Chink. The doorknob turned.
“Floralie, are you up h—” Tom’s jaw dropped.
Nino froze.
“Who are you?” shot Tom.
Nino stared.
“Speak to me, boy, who are you?” Tom clenched his fists and bolted for Nino, grabbing the scruff of his shirt.
“Please—stop! He can’t talk,” begged Floralie, scrambling over to Nino and Tom.
“You know this urchin?” growled Tom.
“He’s not an urchin; he’s my friend.”
“Please.” Tom huffed. “I can tell an orphan a mile away. Tattered shoes, grimy hands—”
Nino shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Tell me his name, Floralie. We must turn him in—what’s his name?”
“N—” started Floralie. Nino shot her a look of fear, and suddenly, she understood why Nino had made her promise never to tell his name. “Norman. Norman Clairoux. He’s not an orphan. He works—er—at the library. See, the librarian there, Delphine Clairoux, she’s his grandmother. That’s who he lives with. She’ll tell you.” Floralie felt as if she were climbing an evergreen tree with no promises of getting down. “Norman thought you knew he was visiting. I told him he was allowed. I’m sorry, I should have asked.”
Tom sighed and let Nino go. “Yes, you should have, Floralie. This—” He ran his hands up his face and through his hair. “This is why Grandmama wants to take you away, Flory. Don’t you see? You just can’t keep out of trouble!”
Hot tears stung Floralie’s eyes. “I know.” The words slithered out like garden snakes.
“Well, come on, then. We’ll take Norman back to his grandmother. And we’ll discuss your behavior later.”
Floralie nodded, and the three left for the library.
Some nights, Floralie heard Mama cursing the Lord’s name in the kitchen. Floralie would ask her to let her help with the dishes or the laundry. Mama said, “It’s not that, my wildflower. Don’t you worry about me.”
But Papa would come home and hit Mama like a dog.
Floralie would watch, and later that night, she would say, “Mama, I want you to be happy.”
Mama handed Floralie a blue bugloss flower. It felt sad. It felt like lies. Then, she said, “I am.”
But Floralie cried because Mama believed that was the truth.
When Floralie, Tom, and Nino arrived at the library, they found Miss Clairoux in the biography section, reorganizing a shelf.
“M-Miss Clairoux?” said Floralie. She hadn’t realized how afraid she felt until she heard the trembling of her own voice. But she shook it off. She couldn’t ruin Nino’s life, not his, too.
Miss Clairoux shelved her last book and turned to Floralie. “Ah! Ma chérie, is that you, Floralie?”
“Yes,” choked Floralie. She swallowed. “It’s me—me and Norman—you know, your grandson who organizes the Greek poetry section.”
Floralie prayed Miss Clairoux would play along.
Miss Clairoux tipped up her chin. “Ah,” she said, crow’s feet appearing at the corners of her eyes. “Ah yes. Norman, my, my, I wondered where he had wandered off to. Now, is someone else with you, Floralie?”
“Oh—yes, how rude of me.” Floralie turned to Tom. “Tom, this is Miss Clairoux. Miss Clairoux, this is my brother, Tom Laurel.”
“Pleasure,” said Tom. “I’ve come to return Norman. I found him in our attic with Floralie and thought it most inappropriate. As such, in the highly unlikely event that Floralie and Norman see each other again, I would prefer if such a meeting were arranged and facilitated by either you or myself.”
Miss Clairoux bowed her head. “Indeed, Mr. Laurel. I thank you from the depth of my heart for returning—ah—Norman.”
“Of course, Miss Clairoux.”
“Oh, but before you go,” piped up Miss Clairoux before Tom could turn, “I wonder if I might have a chat with Floralie. In private.”
Tom eyed Miss Clairoux. “Of what nature?”
Miss Clairoux gave a flourish of her hand and said, “Oh, nothing to fuss over, just a . . . a little girly chat.” She held a hand to her mouth, blocking Floralie from the conversation the way so many had done at Mrs. Coffrey’s school, then whispered to Tom, “Poor thing hasn’t got a mother to explain it all to her.”
Tom’s cheeks flushed, and he agreed, “Ten minutes, precisely.”
“But of course,” said Miss Clairoux, and Tom sent a stern gaze down to Floralie before turning and leaving the library.
