“Yes,” I said. “It kept growing hotter when I hesitated.”
“But now we know you can’t trust the opal,” said the dagger. “We know you should have kept the penny.”
“Because of the cigar man?” Of course, the dagger didn’t want me to trust anyone except itself, and Gentleman Jack and Rough Ricky of course.
“Because of the cigar man.”
“But the cigar man wanted two pennies,” I said.
“You should have kept Betsy’s penny, too,” said the dagger.
But Betsy had given me the penny in exchange for the dagger. The rule about knives and pennies was immutable, which now I knew meant it wasn’t a rule you could change. I didn’t know what would happen if someone returned your dagger and you didn’t give them back their penny, but it was bound to be bad.
The opal had grown hot when I was deciding whether to trade the watch for the baby doll. Hot was for Go: bring the baby doll to the mother and father dolls! And now it was hot again and blue flames lapped at the margins of my mind.
I reached for the dagger.
“Don’t leave me!” said the dagger.
“But you’re failing to prosper.” I handed the dagger to the priestess.
She was monumentally unsurprised. She accepted it, her face as bland as rice pudding, and directed me to the stairs that led to the tower. There were slim, pointy openings all around the tower, so I could look in any direction. I looked back the way I’d come. I saw the houses at once, the clump of yellow bricks, panting up the canyon wall. Now to find eleven chimneys, all streaming with smoke. But it was dusk, and dusk and smoke look a lot alike. Quick, before it got too dark.
Four chimneys, three chimneys, eleven chimneys—good! Quick now, look at the streets. There was a street parallel to Main Street that went straight to the house with eleven chimneys.
Back to the priestess now, who returned the dagger. “Please be sure to inform me when I start to prosper,” said the dagger bitterly.
Back on the streets, glancing up at the canyon rim. There was the cigar man, his mouth making a hot, glowing O.
I looked away, but the glow had attached itself to my eyes. On I walked, through a maze of scummy streets. The red light stayed in my eyes like a stain. These streets were worse than the streets below the belt line of Blue Roses. They were gray and sticky and clogged with people who seemed only half alive.
I made my way toward Grandmother’s house. I couldn’t easily lose sight of it, because it peered over the crookback shoulders of the other houses. It stood very still, as though its bones ached.
“Houses don’t have bones,” said the dagger.
But something was wrong. None of the chimneys were puffing with smoke.
“No smoke when it’s warm,” said the dagger.
“You said they were always puffing.” And anyway, it wasn’t warm. It was spring on the first floor of the world, but not here, not in the cellar of the world. Or maybe the cellar below the cellar.
Or maybe the underworld.
There were only two steps up to the door. I pressed the doorbell. The aching bones shook themselves, gave a tinny ring.
Feet came to the door. The door opened but only a crack: it was on a short chain. A face peered through the crack.
“So?” said the woman, but when she saw me, she unchained the door and opened it a little farther so I could see all of her face. She had black hair, like the photograph of the woman in the pocket watch. But she couldn’t be Grandmother. Grandmother was old and would have white hair.
She stepped back and opened the door wider. “You might as well come in,” she said.
THE WOMAN AND I STOOD IN THE FOYER. We stood on the floor I’d imagined so often. It was black and white, all right, but it wasn’t marble. It was paint. You could see the grain of the wood through the black-and-white squares. I’d never seen marble, but I’d never confuse it with paint. Marble is shiny.
There was no marble, and also, there was no table.
“Where’s the table?” I said.
“There is no table,” said the dagger.
“Where’s the drawer?” I said.
“There is no drawer,” said the dagger.
“Where’s the key?”
“The key’s in Grandmother’s pocket,” said the dagger.
“Where’s Grandmother?” I said.
“That’s Grandmother,” said the dagger.
Grandmother looked different from what I’d imagined. She had young hair but an old face. Beneath her oldness, though, she looked familiar, with her square jaw and quick, round eyes. Maybe she looked familiar because I looked like her. Mr. Elton said I did. I was recognizing myself when I got older.
The floor was painted and Grandmother was painted. There were pink rouge circles on her cheeks—I knew rouge was a kind of people paint—and her lips were dark as damson jelly. She had two moles, which she had blotted out with beige paint.
She wanted everything that was pale on her face to be bright and everything that was bright on her face to be pale. But you couldn’t really blot out moles that stuck up from your chin like little hills.
