“This is my girl, bright as a star!”
He would say it with exclamation marks!
But Gentleman Jack wasn’t thinking about brightness and stars. He was thinking about me, but not in a good way.
“I hesitate to ask, my dear,” he said. “And really, I’m sure there’s some simple explanation. But it has occurred to me to wonder why you’ve taken so long to visit again.”
“The Judge wouldn’t let me,” I said.
“Ah,” he said, very softly. His voice hardly made a dent in the air. “How, I wonder, might we outsmart the Judge?”
He said the word We, which meant he’d help me outsmart the Judge, even though it was really my problem. Gentleman Jack was nice that way, not saying I was dull, not saying it directly. He was nice that way, sharing the burden of my dullness.
“I’ll try to be sharp,” I said. But the words tasted like poison. They wilted my tongue.
“Try!” Gentleman Jack hardly breathed the word. The softer he spoke, the duller I got. “Try won’t be good enough, not if they find me guilty of murder.”
He wrapped his fingers around the bars, even though they’d rust his gloves. He was touching the bars; I was touching the bars. It was almost like we were touching each other.
“Did you try to see Flora?” I knew the word for the way he said Try. The way was called Patient.
But Patient was really just Impatient, with a bubble over it to hide it, like a blister. The bubble is called Sarcasm.
“I saw her twice!” I said. Twice must be extra good.
“Don’t mumble,” said Gentleman Jack. “Speak up.”
Now I spoke too loudly. “Twice!” The words bounced off the concrete walls. Concrete didn’t absorb sound. It had no nooks or pores or crannies. Neither did my voice.
Now came the smell of lighter fluid. Now came the flare of the strike lighter, on and off, helping Gentleman Jack think. “You have Grandmother’s pocket watch?” he said.
“In my britches pocket,” I said.
“And Grandmother’s photograph in the watch?” he said.
“I look at it every day,” I said.
“Wait until you are quite private,” said Gentleman Jack. “Then destroy it.”
Destroy Grandmother’s photograph? The one that made a safe, silver echo in my head?
“We Royals are famous,” said Gentleman Jack. “Someone might recognize Grandmother. They might recognize the watch, too, because of the emblem. Hide it carefully.”
I could say I’d try not to be dull, but Gentleman Jack would only pluck out the word Try and blister it again with Sarcasm.
“Say something!” said Gentleman Jack. “Tell me you understand.”
“I understand,” I said. Gentleman Jack’s face was not as familiar as before. His hair was light, but his whiskers were dark. Maybe the jail didn’t let him shave. The stubble dragged down his face. But I knew how to make it go back up.
First I gave him the bag of butterscotch. Then I said, “I found a Songbird. We can take him to Grandmother’s and she’ll be happy.”
His face stayed the same. The stubble was too heavy to let it go up. “Who is it?”
“The peanut man, the one who stands outside the Sapphire, whistling.”
“No good.” Gentleman Jack shook his head. “What’s important about a Songbird?”
“A Songbird reminds the Rosati about the Blue Rose so they think about her and worship her and raise their voices in praise, and then she’ll grant the boons they crave.”
I was right about that, but not about the peanut man. “He came from far away,” said Gentleman Jack. “He doesn’t worship the Blue Rose.”
So he couldn’t be a Songbird for Netherby Scar?
No, he couldn’t be a Songbird for Netherby Scar.
But there was one more happy thing I could tell him. “Flora and Lord John have a good idea.”
“John?” said Gentleman Jack. “John’s here!”
I spoke very low. “Flora and Lord John want me to testify at your trial.”
“What’s John doing here?” he said.
“Playing cards at the Sapphire,” I said. “Talking to people with his silver tongue.”
“That silver tongue is full of lies,” said Gentleman Jack. “John’s always trying to steal a march on me.”
Steal a march? The Judge would know what it meant.
“But I’m faster,” said Gentleman Jack. “And stronger and smarter.” He stretched his lips over his teeth. “What did Flora say about my good-luck opal?”
