Wishes and Wellingtons

by Julie Berry

  “Her aunt,” said Aunt Vera. “Mrs. Vera Lindsey.”

  The butler bowed slightly and beckoned us in out of the cold.

  The front foyer was certainly grand. I could tell Aunt Vera was a bit cowed by it. A sweeping staircase, soaring ceilings, beautiful plaster carvings. I clamped my arms tight to my ribs, lest I accidentally bump and smash one of the dozens of porcelain vases and marble busts.

  Then Alice came running down the curved staircase, followed more slowly by her beaming grandmother, and the place stopped feeling like a museum immediately.

  Alice greeted me with a hug. “I’m so glad you’re here, Maeve! I’ve been counting the days ’til you arrived.”

  “Me too.” That was no exaggeration. Passing the holidays at the wedding-planning headquarters was more than a body could take. I envied Father for his ability to escape each day, even to a gloomy old bank.

  Mrs. Bromley greeted Aunt Vera warmly and led her into a little salon for tea and sandwiches. I knew Aunt Vera would be telling anyone who’d listen about this visit for a month of Sundays, but I didn’t mind.

  We’d arranged that I would stay the rest of the holidays with Alice until it was time to return to school. That would save my family needing to take another trip on my behalf.

  Alice showed me through the drawing room and down a back stairway, straight to the kitchen, where a smiling cook had a platter of the long-promised coconut cakes and tall glasses of milk waiting for us at a gleaming countertop. We demolished them in short order, then went up to Alice’s bedroom, which overlooked the park.

  “Have you any new theories about what happened to Mermeros?” Alice asked me earnestly.

  I shook my head. “I’m certain Theresa Treazleton has him.” I told her about the ginger-whiskered man and the burglary of my bedroom in Luton.

  Alice frowned. “But, then, that makes no sense,” she said. “Mr. Treazleton would’ve had the sardine can by midday, at the latest. There would be no reason for him to send someone after you.”

  “He threatened that he’d have the djinni by the new year,” I said glumly. “Theresa herself said, ‘This is war.’”

  “Oh!” Alice clapped her hand to her forehead. “I forgot. I got a letter from Cynthia Murray, whose family is friends with the Brisbanes, you see, and Cynthia said that Honoria told her that when Theresa left the school to head for home, her face burst out in the most frightful case of boils. She’s been avoiding every holiday event because she doesn’t want to be seen!”

  I hadn’t much heart even to laugh. “Serves her right, doesn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” Alice said thoughtfully. “Does anyone deserve that?” Her maid came to the door, and Alice went and spoke to her about something.

  That’s when it hit me. As I’d watched Theresa leave, I’d wished that she’d break out in pimples. And almost immediately, she did.

  My spine began to tingle. Did I have some power of my own to grant wishes, now? Was I becoming a bit of a djinni, too? Was it my trip to Persia that had done it?

  “I wish for my sardine can back,” I said softly, under my breath.

  Nothing happened. Maybe that was too much to ask.

  “I wish for those curtains in the window to sway,” I whispered, considering that to be a pretty harmless request. They didn’t move.

  Maybe the magic had to involve people? “I wish for that freckle on the back of my hand to disappear,” I said. “Or even fade a bit,” I added, by way of a compromise.

  Nothing. Those must have been coincidental pimples after all.

  Alice showed me all around her grandparents’ town home, then we went downstairs so I could say goodbye to Aunt Vera and meet Mr. and Mrs. Bromley properly.

  When Aunt Vera had gone, Mr. Bromley, a spry gentleman with a twinkle in his eye, asked us what we planned to do first.

  “Papa,” Alice began (for so she called her grandfather), “we want to go to Mr. James Pascall’s candy shop.”

  Did we? Well, why not? I nodded my agreement.

  “At St. Paul’s Churchyard, Papa. You know the one?”

  “Young ladies and sweets!” cried Mr. Bromley. He winked at his wife. “Ladies of any age, and sweets!”

  Mrs. Bromley smiled. “You’ll take them, won’t you, dear?”

  “I wouldn’t miss the chance,” said he, “to squire such handsome young ladies around town. Indeed not.”