After the door slammed shut, the three were left in silence. Miss Clairoux stood, arms crossed and smiling wryly. “So,” she said. “Which one of you is going to tell me what this is all about? Shall it be you, Floralie? Or perhaps Norman?”
“We’re sorry,” started Floralie. “It’s just—it’s just—” Her throat tightened; she couldn’t hold it in anymore. “I’ve got to go to Giverny.”
Miss Clairoux’s eyes widened. “Giverny?”
Floralie burst into tears, and it all came tumbling out. Everything. Grandmama, the dried flowers, Mama, and, finally, her and Nino’s plans of traveling to France. And Miss Clairoux listened the entire time, nodding here and there, saying nothing but an occasional “mmm” and “uh-huh.”
When she finished, Floralie looked to Miss Clairoux in fear that she might say something pitiful, but she did not. She simply stood, head tilted up and her expression unreadable. When she finally spoke, she said, “I’m very sorry to tell you, ma chérie, but I think your ten minutes are just about up.”
“I should go, then,” whispered Floralie. “Thanks for not turning us in,” and she swiveled for the door.
But Miss Clairoux spoke promptly. “My dear,” was what she said, as if catching Floralie with a fishhook.
Floralie turned. Miss Clairoux had a most determined expression on her face. “Stories are skittish things, you know. A bit like—comment dit-on?—ah, fireflies. Yes. They dance through your hair and flit through your fingers, but when one lands in the palm of your hand, you’ve got to catch it.”
“What do you mean?” said Floralie. Miss Clairoux was beginning to sound like Nino.
“I mean, there’s a story flitting about your very palm, young lady, and you’d best be off catching it now.” A smile played at the corners of her wizened mouth, and she swept over to a section labeled TRAVEL and began pulling books. “You will need adult supervision of course, me”—she tossed two books to the floor—“food, we can buy along the way, a slate and stylus for Nino to write to me—would you mind grabbing that, dear? We’ll bring the rat, of course—mouse, sorry, Philomenos—and what else . . . oh. And a note ensuring your safety for Mr. Laurel.”
“Tom,” breathed Floralie. Her stomach squirmed as if someone had let loose a jar of—ah, thought Floralie—that would be the fireflies. “But, Miss Clairoux, I don’t understand. Why are you helping us? You have a life here, a job, a whole library. Why run off to France with us?”
A twinkle caught Miss Clairoux’s eye. “Indulge an old maid’s wanderlust, ma chérie. Give me one last adventure.”
Floralie half smiled, and Miss Clairoux strained her neck toward the door as if listening. “Now,” she whispered, “if my ears aren’t failing me yet, I’d say Mr. Laurel has made his way back home, up the stairs—rather loudly—and into his room for a calming spot of tea—chamomile, with”—she tilted her head—“ah-ha! Two spoons of honey.”
Floralie and Nino exchanged glances of astonishment. Miss Clairoux stopped her frantic book-pulling, in her right hand, Treasures of Italy, and in her left, Switzerland’s Best Cheeses. She lowered her voice and said, “And now he’s watching that grandfather clock of his. Waiting.”
Floralie looked down to her hands. The ink of the poems there had gone faint. Nino caught Floralie’s gaze and took her hand in his. He examined the poems, eyes narrowed, then took a pen from his pocket. He traced three words with his forefinger, then underlined them: Be a wildflower. The words had been Floralie’s mother’s favor
ites. Mama had spun them into poems, into lullabies, into dances, and oh, had they danced like wildflowers to Mama’s out-of-tune humming . . .
Floralie took a breath. “Okay. Okay, let’s go.”
Miss Clairoux clasped together her hands. “Excellent.”
The seventh night in a row that Papa came home the same way, stumbling, slurring, shouting, Floralie found a full-bloomed rose atop two buds on her pillow. When it was time for bed and Papa’s shouts could be heard from downstairs, Tom whispered to Floralie, “Tell no one.”
Secrets grew like wildflowers in the back of her throat.
Tom—
Gone to France for a few days. Don’t worry, be back soon.
—Floralie
P.S. I’m sorry.
