“Why aren’t they all of stone?” I said.
“Usually,” said the Judge, “when someone dies, you know they’ve died. You have their body.” I wondered if he was thinking of Magda and Isaac. “That means you give them a grave marker made of stone, which is permanent. But what if someone has disappeared?
“They might still be alive. You wouldn’t want to weigh them down with something permanent. You wouldn’t want to weigh them down with stone.”
“They all died from Rough Ricky’s fire?” I said.
“It was Gentleman Jack’s fire,” he said. I looked at the stone markers. Into each was carved the same word: Starling, Starling, Starling.
“Like Marshal Starling?” I said, even though the Judge had already told me that Marshal Starling and his family had lived here. I was just making sure.
“Mrs. Starling was our last Songbird,” said the Judge, “the one who whistled praises to the Blue Rose. She and her children died in the fire. And now we have no one whose words of praise can, with certainty, reach the Blue Rose.”
I read all the names on the gravestones. The Marshal’s first name was Aldo. The Judge said it means Honorable, which is a good name for a marshal. The Songbird’s name was Lyra, which is a good name for a Songbird. It comes from the word Lyre, which is an old-fashioned kind of guitar. But the name on the third stone was confusing because it had too many of the same letters.
“Darrell,” said the Judge. “Their little boy’s name was Darrell.”
Darrell had another good meaning. It meant Beloved.
“Why doesn’t the wooden marker have a name?”
“Names are the most lasting things of all,” said the Judge. “We only put them on stone.”
But what about my name, my original name? That hadn’t lasted.
“You didn’t take the coins!” said the dagger suddenly.
“I took a penny,” I said, although I’d really just asked the Judge for a penny. It was less risky than stealing. I knew the Judge pretty well now. I knew he’d be appalled if I stole something but he’d be delighted if I asked him for something. He liked giving me things.
“You didn’t take the inkwell,” said the dagger.
“Because the Judge or Mrs. del Salto would notice,” I said. “Remember how doing things out of the ordinary attracts attention.”
Everything I needed was in my pockets: Grandmother’s watch, the magnifying glass—
“Why do you want a magnifying glass?” said the dagger.
The dagger didn’t know the word Talisman. I could think it loud and clear without the dagger saying that talismans were taming. I was setting out on a journey, just as people did in fairy tales, and I was filling up on the exceptional number three. I was bringing three talismans: the watch, the magnifying glass, and the opal pendant. I also had the rest of the butterscotch, but that wasn’t a talisman. It was just to sweeten up Gentleman Jack.
We reached the schoolyard. Now the cottonwood tree filled the air with pale fluff; now fireweed and coneflowers blazed purple in the schoolyard, and dandelions were everywhere.
The Judge talked to Mrs. Elton. “We must insist,” he said, “that the dog accompany Starling inside.”
She rang the bell, which was her way of saying “Fine!” and as usual, the mouth of the school fell open and gobbled up the children.
I watched the Judge leave, and as I did, a kind of sickness crept upon me. The word for that sickness is Regret. Regret is when you know you’ll never see the Judge again. Regret is a worm that curls up in your stomach and lashes its tail.
None of the newness had worn off the classroom. There was still the smell of varnish, but I guessed I was used to it. It no longer scraped the back of my tongue. There were lots of things that were new. No one sat where they were supposed to. Why was there a new boy in my old seat?
“Starling del Salto,” said Mrs. Elton, using all my names and looking over my head as though searching for me in a crowd. “I hear you think you’re ready to move up to the fifth level.” I saw now that Betsy, Tilda, and Gabriel were in the fifth-level row. Everyone had moved up while I was sick. Even Peter had moved up to the second level.
Mrs. Elton gave me a passage to read. I stood at the front with Paloma. How nice to have her stand with me! The passage was filled with easy, cheerful words like Well, Tell, and Bell. How could I not have known them before?
Mrs. Elton did not say if I read well or badly. She only said, “Do you think you’re ready to move up?”
I didn’t know.
“Do you think so?” said Mrs. Elton.
Mrs. Elton made me not know what I thought.
