He would what?
All he did was draw in a soft, whistling breath. He looked at the photograph for a long time, and finally he said, “Do you know who she is?”
I knew that she was Gentleman Jack’s mother. I knew she was going to be my grandmother.
“She used to live here,” said Mr. Elton. “She used to be our Songbird.”
That made a little earthquake inside my head. I felt I could not have understood correctly. “Here in Blue Roses?”
“Here in Blue Roses,” said Mr. Elton.
“Don’t be so surprised,” said the dagger. “Grandmother’s lived a long life and done a lot of things.”
“But the Songbird died!” I said.
The dagger’s voice was almost always the same. It could sort of shrug—mostly by slowing down the words it was saying—but its voice never really revealed what it was thinking.
There came the tiniest click of time before it said, “She was the Songbird ages before Lyra Starling was the Songbird. She left to go to Netherby Scar. She left to get free of the tameness of Blue Roses.”
But if Grandmother was a Songbird . . . “Why would she want a Songbird if she’s a Songbird?”
“Being a Songbird is like being a servant to all the Rosati, and also to the Blue Rose. But Grandmother’s no servant. She’s an empress, who’s going to run an empire.”
“You look remarkably like her,” said Mr. Elton.
I did? I looked like Grandmother! I wished Gentleman Jack had told me—it was so extremely excellent.
Mr. Elton yo-yoed the watch up and down in his palm as though he were weighing it. “The watch is worth more than any of our dolls, and I don’t have near enough change.”
“Even though it doesn’t go?” I said.
“Let’s take a look,” said Mr. Elton.
I’d always thought Mr. Elton was completely different from the Judge, but I now saw he could do little, delicate things, too. He produced a worn leather case, snapped open the fastenings. Inside gleamed tiny tools. He picked a little screwdriver, twirled at a screw, and off came the back of the watch’s case. There were its insides, three wheels and lots of screws, all very small.
“You’ve got to clean a watch regularly,” said Mr. Elton. “Otherwise the pivots get gummed up and will seize. We’ll clean it and oil it.” He took the whole watch apart and cleaned it with something that smelled like turpentine. He let the pieces dry, then dribbled oil on them from an eyedropper. Finally, he screwed the case back on.
“Will it go now?” I said.
“Let’s see,” said Mr. Elton.
“Can I wind it?” I’d had the watch all these months, and all these months I’d imagined winding it.
Mr. Elton told me to twirl the little knob on top. I wound it, I gave the watch a minute to come back to life. I held it to my ear.
“It’s ticking!” The watch was warm and alive. I weighed it in my hand like a yo-yo, just as Mr. Elton had done. It was heavier now that its heart was wound up and beating.
“Perhaps,” said Mr. Elton, “you’d also like to set the time.”
I did want to set the time. Mr. Elton told me to pull up the knob at the top of the watch. When the knob was down, you wound it; when the knob was up, you set it.
“It’s four forty-five,” said Mr. Elton.
I’d known I was going to miss Rough Ricky, but still the words “four forty-five” came as a kind of thunderclap. The thunder clapped the two sides of my head together and made crumples in the part in between. My thoughts got lost in the crumples.
Mr. Elton asked if I’d like to keep the photograph. I said I would, and that I also wanted to make a copy of the emblem. I was going to have to walk to Netherby Scar. “Four forty-five!” said my brain crumples. “Four forty-five.” I’d have to have a picture of the emblem so I could find Grandmother’s house. Mr. Elton gave me a piece of paper and a pencil. I laid the paper on top of the watch and, with the side of the pencil, scribbled over the emblem. When I was done, I had a picture of the emblem on the paper. That was because the lines of an engraving are dug into the metal, which means that the pencil doesn’t make a mark where the lines are because there’s only emptiness beneath.
“Which doll do you want?” said Mr. Elton. And the way he said it felt a little as though he was saying, “Sorry for thinking you stole the candy.”
“The baby doll,” I said, which was a little like saying, “Sorry about the hammer and your elbow.”