Floralie quick-kissed the note, then slid it under the door before turning her back to the cottage. She felt afraid. She hardly had a clue where she was going, and she didn’t even know whether Mama was still alive.
Miss Clairoux stood under a streetlamp across the road. She was dressed in a long emerald coat and cloche hat, and she held her cane out in front of her. Nino stood beside her, Philomenos peeping out from his hole-speckled pocket.
You’ve got the flower box? wrote Nino as Floralie neared them.
Floralie nodded and patted her bag.
A smile spread over Miss Clairoux’s lips and wind swept through her silver hair. “Ah yes,” she whispered. “There are stories in the air tonight.”
The moon rose like a buoy at the edge of the sea. Following in its path of silver light drifted a ferryboat carrying Floralie, Nino, and Miss Clairoux all the way from England to France. Miss Clairoux had dozed off a few seats away from Floralie, hat flopped over her eyes. Floralie and Nino had claimed a row of seats and were lying head-to-head along the row.
A note landed on Floralie’s nose. You awake?
Yeah, wrote Floralie, tossing the note back over her head to Nino.
Can’t sleep.
Me neither. I keep thinking about Tom.
There was a long pause until Nino wrote back. I keep thinking about your hands.
My hands? Floralie almost laughed.
Yes, your hands. Remember the first day I met you, and there were words all over them? Like today? The words keep appearing. And then fading. Like heartbeats, pulsing in and out, in and out.
Oh. Floralie didn’t laugh at Nino’s poetics this time, for she felt far too fearful of what he was going to ask next.
I don’t think I know much about you, Floralie, wrote Nino. You keep things inside. But no matter how much you may disagree, your words matter. Will you write me a poem? About the letters on your hands?
I—Floralie took a breath. I already wrote one. A bunch, actually. Only one was any good. It was a while ago, I couldn’t sleep, but . . . you’ll look at me differently.
Yes. I probably will.
Floralie didn’t write back for quite some time, simply let the boat rock her in gentle rhythms, gentle heartbeats. Nino was right about one thing, and that was that words were like heartbeats. And so was water. And all three had this in common: Each could grant you breath, but could suffocate you just as well.
The words that slipped out of Floralie’s fingers were these: I’m afraid.
What felt like hours later, Nino tossed back the paper. You don’t have to be, he wrote. I want to look at you like I know you. Like you’re not a stranger. I want to meet you.
Floralie traced the words on her hand, blood pulsing in her ears. When Floralie and Nino had first exchanged secrets, Floralie had told him the truth about her mother, but not the whole truth. The whole truth was that Mama had, indeed, been taken, but not by bandits or pirates like in fairy tales. She had been sent to an asylum by Grandmama. Floralie knew Mama wasn’t insane, though—how could she be? Not Mama with a laugh like bells, not Mama with eyes green enough for gardens to grow; no, Mama was not insane. They had stolen her. Locked her away for no good reason.
The ink on Floralie’s skin was faded, but Floralie had memorized the poem.
Okay, she wrote, and then she began:
Dollhouse
By Floralie Alice Laurel
When I was small,
We lived in a dollhouse.
Six windows wide and two windows tall,
Our doorway painted poppy red
My brother said to complement the flower beds,
But I know now those poppy pigments were to grant us
Sleep in sleepless nights,
And still the neighbors would laugh
And say again,
We must be made of porcelain.
But as my rose-painted smile grew
Tired like my father’s wine cabinet hinges,
I watched my mother wither
To a paper doll
Every tear melting her paper skin
She became azalea petal thin
Until she disappeared into air
Leaving nothing but a long-forgotten trail,
Perfume and lullabies, pointe shoes and memories,
Because regrets and nostalgia
Fog the windows all around,
But I remember clearly now:
When I was small,
We lived in a dollhouse.
Six windows wide and two windows tall,
Our doorway painted poppy flower red.
Three porcelain dolls collecting dust on a shelf,
We turned to ghosts in that haunted dollhouse.
Nino didn’t write back. Floralie liked that about him. The way he didn’t want to know her to pity her or judge her. He just wanted to know her.
The ferry arrived in Calais, France, early next morning. Workmen clattered around the port, golden dawn spattering the deck. Floralie sucked in the salty air, remembering the last time she had been in Calais, the day she had believed she would never breathe French air again. She was wrong.