“You may join the fifth level,” she said. “Provisionally.”
Even though Betsy, Tilda, and Gabriel sat in the fifth-level row, they sat in the same order as before. Betsy and Tilda shared a desk and a bench, and there was a space on the bench beside Gabriel, which was where the Brewster Boy had sat, slashing at Betsy’s face. That meant I’d have to sit next to Gabriel. Gabriel moved to the outside edge of his side of the bench, as far from me as he could get. I sat on the outside edge of my side, as far from Gabriel as I could get. Paloma lay at my feet.
The lid of the desk slanted downward. Gabriel lined up his pencils and chalk along the middle of the slant. They made a wall between us.
And now Mrs. Elton skipped right over the third and fourth levels and called the fifth level to the front. The fifth level had been studying a poem, and the poem had ten verses. “Three verses each for Betsy and Tilda,” said Mrs. Elton. “Two verses for Gabriel and Starling.”
I was to read the last verses. Mrs. Elton was saving me up, like dessert after dinner, so she could enjoy my failure. Didn’t she remember how I’d saved Betsy from the Brewster Boy? Shouldn’t she be grateful?
I read through the verses. I knew all the words, but there must be a trick. Mrs. Elton would not allow me to read well.
Betsy and Tilda read smoothly. The poem was about a father who knew his daughters were going to take him by surprise and give him lots of kisses, except it was no surprise because he already knew about it.
I’d never really listened to Gabriel read before. He read as though he was riding a bicycle down Main Street, which I’d seen one of the big boys do. It’s all bumps and dips, and then an oncoming horse makes you careen off to the side.
“That was barely adequate,” said Mrs. Elton. “You need to work on your inflection.”
Inflection? Did Betsy have inflection? I probably didn’t have inflection.
I had a sudden startling thought. Mrs. Elton didn’t like boys. She didn’t like Peter, she didn’t like Gabriel. She thought boys were rough and stupid, which was why they couldn’t read well. Mrs. Elton made them not know what they knew—just like me. She didn’t like me, either, because I was more like a boy than a girl.
That was because Gentleman Jack had always wanted a boy. What if I were really his child and he was testing me to see if I could be an excellent boy?
“You were an excellent boy,” said the dagger, “until we came here and you started wearing all those taming things.”
In Netherby Scar I would go back to being an excellent boy. I would never make any compromises.
It was my turn. Time for the saved-up dessert. Time for the girl who was rough and daring, like a boy. Now Mrs. Elton would enjoy my discomfiture. But my verses were the best, and Paloma stood beside me, which was also the best. The verses said that the father wants to put his daughters in the round-tower of his heart. He finishes by saying:
“And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin
And moulder in dust away!”
I could read the verse. I read all the words; I didn’t stumble. What was Mrs. Elton’s trick? What had I done wrong?
“You have memorized it!” said Mrs. Elton.
How could I have memorized it? I hadn’t seen it until just now.
&n
bsp; “Mrs. del Salto helped you memorize it,” said Mrs. Elton. “That’s cheating.”
But Mrs. del Salto would never cheat. She was the Judge’s wife.
I walked back to the desk. The smaller children looked at me from the front. I didn’t look at them. They were almost too small to see. The bigger children looked at me from the back. I didn’t look at them. They were almost too big to see. I sat on the bench, on the outside edge.
But at least I had a desk. I had to enjoy it. I’d only have it for today. The desk was varnished to a clear, hard shine. There was a space beneath the top of the desk, in the front, where I could put my books and slate. There was a groove running along the top where I could put my pencils and chalk.
There was a round hole in the desk, which was meant to hold an inkwell, but there was no inkwell. I held my hand beneath the hole. I could see my hand inside the desk. Paloma fit beneath the desk, and I didn’t even have to squish up my legs.
Tilda leaned across Betsy and whispered—whispered to me, even though you were not supposed to whisper! “You read with inflection,” she said. “Lots of inflection.”
That was all Tilda could say, or else Mrs. Elton would catch her and whip out the ruler. But it was enough. No girl had ever whispered to me before, except Molly, and Molly was too young to count.