“She says you’ll need gold to buy one.”
“What did she say about my gold?”
“She said she has no information on that score.”
“I’ll score her,” said Gentleman Jack. I didn’t want to ask him what that meant, because asking wasn’t a shiny thing to do. “Remind Flora of Lucretia. Remind her of the way Lucretia scores.”
Score was a knife-ish sort of word. It meant using something sharp, like a knife, to make a mark in something else, like a bone.
“Flora’s idea is about the trial.”
It was really Flora and Lord John’s idea, but now I didn’t want to mention Lord John. I could tell Gentleman Jack didn’t like him. I knew that mentioning Lord John’s name would be like mixing a lye bomb—which is something that can explode at any time.
I didn’t like thinking so much about lye bombs. I wished I could lie down and press the darkness into my eyes—I wished I could cram darkness into everything I knew about smoke and fire and bombs—but that would be dumb. It would be wasting my time with Gentleman Jack.
I hoped he’d get happier when I told him what I’d say about the Fair. There was no time to tell him about the lemonade, or the Belgian horses with their big feet, or how I’d not been sick, but before I finished, Gentleman Jack was nodding.
“Flora always was clever,” he said. That was a good word, Clever. But still, he looked far away, with the stubble pulling at his face. He shoved his hands into his pockets and there they stayed, as though they were rusted into place. Now I was the only one holding the bars.
“How will you find Grandmother’s house?” said Gentleman Jack. I said that when I got to Netherby Scar, I’d show the bird engraving to the people in the town and they’d tell me the way.
“How can they do that?” said Gentleman Jack.
“Because in Netherby Scar,” I said, “people treat you like your last name, which is Royal. Everyone knows Grandmother’s emblem and knows where you live.”
And now, at last, Gentleman Jack’s face went up. He liked talking about how people treated him like royalty. “I want Flora to visit me. Go tell her so, and this time don’t delay. Ask her how you might outmaneuver the Judge, so he doesn’t keep you away again. Flora’s clever that way. I imagine she can shine you up a bit.”
I didn’t think I could ever get very shiny, but I wouldn’t say so, and anyway, my tongue was a dead petal.
Back in the office, with the cups of coffee and newspapers. The news was as cold as the coffee. The poster of Gentleman Jack hardly looked like him now. In the poster he had frills and gloves and the ruby earring. But now his hair covered the earring, and he had dark stubble and a pulled-down face.
Before, I had thought I could bring Gentleman Jack good news about a Songbird, even if I had no butterscotch to give him. But now it was all mixed up. I’d brought him the butterscotch, but there was no good news about the Songbird.
“I wish the Sheriff would steal me,” said the dagger. “I’d bite him extra quick before he could give you a penny.”
But I thought the Sheriff would be too quick for that. His body was quick enough to handcuff Gentleman Jack, and his mind was quick enough to understand the Whistling.
I asked the Sheriff if I could have the drawing of Gentleman Jack. The Sheriff said he guessed I could take it, if it was all right with the Judge, which it was.
The Sheriff folded the drawing before handing it to me; he folded it twice
. Now there would be lines across Gentleman Jack’s face. One line going up and down, one line going across.
I slipped the drawing into Magda’s pocket, beside the Valentine’s Day card. It was Magda’s pocket because it was attached to her coat, and also because it was blue, which was a good color for Magda. It was Magda’s coat because it had hung in the shrine to Magda. The shrine filled with fabrics, the fabrics filled with memories.
“You don’t have any memories!” said the dagger.
That wasn’t true. I had memories from when I was around six and had come to live with Gentleman Jack. I knew I had memories from before, but I kept them away by being grateful to Gentleman Jack.
“You use too many exclamation marks,” I said.
“That’s because I’m pointy!” said the dagger.
Out we went, the Judge and I, into the smells of pigs and muck, which I’d expected, but also into the warm, heavy smell of peanuts, which I hadn’t. Then came the peanut man’s whistle: “Fresh, hot peanuts!”
“Have you ever had peanuts?” said the Judge.