Miss Clairoux ushered Floralie and Nino through the bustle, and when they reached the street, Nino waved down a taxi.
“To the train station, please,” trilled Miss Clairoux in French, and the three hopped into the cab.
The entire taxi ride, not once did Floralie’s eyes leave the window. She felt as if she had yearned so ardently for France for so long that she had gone numb to the hunger for it . . . until now. Until now that she was home, until now that she could taste, swallow the milk-and-honey sweetness of it all.
When the taxi pulled up to the train station, Floralie hopped out and breathed in the scene. French flooded her ears—mothers babbling to children, newspaper boys calling out to train riders, taxi drivers chattering with passengers. Though both her parents had originated from England, Floralie had learned French before English, and the language still sounded like music to her.
Miss Clairoux handed the taxi driver a few coins, and then shut the door. As the taxi rattled off, however, something across the street caught Floralie’s eye. It was a large banner draped over a building with a heading that read: LE BALLET ROYALE DE PARIS PRESÉNTE GISELLE, and below that were the dates and place: JUILLET 3–16, PALAIS GARNIER, PARIS. The banner featured a ballerina with her leg in arabesque. She wore the exact same costume Floralie’s mother had worn when she had played the role of Giselle nearly four years ago.
That had been her last principal part, her last role before she got sick. Though it wasn’t an ordinary sort of sick . . . she didn’t cough or sneeze or itch. But she did stop dancing around the house. She stopped lilting her off-key ballet songs. She stopped laughing for the most part, and when she did laugh, it didn’t sound like bells anymore; it sounded cracked like an old, decaying redwood tree. Except she wasn’t old. She was young, especially for a mother. When the ballet kicked her out, she stopped wearing her wedding ring. She stopped calling Tom her petit étudiant, and she stopped calling Floralie her wildflower. In fact, most days, she just stayed in her bed. And one day, she wouldn’t come out.
“Ready?” said Miss Clairoux, turning to Floralie and Nino.
Floralie shook herself back to reality. “Yes.”
Floralie gripped Nino’s and Miss Clairoux’s hands as they boarded a train that looked exactly the same as the one Floralie had boarded for England three years ago just after Papa’s death—same hibiscus-red passenger cars, same gold-framed windows—and she could have sworn the blue-coated steward ushering them aboard was the same as well.
When they settled into their seats, Miss Clairoux pulled out a braille book.
Philomenos crawled out of Nino’s pocket and took a nibble at the book. Miss Clairoux yanked the book away and yelped, “Argh! That mouse”—but she caught herself short and gave a quick huff—“deserves a story just as much as any other.”
After the ticket master punched their tickets, the train engine roared to life, and Miss Clairoux read aloud from her braille book of the magnificent adventures of Alice in Wonderland. When she came to the part with the Cheshire Cat (at which Philomenos wrinkled his nose), however, Miss Clairoux’s breath grew heavy, and her voice drifted away, slowly, softly, until she was fast asleep.
Floralie was drifting, too, but not into dreamland, not even into her own garden wonderland. Her thoughts were leeched on to one thing only—Mama’s ballet.
Nino? wrote Floralie, as the train chugged past a field of sunflowers.
Yeah?
Did you see the banner? Before we left?
Nino shook his head no.
It was for Giselle.
Giselle? Isn’t that one of those African animals? Kind of like a moose-zebra?
That’s “gazelle,” silly. Floralie giggled. “Giselle” is a name. But it’s also a ballet about a peasant girl—that’s Giselle—who marries a man who was already betrothed to another girl. When Giselle finds out, she goes mad and dies. And then the wilis come, which are these ghostlike women, and Giselle becomes one of them. They haunt some men, and it all ends with Giselle’s former fiancé crying over Giselle at her grave.
Nino whisper-laughed. Sounds cheerful.
My mother played Giselle. It was her last starring role. And I just thought that maybe . . . Floralie scratched out the words and wrote instead, I just thought it was interesting. What she had wanted to write was, We should see it, since we’re so close to Paris anyway, but she held the words back. They had come to France for one reason, and one reason only: to find Mama, not some ghost of her.
The Flourishing of Floralie Laurel Page 8