I wondered why Mrs. Elton didn’t like me, even after I’d saved Betsy. She didn’t know it was my fault I had to save her. Maybe the iron had entered her soul the minute I hit Mr. Elton.
“We have several baby dolls,” said Mr. Elton.
“He’s a little longer than my fingers,” I said. “His pajamas are blue and his feet are bare.”
“Better show me,” he said.
We came first thing to the glass case of opals. The good-luck case, Betsy had told me. I turned; I stopped. I asked Mr. Elton, “Would I have enough change to buy an opal?”
“Which one would you want?” said Mr. Elton.
It was so hard to look at all the opals—not just at all the opals but at all the colors of the opals.
Mr. Elton collected all the greens for me. It took me ages to look at them all . . . but I had ages because it was already after five o’clock, sharp.
“It has to be a very valuable opal,” I said.
“Green opals aren’t especially valuable,” said Mr. Elton.
“It has to be the greenest opal,” I said.
Mr. Elton knew his opals. He selected three for me to look at. They were all green . . . but green could be so many colors. There was sea green, which was green with a dash of gray. There was teal, which was green with a dash of blue. And there was lime green, which was green mixed with a dash of sour.
“I can’t tell you which to choose. You’ll have to decide,” said Mr. Elton.
“What green do people like the best?” I asked.
“Probably emerald green,” said Mr. Elton.
Emerald green was a beautiful green. Emerald green was just the way Gentleman Jack said his eyes looked.
Mr. Elton said I could take the emerald green opal—although it wasn’t truly emerald green, he kept saying—and that I’d still have some change that was due me.
Then we came to the tables of fabric. We came to the wall of knives. I’d once thought I knew everything about knives. Why some knives had jagged blades. Why some knives had curved bellies. But I couldn’t understand about sharpening the dagger. The dagger couldn’t be sharpened, even though Sharp was how it liked to look, especially for Gentleman Jack.
We came to the mirror. Neither of us looked at the other. That would be too embarrassing. I saw myself, though. Wild robber-girl hair, but with the snarls taken out. Bird-wing eyebrows, a face that went down into a triangle—an upside-down triangle. That meant my face was strong. I really did look like Grandmother. I couldn’t feel the opal growing warmer through the scarlet smocking on my dress. I saw it in the mirror, though, And most important, the opal lay against the scarlet smocking, blinking and winking a fierce, crackling blue, as though it were smiling at me.
The opal wanted me to bring the baby doll to the dollhouse.
Mr. Elton and I passed the table of boots and turned toward the table of tools and the barrels of candy, which meant we definitely didn’t look at each other. We passed the hammer with the red handle, which meant we definitely kept not looking at each other.
Now past the buckets and shovels to the toys. We passed the blocks and the purple yo-yo. We passed the balls and the jacks. We came to the bears with the outstretched arms that said, “Come feel how soft we are.”
Above the bears, on the highest shelf, stood the baby. Even Mr. Elton had to stand on a stool, and a moment later, the baby was smooth and warm in my hands. That’s because he was made of wax. Wax was warmer than china.
He still wore his blue pajamas, his feet were still
bare. I was glad they were bare. That meant I could warm him up in the blanket with the blue stars and the fringe all around.
When we went to the front again, Mr. Elton said, “A parcel to make up, Betsy.”
Betsy looked at me, she looked at the doll. She said nothing about china or France or wardrobes full of clothes. She measured out brown paper and a length of string to make the doll into a little parcel. She knew just how much paper to tear from the roll, just how much string to cut from the spool. I pictured her, again, wrapping the dagger, choosing the white-on-white paper and the white-on-white ribbon.
“Don’t forget about the RSVP,” said Betsy. Betsy really loved France.
“I hope I can,” I said, which wasn’t entirely a lie. I would have liked to; I just knew I couldn’t.
Then the package was in my hands, and the baby was in the package. I no longer had the watch, but the seconds started to tick away inside my head. “Hurry, hurry,” said the seconds.