“Probably,” I said, because from the very first, I’d recognized the smell. I’d recognized it even before I saw the peanut cart. And I’d known that the bolt on the attic door was shaped like a peanut.
“Probably not!” said the dagger.
“Let’s see,” said the Judge. We turned toward the peanut cart, which was a cozy sight, the hot red coals bright in the gathering dusk. The Judge passed over some coins, and the peanut man passed back a bag of peanuts. They were delicious, warm and salty. When we had finished, the bag was semitransparent with oil, which sounds ugly but was really very pretty.
I held the bag to the sky. That way you could see the light shining through. “Can you have a Songbird who’s not from Blue Roses?” I said.
The Judge said that the farther you got from Blue Roses, the harder it was to find a Songbird. He said that people who lived in faraway towns wanted a Songbird to live in their town, so they could be holy and crave boons of the Blue Rose, but that it didn’t work that way. “You can’t just march a Songbird away from the Indigo Heart and expect them to sing.”
That reminded me to ask about Steal a March. The Judge said it meant getting the advantage of someone by acting more quickly. He said the phrase carried with it overtones of dishonesty. The oil-paper bag shone; the dome of the Shrine shone.
And then a thought came arcing through the air and struck me, quivering, like an arrow.
“Like a dagger,” said the dagger.
I could steal a march on Gentleman Jack’s no-account brother. I could ask the Blue Rose to bring Gentleman Jack his five gold bricks. That would be the boon he’d crave. Then Grandmother would love him best and give him the empire. I could ask the Blue Rose for a Songbird, and then Gentleman Jack would bring Grandmother everything she wanted. Of course, Grandmother already loved Gentleman Jack the best, but now she’d really love him best.
“I need to tell Gentleman Jack something,” I said. But I said it mostly from habit. I knew he’d say I had to wait. That we had to get home to Mrs. del Salto.
Gentleman Jack had said I needed to outmaneuver the Judge, but the Judge wasn’t very maneuverable.
“You’ll visit him just as soon as you can,” said the dagger.
“He’ll be so happy,” I said.
I had Betsy’s Valentine’s Day card in my pocket, which I didn’t like, but I had Gentleman Jack’s face in my pocket, which I did. It turned out the Judge also had something he liked in his pocket, but unlike me, he took it out. It was for Mrs. del Salto. It came in a black velvet box, which he snapped open.
In it was a ring. It looked familiar but not familiar. It was set with dark stones that made a circle all around.
“Opals, for Valentine’s Day,” said the Judge. “They go with her wedding ring.”
“But aren’t they supposed to shine?” These opals were dull and dark, not like the stone in her other ring, which swam with brilliant underwater colors.
“Opals come alive when they’re with their person,” said the Judge, “which in this case is surely Mrs. del Salto, because of how well they match her eyes. Also, opals should be given with love, which these are. Opals are another of the Blue Rose’s gifts to us. They’re made of stardust and bring good luck and clarity of vision. Black opals are especially precious.”
I asked the Judge if it was a rule that an opal had to match their person’s eyes. I didn’t think Mrs. del Salto’s black-button eyes looked very much like her beautiful opal, but the Judge said yes, they had to match. That was a lucky thing to know. Now I knew I had to get a green opal to match Gentleman Jack’s eyes. Green eyes were the rarest eye color. Green opals must be the most valuable of all.
Mrs. del Salto gave me a key. My key was not exactly the same as hers. There was the same loop at the top, and a little curlicue inside the loop, but the curlicue was different. That was because my key had been made at a different time than Mrs. del Salto’s key. My key was brighter, too, which was because it hadn’t been used as much. “But the important part is the same,” said Mrs. del Salto. “This bit that sticks out is what opens the door. This bit is the same on both keys because the lock is the same.”
I practiced putting the key into the lock and turning it. The bolt slid in and out. It was best when the bolt was in the lock. Mrs. del Salto put her key into the drawer with the green felt lining.
