“I’m scared,” Eddie said.

I shivered and zipped my coat up to my chin. “Eddie, this was your idea,” I told my brother. “I didn’t beg and plead to see the Terror Tower. You did.”

He raised his brown eyes to the tower. A strong gust of wind fluttered his dark brown hair. “I have a strange feeling about it, Sue. A bad feeling.”

I made a disgusted face. “Eddie, you are such a wimp! You have a bad feeling about going to the movies!”

“Only scary movies,” he mumbled.

“You’re ten years old,” I said sharply. “It’s time to stop being scared of your own shadow. It’s just an old castle with a tower,” I said, gesturing toward it. “Hundreds of tourists come here every day.”

“But they used to torture people here,” Eddie said, suddenly looking very pale. “They used to lock people in the Tower and let them starve to death.”

“Hundreds of years ago,” I told him. “They don’t torture people here anymore, Eddie. Now they just sell postcards.”

We both gazed up at the gloomy old castle built of gray stones, darkened over time. Its two narrow towers rose up like two stiff arms at its sides.

Storm clouds hovered low over the dark towers. The bent old trees in the courtyard shivered in the wind. It didn’t feel like spring. The air was heavy and cold. I felt a raindrop on my forehead. Then another on my cheek.

A perfect London day, I thought. A perfect day to visit the famous Terror Tower.

This was our first day in England, and Eddie and I had been sight-seeing all over London. Our parents had to be at a conference at our hotel. So they signed us up with a tour group, and off we went.

We toured the British Museum, walked through Harrods department store, visited Westminster Abbey and Trafalgar Square.

For lunch, we had bangers and mash (sausages and mashed potatoes) at a real English pub. Then the tour group took a great bus ride, sitting on top of a bright red double-decker bus.

London was just as I had imagined it. Big and crowded. Narrow streets lined with little shops and jammed with those old-fashioned-looking black taxis. The sidewalks were filled with people from all over the world.

Of course my scaredy-cat brother was totally nervous about traveling around a strange city on our own. But I’m twelve and a lot less wimpy than he is. And I managed to keep him pretty calm.

I was totally surprised when Eddie begged to visit the Terror Tower.

Mr. Starkes, our bald, red-faced tour guide, gathered the group together on the sidewalk. There were about twelve of us, mostly old people. Eddie and I were the only kids.

Mr. Starkes gave us a choice. Another museum—or the Tower.

“The Tower! The Tower!” Eddie pleaded. “I’ve got to see the Terror Tower!”

We took a long bus ride to the outskirts of the city. The shops gave way to rows of tiny redbrick houses. Then we passed even older houses, hidden behind stooped trees and low, ivy-covered walls.

When the bus pulled to a stop, we climbed out and followed a narrow street made of bricks, worn smooth over the centuries. The street ended at a high wall. Behind the wall, the Terror Tower rose up darkly.

“Hurry, Sue!” Eddie tugged my sleeve. “We’ll lose the group!”

“They’ll wait for us,” I told my brother. “Stop worrying, Eddie. We won’t get lost.”

We jogged over the old bricks and caught up with the others. Wrapping his long, black overcoat around him, Mr. Starkes led the way through the entrance.

He stopped and pointed at a pile of gray stones in the large, grass-covered courtyard. “That wall was the original castle wall,” he explained. “It was built by the Romans in about the year 400. London was a Roman city then.”

Only a small section of the wall still stood. The rest had crumbled or fallen. I couldn’t believe I was staring at a wall that was over fifteen hundred years old!

We followed Mr. Starkes along the path that led to the castle and its towers. “This was built by the Romans to be a walled fort,” the tour guide told us. “After the Romans left, it became a prison. That started many years of cruelty and torture within these walls.”

I pulled my little camera from my coat pocket and took a picture of the Roman wall. Then I turned and snapped a few pictures of the castle. The sky had darkened even more. I hoped the pictures would come out.

“This was London’s first debtor prison,” Mr. Starkes explained as he led the way. “If you were too poor to pay your bills, you were sent to prison. Which meant that you could never pay your bills! So you stayed in prison forever.”

We passed a small guardhouse. It was about the size of a phone booth, made of white stones, with a slanted roof. I thought it was empty. But to my surprise, a gray-uniformed guard stepped out of it, a rifle perched stiffly on his shoulder.

I turned back and gazed at the dark wall that surrounded the castle grounds. “Look, Eddie,” I whispered. “You can’t see any of the city outside the wall. It’s as if we really stepped back in time.”

He shivered. I don’t know if it was because of my words or because of the sharp wind that blew through the old courtyard.

The castle cast a deep shadow over the path. Mr. Starkes led us up to a narrow entrance at the side. Then he stopped and turned back to the group.

I was startled by the tense, sorrowful expression on his face. “I am so sorry to give you this bad news,” he said, his eyes moving slowly from one of us to the next.

“Huh? Bad news?” Eddie whispered, moving closer to me.

“You will all be imprisoned in the north tower,” Mr. Starkes announced sternly. “There you will be tortured until you tell us the real reason why you chose to come here.”