Later, when I crossed the bridge, I dropped the invitation over the edge. It was spring, the river was fast. It swept the invitation round the bend and out of sight. The current would soon pull it under. The river overflowed its banks, running up to the willows and pooling in their roots.
I thought about the song with the mother and father. Soon I’d be leaving the Indigo Heart, which was where my mother and father lived—if they still lived. But I didn’t care. They’d wanted me to die. Soon I’d be leaving the River Jordan and the milk and honey. I didn’t care about that, either. The River Jordan was deep and wide, but the milk and honey was always on the other side, so you could never get it. When I got to Netherby Scar, Gentleman Jack would let me have coffee and sugar. That was better than milk and honey.
But first, I’d look at Grandmother and see my face, and Grandmother would look at me and see her own face.
I picked at my thumb. The blood from my thumb was inside my mouth. It was full of cold iron. I was bright and alive.
I OPENED THE FRONT DOOR. I didn’t have to step in to know that the cottage was empty. That’s because it was extra cold. Neither the Judge nor Mrs. del Salto was inside. When people are inside the cottage, they warm it up with their beating hearts and breathing lungs.
I didn’t like it being cold. I tried to warm it up. I turned the welcome mat around. Now the word WELCOME was right-side up to any visitor. Now the sunflower was smiling. That felt warmer, but it was still pretty cold. The cottage felt the cold, you could tell. Its timbers whined, huddling themselves closer, for comfort.
Paloma and I stood in the foyer, listening to the voices of the timbers. They strained against their own nails. “I wonder,” I said. Paloma pressed against my leg. Thank the stars I could speak when Paloma was there. It’s easier to work things through when you can speak aloud. Paloma gazed up at me. She was a very good listener. “When you bring blankets and keys and tablecloths to the dollhouse, they appear in the cottage. But what if you take something away from the dollhouse?” The pocket watch, I thought, but I didn’t want to say its name aloud. “Will the same thing disappear from the human house?”
The grandfather clock was the human-size version of the pocket watch. What if the grandfather clock had vanished?
“Such nonsense!” said the dagger.
But I had to look, so into the corridor we went. I scraped myself around the gleaming library moldings. There was the clock, quite un-vanished and even more present than usual. The pendulum was swinging and the clock was ticking. As I stood gazing, it struck the half hour. The chimes were out of tune with themselves, but what can you expect when you haven’t spoken for so long?
Mrs. del Salto must have gotten happier and set time going again. Setting time going wasn’t the kind of thing you did when you were sad. When you were sad, you wanted to keep everything the same. You didn’t want to move ahead.
The dolls lay in the dollhouse parlor, still and dead, just as when I first found them. What had I done to make them come alive, way back on the first Day Zero? I’d picked them up. I remembered how the mother doll had lain in my hand, slack jointed and dusty.
Would her eyes open if I sat her up? I’d better dust her first. She wouldn’t want dust in her eyes. I wiped her eyes, then licked my finger and dabbed at the dust in the corners. Was that what I’d done before?
I sat her up, but her eyes didn’t open. I’d killed her too completely. The father doll’s eyes didn’t open. The two of them sat side by side, heavy and dead.
“I brought you a dog.” I could speak because of Paloma.
They did not come alive.
“I brought you a collar.”
They did not come alive.
“I brought you a baby.”
Click. The mother doll opened her eyes. “Starling!” she said.
Click. The father doll opened his eyes. “Starling!”
I’d said what they wanted me to say.
“Our baby?” said the mother doll.
“Our baby?” said the father doll.
I pulled the parcel apart. Gentleman Jack’s green opal tumbled out first. It didn’t glimmer like my star opal, but it would when Gentleman Jack put it on. The green opal hung on a long chain, way too long for me but it would be just right for Gentleman Jack.
After the green opal, the baby boy tumbled from the package. His feet were bare. His eyes were closed. I tilted him up. His eyes opened. He was perfect. His eyes opened and closed.
“I long to hold him.” The mother doll swung her right arm up, then her left arm.
I laid the baby in the mother doll’s arms. He was almost too big for her.