Her new ring shone next to the old one. The Judge had been right: the stones shimmered with life. Mrs. del Salto was their person, even if her eyes were more like buttons than opals. She wore the rings on the same finger. The stones were black and deep and made of stardust. I didn’t say anything about them, though, and neither did Mrs. del Salto.
Two keys already lay on the soft green lining. The Judge’s key looked like Mrs. del Salto’s key. They were different from mine, but it didn’t matter. The bit that stuck out was the same. That was the important bit because it was what opened the door.
Now I laid my own key on the green felt. You could tell it was comfortable. There was one shiny key and two not-so-shiny keys.
I closed the drawer.
Now the drawer was full. I had made it full.
YOU DIDN’T GO TO SCHOOL on Saturdays and Sundays. Saturdays were best because you knew you didn’t have to go to school the next day, either. On Saturdays, you could wake up before anyone else. You could go down the bright painted stairs to the landing. You could go down the carpet that was held in place by heavy brass rods. That was so the carpet couldn’t squiggle away, not with the heavy rods and the pineapples at each end. Then you were on the first floor. You could put on Magda’s coat and feel the paper in the pocket. It was Magda’s coat, but Gentleman Jack’s face was all yours.
On a Saturday, you could walk through the kitchen, above the dreaming cellar. You didn’t need to hurry on a Saturday. You could stop in the pantry; you could open a drawer of sweetness. You could catch some on a wet finger and lick it off.
You could open the drawer with the silverware. That’s what the Judge and Mrs. del Salto called the forks, knives, and spoons. You could also call them Cutlery. The silverware drawer was divided into long, narrow spaces by wooden walls. They were like long, narrow beds. The walls separated the knives and the forks and the spoons.
Everything was orderly and bright. The spoons were in the middle, which was the way it should be. The knives were on one side, defending the spoons with their sharp edges.
“Not that sharp!” said the dagger.
The forks were on the other side, protecting the spoons with their points. If I could be shrunk into miniature, I’d climb into the middle bed and curl up with the spoons. I’d like the feeling of having the knives and forks protecting me on either side.
On a Saturday, you could go out the back door. The dagger and I had discovered that behind it lay a barn and a chicken coop and a stable and an old doghouse, and beyond that, a forest of indigo trees. Now I knew I could leave the cott
age through the back door. Now I knew it was an exit.
I undid the bolt; I flung open the door. Behind the outbuildings stretched the indigo forest, all draped in mist. Today I would explore the forest; today I would follow the path that tramped off between the trees. It was a determined sort of path. It didn’t ramble or amble or go chasing after the smells of wet and resin. It marched straight to a clearing in the forest where the sun touched the mist with a white light.
The white light illuminated two pale stones. They were the color of bone and had chiseled writing on them. The dagger and I realized at the same time:
“Magda,” I said.
“Isaac,” said the dagger.
I knelt before them. I knew which was Magda’s grave because of the letter M. I could recognize M and I knew Magda started with an M. I knew the letter I on the other stone was for Isaac. They had dates for being born and dates for dying. Magda was born in a month that started with an O, and there was only one month that started with an O. It wasn’t tricky like, say, a month that started with M, which could be either March or May. Or J, which could be January or June or July.
Magda had been born in October. She’d been born on October sixteenth. Isaac had been born on November third.
There was water springing from everywhere in little rivulets, running off the tops of the gravestones, dripping and twisting and turning. The mist was beginning to lift, but the sun was still white. The light hung on the chiseled edges of the letters and numbers. The children had died in the same year, which was last year. They died in the same month, which was September. The Judge had told me they’d died of the smallpox, and now I saw that they’d died within five days of each other. Their deaths were close as the fingers of a hand.
That was not very long ago. Not even as long ago as when Gentleman Jack killed the Federal Marshal, which had been August twenty-sixth. I remembered August twenty-sixth perfectly. Probably Mrs. del Salto remembered her children’s deaths perfectly.
August twenty-sixth was when the Harvest Fair had taken place, which I also remembered perfectly, even though it was all made up.
The Robber Girl Page 16