The Field Guide: Chapters 4–7

Jared looked at his brother in dismay.

The attic level was a vast room with a slanted ceiling and a gaping hole in the floor on one end.

Birdhouses hung in profusion from the rafters, and a dressmaker’s dummy stood alone in a corner, a hat over its knobbed head.

Birdhouses hung in profusion from the rafters, and a dressmaker’s dummy stood alone in a corner, a hat over its knobbed head.

Underneath, there was a pocket watch on a long chain, a tattered cap, and a leather satchel full of old, odd-looking pencils and cracked bits of charcoal.

She was apparently trying to make up for her earlier weakness by ruthless fencing.

She was apparently trying to make up for her earlier weakness by ruthless fencing.

He was being backed against the side of the broken-down carriage house, his parries becoming increasingly desperate.

He was being backed against the side of the broken-down carriage house, his parries becoming increasingly desperate.

Simon turned his helmeted head. Mallory took that opportunity to strike, pushing the rubber tip of her fencing foil against his chest.

“You allowed yourself to become distracted,” Mallory countered.

“That’s your great-aunt Lucinda’s surname,” his mother said.

“What’s with that?" Simon pointed to the second figure, intrigued despite himself.

He could almost feel the heat of the troll’s breath and hear the rumble of the dwarven forges.

Jared flipped to the page that read, Boggart’s delight in tormenting those they once protected and will cause milk to sour, doors to slam, dogs to go lame, and other malicious mischief.

Jared flipped to the page that read, Boggart’s delight in tormenting those they once protected and will cause milk to sour, doors to slam, dogs to go lame, and other malicious mischief.

He tiptoed across the cool tile to where his mother had put the flour—in an old glass apothecary jar on the countertop. He took out several handfuls and scattered them liberally on the floor.

He tiptoed across the cool tile to where his mother had put the flour—in an old glass apothecary jar on the countertop. He took out several handfuls and scattered them liberally on the floor.

Two strokes of the broom, and the only proof he had was swept into a pile of rubbish.

The look on her face said that manipulating Simon was the worst thing Jared had done.

Tiny slips of newspaper were scattered throughout, each one with a different
strange word on it. “Luminous,” read one. “Soliloquy,” read another.

Tiny slips of newspaper were scattered throughout, each one with a different
strange word on it. “Luminous,” read one. “Soliloquy,” read another.

He studied his shoes even more intently. “Can I go inside now?”

Each one had a controller, and from where he was standing, he could see colors flit across their faces as the screen changed.

Now she held it in two hands, one on either side of the open book, poised to rip it apart.

He hung his birdhouse from a wall sconce.

Simon pawed through the drawers of the desk and found some paper, a pen with a nib, and a bottle of ink.

She unstoppered the ink and dipped the pen. It made a scratchy but legible line on the paper.

The mannikin went on. “Arthur Spiderwick’s book is not for your kind. Too much about Fey for a mortal to find. All who have kept it have come to harm. Be it through violence or through charm. Throw the book away, toss it in a fire. If you do not heed, you will draw their ire.”

The mannikin went on. “Arthur Spiderwick’s book is not for your kind. Too much about Fey for a mortal to find. All who have kept it have come to harm. Be it through violence or through charm. Throw the book away, toss it in a fire. If you do not heed, you will draw their ire.”