What should I do at lunchtime? I had my jacks, but I no longer had the red ball. I’d thrown it at the Brewster Boy. As I stood in the schoolyard, with the cottonwood fluff drifting all around, Betsy came up to me. She handed me a square of thick, creamy paper. On it was written the word Starling.
“It’s an envelope,” said Betsy. “You open it like this.”
I knew about envelopes, which was how I knew what to ask. “Where’s the stamp?”
“You don’t need a stamp,” said Betsy. “Not if you’re delivering it yourself.”
“So you’re like the stamp?” I said.
“I am not like a stamp.” Betsy snatched back the envelope and took out the paper, which was covered with slanted, curly writing—the exact kind of writing that’s hard to read. So I didn’t mind Betsy reading it aloud. Once she had read it, I could read it, too. It was an invitation to Betsy’s birthday party. There was only one word on the paper I didn’t know. “RSVP?”
“It’s French,” said Betsy. “It means you’re supposed to say if you can come.”
I said nothing. I couldn’t come; I would have left by then. But I couldn’t tell her so.
“Thank you for the Valentine’s Day card,” I said.
“So, can you?” said Betsy.
“I’ll ask at home.” Home. How strange to say that word. I really only said it so I wouldn’t have to say I’d ask the Judge and Mrs. del Salto. It was embarrassing to call them by such formal names, as though I didn’t really live there.
But I wasn’t going back, so maybe I didn’t live there anymore. Maybe I was between spaces. Or maybe I already lived in Grandmother’s house, but I just hadn’t gotten there yet.
I fished out the Judge’s penny and handed it to Betsy. “Thank you for hiding the dagger.” Now we were even.
If all had gone as planned, Gentleman Jack was already free. Rough Ricky and the Gentlemen had held up the stagecoach. They’d have pried Gentleman Jack from his shackles. They’d have taken him from the stagecoach, just as they’d planned to take the gold on the first Day Zero.
I’d meet Rough Ricky at five o’clock. Not a moment later.
After school now, trotting down Main Street, past the burnt house and its smell of ashes and the burning feeling that made my throat clench itself into itself. But that made it hard to breathe. It was hard to choose between breathing and burning.
“Peanuts!” came the whistle of the peanut man. “Fresh, hot peanuts!”
His whistle drew me toward him, outside the General Store. There he stood, with his close-set eyes and corrugated face. “Hello!” he whistled, just the way a bird would sing it. The music of the word started up and went down. You could hear the soft sounds—the Eh and the Oh. You could hear the soft slide of the L’s, you could even hear the H. A whistle can make the breathy sound of an H.
I wanted to try it myself, but whistling was bad luck, and anyway, I was sure to make a fool of myself. Which was mostly what happened when I spoke.
What about whistling for Paloma? She was coming with me to Netherby Scar. It might be useful to be able to whistle her name, and no one would think it was foolish to whistle for a dog.
“How would you whistle the name Paloma?”
There were three notes to the name Paloma. They went low, high, medium—One, Three, Two. And there were three sounds to the name: Pa-oh-ah.
I was sure I could whistle it—even though I was never sure about being sure. But I’d just be whistling for a dog, which people did all the time.
No one but the peanut man would know if I got it wrong.
It was easy. I whistled it clear and bright.
Paloma came to me in one bound—she’d only been about three feet away. She sat, which was what she was supposed to do when I called her. She also wagged her tail, even though it wasn’t required.
I extended my hand and she snuffed it. She liked the Whistling. I liked the Whistling.
There came a rapping at the glass inside the General Store. It was Betsy. Was it nice of her to rap at me? I didn’t know. But now she was beckoning me inside.
But even if she was being nice, I couldn’t go inside. I had to keep track of the time. I had to meet Rough Ricky at five o’clock. I waved and walked on. But the opal grew heavy and cold. It was so cold, I could feel it through the smocking on my dress, even though smocking is a kind of sewing that gathers a bunch of fabric together and sews a decoration on top, which makes it thick.