“He’s a fine big boy,” said the father doll. “Our very own boy.”
“He’s beautiful,” said the mother doll.
“His eyes open and close,” I said.
“They open when you tilt him up,” said the mother doll.
“He has real eyelashes,” said the father doll. “Not painted.”
“My heart is about to shatter,” said the mother doll.
I’d thought it was only sadness that could shatter a heart. “He’s made of wax. He’s not fragile; his heart can’t break.”
The dolls walked up the stairs to the baby’s room. In the human world, it was Isaac’s room. In the doll world, it was the baby’s room. They took an age. I could have lifted them so quickly, but you couldn’t just grab and lift a doll, not when it was alive.
“Not alive!” said the dagger.
I reached into the parlor and peeled back the carpet. There lay the photograph of Magda and Isaac I’d hidden, back when it was still winter. Back when I’d broken the yellow cup and learned about glue. I’d leave the photograph on the bed, where the Judge would be sure to see it. Even though Mrs. del Salto had started accepting her sorrows, she’d probably never climb the attic stairs again.
But she’d like to have the photograph. Then she wouldn’t have to be philosophical anymore.
The mother doll laid the baby in the cradle; she rocked the cradle, and it called out, light and rushy with air. Willow was good for a cradle. The word Willow had the sound of wind in it. The wood was light and resisted shocks easily. It was weak for its weight, but that didn’t matter. It was good for a baby, because babies were light.
The baby liked the cradle. You could tell because that’s when he came alive. He kicked and stretched and opened his little rosebud mouth.
“He has real hair,” said the mother doll. “He has a face like a peach.”
“Peaches and cream,” I said.
The father doll tucked the blanket in around the baby, especially his feet.
“Do you want me to shut the house?”
“Please,” said the mother doll. “We would like to be alone together.”
Alone together. Those were very strange words to say at the same time. They contradicted each other. Alone together.
It was ironic that you could say them both and they made sense.
“May I?” said the Judge from behind the door,
even though the door wasn’t locked. Even though he could turn the handle and push the door open.
“You may,” I said.
This was really the last time I’d see the Judge. Later, I’d creep out the window and down the indigo tree.
The Judge opened the door but didn’t come in. He spoke from the landing. He spoke across the threshold.
“Gentleman Jack has escaped,” he said.
“Oh?” I sounded surprised.
“I told you Gentleman Jack was to be conveyed by stage to the capitol.”
I was surprised I sounded surprised.
“I told you what day the Marshals were going to take him.”
The Judge was going to tell me to leave. I knew from the poking feeling in my stomach. I was going to leave anyway, but I still had the poking feeling.
Paloma raised her head and sniffed the air. She was sniffing the Judge’s voice. It sounded different and it must have smelled different, too.
“The stage was held up by a gang of men wearing masks,” said the Judge. “A gang of men with crowbars and saws and chisels.”
Outside the window, against the sky, unfurled ribbons of starlings.
“I knew about the stagecoach and so did Mrs. del Salto,” said the Judge. “So did the Sheriff and the Deputy.”
The starlings furled like a fan. The fan opened and closed, opened and closed. The starlings exploded themselves into the sky, bursting into fireworks. No, not exactly like fireworks. Once you explode fireworks, they can never be un-exploded. They can never come back together.
“Only one other person knew,” said the Judge.
But an explosion of starlings could un-explode itself. The starlings could come back together, like iron filings drawn to a magnet.
The Judge didn’t step out of the room; he’d never entered it. The doorknob was for arriving, but it was also for leaving. The Judge turned the knob; the door clicked shut.
I stared at the cool, blank face of the door. The Judge had opened my door but he hadn’t come in. The starlings outside were attracted to one another by some unknown force, just as iron was to magnets or planets to the sun. But I wasn’t attracted to anybody. Maybe I had no round-tower in my heart, not like the father in the poem. The Judge had turned the doorknob and closed the door. There was no force holding us together. There had used to be, but it was broken.
The Robber Girl Page 29