  Handsome? Well, imagine Deborah’s response to that.

  Mr. James Pascall’s candy shop in the vicinity of St. Paul’s Churchyard was like nothing I’d ever seen. This was no paltry apothecary’s shelf of lozenges and lollies. This was a carnival of bright-colored sweets, a parade of delicious flavors. Shelves groaned under long rows of glass jars filled with colorful bonbons that seemed to stretch for miles. We stayed too long, sampling sweet after sweet until it was almost too much, then left clutching little sacks of candies and picked our way along the sidewalks. Mr. Bromley planned to take us to his gentlemen’s club, where we could join him for luncheon in the dining room. It all sounded terribly fancy and intimidating, but I promised myself I’d eat hearty and otherwise keep my mouth shut.

  We’d meandered several blocks when a curious shingle hanging in front of a small, lower-level storefront caught my eye. “The Oddity Shop,” it read. “Mysteries, Marvels, and Wonders from Beyond the Seven Seas. We Buy and Sell Rare and Wondrous Things. Mr. Siegfried Poindexter, World Traveler, Chief Buyer, Proprietor.”

  I halted in my tracks. Alice knew my thoughts immediately.

  “Papa,” she said, “may Maeve and I visit this shop for a moment?”

  Mr. Bromley polished his eyeglasses with a handkerchief and squinted at the sign. “But, my dears,” he protested. “Lunch!”

  “We won’t be long,” I promised. “I just want to see what a world traveler looks like. I plan to be one myself someday.”

  “Well, who’s to say you can’t?” Mr. Bromley chuckled. “Go on, then.”

  We all went down the steps and inside the store. After the rainbow brightness of the candy shop, this dim and shady store felt grim and strange. A glaring owl perched on a branch made me scramble to a stop.

  “Morris!” I gasped.

  “Who’s Morris?” asked a voice from somewhere in the shadows.

  “Oh…” I stammered. “Just an owl that I know.”

  “You know an owl, Maeve?” asked Alice.

  “He’s Tommy’s,” I explained.

  “Who’s Tommy?” asked Mr. Bromley.

  “A friend of ours.”

  Alice’s eyes grew wide.

  “How are you friends with a boy named Tommy, at Miss Salamanca’s School for Upright Young Ladies?” asked Mr. Bromley. “This is not the first time I’ve suspected that supervision there must be sorely lacking.”

  Oh, I’d done it now. Well did I know girls were not supposed to socialize with boys. Ever. Until they were eighteen or so, coming out into society, chaperoned within an inch of their lives, and only meeting the most suitable of men. Whatever that meant. From what I could tell, it meant the most boring ones. I’d been ignoring propriety ever since my hands first gripped a cricket bat. But now I’d dragged Alice into my vices. I had to try to fix it.

  “Tommy is an orphan who lives across the street from the school, at Mission Industrial School and Home for Working Boys,” I said. “He’s my friend, but Alice has met him. It’s my fault, though.”

  I looked up to see the shopkeeper watching me with interest. He was a short, robust man of middle age with a tanned, bald head and thick muttonchop whiskers. Mr. Bromley, however, watched his granddaughter.

  “Maeve has been very kind to Tommy,” Alice said softly. I wouldn’t put it that way, but I appreciated what she was trying to do. “He’s very clever, and quite respectful. He’s just in a most unfortunate situation, in that unhappy h
ome.”

  “At his next birthday,” I piped in, “he’ll be sent to work in a cotton mill.”

  Mr. Bromley’s face melted into sympathy. “The poor young man,” he said. “Any one of us could share his fate, had we not been more fortunate.”

  “Pardon me,” said the man with the muttonchop whiskers and the checkered vest, “but did you say this clever young orphan owns an owl?”

  I nodded. “A live one,” I said, “with a broken wing.”

  “I should very much like to meet this Tommy of yours,” said the man, “if by so doing, I might also meet Morris, his owl.”

  “Are you Mr. Siegfried Poindexter?” I asked.

  “In the flesh.”

  “Grandfather,” Alice asked, “could we come back tomorrow and bring Tommy and his owl?”