I didn’t need to glance down at it to know that the opal had turned dull and gray, like dirty ice. What was I not seeing, even with my excellent sight? Did the opal not like what I was doing?
Then I would do the opposite of what I was doing, which was walking away. It was only three thirty; I had time to enter the General Store.
I pulled at the door, the bell tinkled. Mr. Elton was piling cans of peas into a fearsome tower. His face was a blank. Maybe he was angry I’d hit him with a hammer. That would mean he was saving up his sorrows. But maybe he was grateful I’d saved Betsy. He’d have to be twice as grateful, though, to make up for the ungratefulness of Mrs. Elton.
Betsy and I said nothing to each other, but we found ourselves walking to the toy section. We passed the balls; I didn’t look at the red ball, which was for jacks. I wasn’t taking the jacks to Netherby Scar. They weren’t a talisman. There was Betsy’s doll from France; there was the baby doll in the blue pajamas. The mother and father dolls would never have their baby.
I’d left the dolls in the parlor; the dolls were dead. I’d broken their hearts. They’d stay dead, just as they’d been when I found them, unless someone else found them and wiped the dust from their eyes.
I’d always known I couldn’t bring the baby. What I hadn’t known was that making a piecrust promise would kill them. My head didn’t care about killing them, but my feet did: they were taking me to the front of the store, to Mr. Elton and his tower of peas.
Betsy followed, calling after me. She watched as I made a nest of my hands and held them out to Mr. Elton. The pocket watch was an egg in the nest.
“Don’t give him the watch!” said the dagger.
But Mr. Elton was already easing it from my hands, just as though it were a real egg. I’d given him the watch before I quite realized what I was doing. Or thinking of doing.
What if I could bring the baby doll to the mother and father dolls?
“You don’t have time!” said the dagger. “You can’t bring the doll all the way to the cottage and still meet Rough Ricky at five o’clock.”
“May I help you?” said Mr. Elton.
“Can I buy something with this watch?” I said.
“Trade it for something?�
�� said Mr. Elton.
That’s what I’d meant. “Trade it for a doll.” The watch was valuable, and it hadn’t been stolen. It was surely worth enough to trade for a baby doll who was only made of wax and not even from France.
The dagger was right. I couldn’t possibly be thinking about failing to meet Rough Ricky at five o’clock. Of thinking about walking to Netherby Scar alone.
But the opal had an opinion. It grew warm. I’d forgotten how it not only warmed my skin, but also the inside of my head. The friendly blue fire crackled in my brain.
I saw that I’d betrayed the mother and father dolls. I saw that I’d killed them with my piecrust promise, and that now I had to bring them back to life.
“They’re not even alive!” said the dagger. “Don’t leave Rough Ricky waiting because of something that’s not alive.”
Piecrust promise, I thought. I’d create a screen of words the dagger wouldn’t understand. The words Piecrust Promise made one screen. The second precept of the Blue Rose made another screen. The dagger didn’t understand things that rhymed.
Keep your promises:
T’was you that made them.
Let not others say:
T’was you betrayed them.
The worm of Regret lashed its tail. Did it regret that I’d be leaving buttercream cottage and the dolls and Mrs. del Salto and the Judge? Did it regret that, even now, Rough Ricky would be waiting for me by the river; and that first he’d wonder where I was; and then he’d get mad; and that finally, he’d ride off, leaving me to walk to Netherby Scar.
I could regret both things—leaving buttercream cottage and leaving Rough Ricky waiting. And then I’d have to accept my sorrows.
“Where did you get the watch?” said Mr. Elton.
“It’s Gentleman Jack’s,” I said. “It wasn’t stolen.” How extremely ironic it would be if Mr. Elton thought it had been stolen, because it was the one thing I knew for sure hadn’t been stolen.
Mr. Elton flipped open the watch, and—
“Do you see why you shouldn’t have given it to him?” said the dagger.
I saw why. Mr. Elton was going to recognize Grandmother. He wouldn’t recognize Gentleman Jack from when he was a baby—babies all look the same—but everyone knew what the Royals look like, and when Mr. Elton realized who she was, he would . . .
The Robber Girl Page 28