, Myles,” said Beckett. “Can we go? Can we, please?”
“Sí, Myles,” said Jeronima. “Can we go, please? Make your brother happy.”
Myles raised a stiff finger and cried, “Not so fast!”
It was undeniable that this was a touch melodramatic, but Myles felt justified in indulging his weakness, as there was a rappelling nun at the front door. “How would you know we are under attack, Sister Jeronima?”
“My organization has eyes everywhere,” said Jeronima with what Myles would come to know as her customary vagueness.
“That sounds suspiciously illegal, Sister,” said Myles, thinking he could stall her for several minutes while he winkled out more information about this mysterious “organization” they were supposed to simply hand themselves over to. “That sounds as though you are infringing on my rights, which is unusual for a woman of the cloth.”
Jeronima crossed her arms. “I am unusual for a woman of the cloth. Also, I am a trauma nurse, and I once threw knives in the circo—that is to say, circus. But I am not important now. You are important, and it is true what they say about you, chico. You are the smart one.”
“And I am the one who can climb!” said Beckett, blowing his brother’s stalling plan to smithereens by vaulting into the helicopter’s rescue basket and scrambling up the winch cable faster than a macaque scaling a fruit tree.
“And he is the one who can climb,” said Sister Jeronima. “And most quickly, too.” She stepped back and opened the basket’s gate. “Shall we follow, chico?”
Myles had little choice in the matter now that Beckett had taken the lead.
“I suppose we should,” he said, a bit miffed that his fact-finding mission had been cut short. “But only if you desist with the fake endearments. Chico, indeed. I am eleven years old now and hardly a child.”
“Very well, Myles Fowl,” said Sister Jeronima. “From now on you shall be tried as an adult.”
The gate was already closed behind Myles when this comment registered. “Tried? I am to be tried?”
Jeronima fake-laughed. “Oh, forgive me, that was—How do you say?—a slip of the tongue. I meant, of course, to say treated. You will be treated as an adult.”
“Hmmm,” said Myles, unconvinced. There was some form of trial ahead, he felt sure of it.
Jeronima made a circling motion with her index finger and the winch was activated. As the basket rose into the night sky, Myles glanced downward, appreciating the aerial view of Villa Éco, which, when seen from above, formed the shape of an uppercase F.