  Mr. Bromley took a step back. “Well, now, I say… It seems unlikely that the masters at the home…”

  “Please, Grandfather,” Alice persisted. “It would mean so much to him.”

  “I’ll make it worth his while,” added Mr. Siegfried Poindexter. “I’ll buy that owl of his, and give it a good home, right here in the shop.”

  Mr. Bromley hesitated.

  “What do you want with an owl?” I asked.

  Mr. Poindexter turned to me. “Owls are good luck,” he declared, as though this should have been obvious. “The ancient Greeks believed they brought protection.” He smiled. “Mostly, I just like them. I’ve had this stuffed fellow, here, for years. But a real, live owl? That would be something.”

  What could be better for Morris? If Miss Salamanca discovered him there, and she was bound to, eventually, she’d summon someone horrible to get rid of him by any means necessary.

  I turned to Mr. Bromley. “Won’t you, sir, help us bring Tom and his owl here? It’s a good deed for the orphan and the bird.”

  That cinched the deal.

  “Of course, we shall.” Mr. Bromley nodded decisively. “I’d like to get a good look at that charitable home, while I’m at it. A friend of mine is on a committee to better the living conditions of young orphans and unfortunates in the city. I could give him an informal report, don’t you know.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. “I’ll save my licorices for Tommy,” I said, pocketing my candy sack. “They’re his favorite. Morris likes them, too.”

  “Does he, now?” Mr. Siegfried Poindexter smiled.

  “Sir,” said Mr. Bromley, “were those scarab beetles I saw in the window?”

  “Indeed, they were,” said the world traveler, chief buyer, and proprietor of the Oddity Shop. The two men walked toward the front of the shop, leaving Alice and me free to browse around.

  By the light of green-shaded lamps, I poked about the store, looking at items in glass display cases. I saw pots and vases, bracelets and earrings, headbands and daggers, all looking ancient and strange. It reminded me of the objects we took from Mermeros’s father’s sarcophagus—the crest, the bracelet, and the ring, still packed in my gingerbread tin, now stowed in my carpetbag in Alice’s bedroom closet.

  Would Mr. Siegfried Poindexter buy those from me? For how much? Perhaps I could salvage something from my lost and wasted wishes. Enough to travel around the world? Probably not. But possibly enough to start a girls’ cricket team. If we didn’t care too much about proper uniforms and provided our own gear.

  “Maeve, look,” Alice whispered. “Aladdin’s lamp, he’s calling it.”

  She pointed to an ancient-looking oil lamp made of brass. I read the placard, “‘A replica of Aladdin’s lamp, once the home of a powerful djinni.’”

  We looked at each other in wonder. “Does he believe in djinnis, do you think?”

  A footstep sounded behind us. “I believe in all sorts of things,” said Mr. Poindexter.

  I turned to look at him. “Me too.”

  He smiled. “I see you appreciate antiquities. One doesn’t always find young people so interested in relics from the ancient world.”

  “I think they’re fascinating,” I said. “In fact, I have—” I cut myself off.

  Mr. Poindexter prompted me to continue. “You have…? You have antiquities at home, perhaps?”

  I might as well tell him. I’d have to, if I planned to sell them to him.

  “I have a bracelet, a ring, and a royal crest that once belonged to an ancient king of Persia,” I said, then held my breath.

  His eyes grew wide. He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “How do you know they belonged to an ancient king of Persia?”

  I tried to think what to say.

  “There’s an awful lot of fraud and forgery in the antiquities business,” he said. “I have to be on my guard against it always.”

  “They’re authentic,” I said. “I know without an ounce of doubt.”

  He folded his arms across his sturdy chest. “How?”

  I had to back up this claim, and I couldn’t produce any evidence. Nor could I think up a more convincing lie than the unlikely truth.

  “I found them myself,” I said. “I traveled to Persia, and was part of a, er, dig, and I took these things from the king’s own sarcophagus. From his very bones.”

  Mr. Siegfried Poindexter watched me closely. “From his very bones,” he repeated. “Is your father an archaeologist? An uncle, perhaps? Or an aunt? Women seem to be joining the search for rare treasures in growing numbers.”

  “Do they?”

  He nodded. “So? Who’s the scientist in your family?”

  Alice saw her grandfather heading our way, so she went over to intercept him and draw his attention elsewhere.

  I tried to think of what to say, but imagination failed me. I didn’t know enough about archaeology to fool someone like Mr. Poindexter. And if he might believe in djinnis, he might believe the truth.

  “No one is.” I told the man, watching his reaction closely. “I traveled to Persia myself. With the aid of a djinni.”

  I’ll say this for Mr. Siegfried Poindexter: He didn’t mock, or scold, or dismiss me. But I could tell he doubted me. Who could blame him?

  “Can you prove it?” he asked. “Do you still have the djinni?”

  I shook my head.

  “That’s a shame,” he said. He winked. “I would pay a small fortune for a real, live djinni of the lamp.”

  So would Alfred P. Treazleton, I thought bitterly. They could form a club.

  “How much would you pay for authentic royal antiquities?” I asked.

  “That depends,” he said, “on their authenticity. And I’m an excellent judge of that. If they are what you say they are, they’ll be worth quite a bit. Can you bring them tomorrow, when you return with your friend and his owl?”

  I nodded.

  He held out his hand. “Then, Miss Maeve—did I hear rightly that your name is Maeve? It will be a pleasure doing business with you.”

  Chapter 24

  That night, as we lay in the feather beds in Alice’s nursery, I reminded Alice about Cynthia’s letter, Theresa’s pimples, and my muttered curse. I told her my theory, and how my attempts to test it had failed.

  Alice sat up in bed, thinking hard.

  “Maeve,” she said, “when you said that about Theresa and pimples, weren’t you wearing the sorcerer’s ring?”

  My body went cold and prickly all over. Much like that strange sensation we had passed through in the Persian deserts. I got out of bed and dove into the closet where my luggage was stored. There was the gingerbread tin, and in it, the sorcerer’s things.

  They looked so drab and dull, sitting there in the dark room. Like dusty museum relics. Not like objects of power. I put the ring on my finger. It swiveled around loosely on my much-smaller finger than the sorcerer king’s had been.

  “Imagine if this works,” I said. “Who needs to worry about djinnis and their three wishes? With a ring l
ike this, we could do anything. Maybe I won’t sell it to Mr. Poindexter.”

  “Maybe,” said Alice doubtfully. “We don’t know for sure.”

  “We need another experiment,” I whispered.

  Alice moaned. “Not again! I don’t want hideous pimples or green hair!”

  “We’ll do this safely,” I promised. “We’ll think of something harmless and simple.”

  Alice sighed. “There’s nothing I could say that would stop you, is there?”

  I laughed. “No. But I don’t want you getting hurt.”

  Alice lit the lamps, and I concentrated hard on simple options.

  By the bay windows overlooking the park stood a small round table.

  “Let an apple appear on that table,” I said.

  Nothing happened.

  “Make the lamplight shine more brightly in this room,” I said.

  No change.

  “Make that spider in the corner start crawling along the ceiling,” I said.

  “Spider?” squeaked Alice. “What spider?”

  “It’s tiny,” I told her. “I thought, maybe, the spells might only work on living things. But apparently not.”

  “Are you sure the spider is alive?”

  I crossed the room for a closer look. “Definitely,” I said. “She’s weaving her web.”

  “Living things,” Alice said thoughtfully. “Living things…”

  I sat on a soft chair in front of the fireplace. “What if the spells only work on people?”

  Alice winced. “You’re going to try to spell me, aren’t you?”

  “Not without your permission,” I said. “I do have somewhat of a conscience, you know.”

  “Somewhat,” Alice muttered.

  “Here,” I said, holding out the ring. “You spell me.”

  She shook her head. “With my luck, I’d accidentally freeze your blood or break all your bones.”

  “Well, haven’t you got a gruesome imagination,” I said. “Tell you what. What if I spell your hair to grow an inch longer?”

  She looked extremely doubtful. “If this spell backfires, I’ll be a regular Rapunzel.”

  “Good,” I said. “Then we can sneak out of our dorm room much more easily when we’re back at school.”