Was that what Songbirds did? Did they paint their faces? That seemed surprising.
“Come on, Girl,” said Grandmother. “I don’t have all day.”
I followed her out of the foyer, which went straight into the sitting room. I knew it was the sitting room because of the crimson velvet sofas and chairs. But there was no corridor leading there.
“Where’s the corridor?” I said.
“There is no corridor,” said the dagger.
“Don’t you need a corridor?”
“You don’t need a corridor.”
The sitting room was full of people, and aside from me and Grandmother, the people were all men. Some sat on the floor because there was no more room on the sofas or chairs. Everything was different from what I’d expected. I’d expected a table, but there was no table. I’d expected a corridor, but there was no corridor. I’d expected a chair, but they were all sat-on. I didn’t expect the men, but there they sat—and lounged and lay—pouring drinks from cut-glass decanters and playing cards and billiards.
“Who are the men?” I said.
“They pay for living in Grandmother’s house,” said the dagger. “She’s practicing for when she builds her Grand Hotel and the rest of her empire.”
I’d expected Grandmother to touch my hand; I expected her hand to feel like silk. I expected her to say, “This is my girl, returned from the road. This is my girl, bright as a star.”
Instead, she said, “Go sit with your friend.”
I had no friends, but my gaze traced the direction of her pointing finger. There sat Rough Ricky, the Brewster Boy, and a couple of the Gentlemen near a small, sullen fire. “Keep him company,” said Grandmother, “and in the name of the stars, keep him quiet.”
Grandmother meant the Brewster Boy.
It was a long walk to the end of the room. Lots of people had walked on the carpet. It was scraped down to the matting, scraped down almost to zero. The Brewster Boy stood up before I reached him. His words tumbled out every which way.
“I went to see Gentleman Jack,” said the Brewster Boy. “Just like you said, and I got me in with Gentleman Jack. I ain’t so dumb as what you think.”
“That would hardly be possible,” I said, and as I spoke, I heard an echo of the Judge’s voice, except mine was meaner. I’d never seen the Brewster Boy without a hat. I hated his thin, slippery hair.
“I’ll get me some bloody hands, too.” The Brewster Boy’s eyes were shiny and out of focus. They went every which way, just like his words.
“Gentleman Jack doesn’t have bloody hands,” I said.
“Why does he wear them gloves?” said the Brewster Boy.
“Because he’s fancy,” I said.
“I bet he has bloody hands,” said the Brewster Boy.
“The boy’s very enthusiastic,” said Rough Ricky. “He’ll learn.”
The sitting room was crimson. The dollhouse dining room was crimson. The father doll had said that crimson is a happy color.
I waited to be happy.
“I thought we agreed,” said Rough Ricky. “Five o’clock, by the river.”
I’d have to wait until later to be happy.
“I couldn’t get free,” I said.
“Lies and betrayal!” said the dagger.
But the dolls would call it something else. They’d say that the feeling of wanting to get the baby doll was a magnet. They’d say the feeling of wanting to make them happy was a magnet. They’d say that’s what made me stay longer in the Indigo Heart.
“Gentleman Jack told me to find you,” said Rough Ricky. “I went all the way back to Blue Roses.”
“You did!” Maybe Gentleman Jack really wanted me! Maybe when he saw me, he’d say, “This is my girl, bright as a star.”
“We couldn’t leave you behind.” Rough Ricky’s kerchief lay in an ashy band around his neck; the bottom half of his face was cleaner than the top. “It would be asking for trouble.” Behind him, the fire gnarled at a half-chewed log. His face was heavy; his mustache was dark; his scars were white.
“What trouble?” I said.
“Trouble from the Blue Rose,” said Rough Ricky.
“Why does the Blue Rose care about me?” I said.
“Ask Jack,” said Rough Ricky. “He’s the one who craved a boon of her.”
“She spat in his eye,” I said.
“She did more than that,” said Rough Ricky.
“What else did she do?” I said.
But Rough Ricky wouldn’t say.
“What kind of trouble?” I said.
Rough Ricky wouldn’t say.
I must have been asleep, but I couldn’t remember. There was a blank of time, then someone dragged me to my feet. Someone wrenched my arms behind me.
“Where were you on Friday?” said Gentleman Jack. “When you were supposed to meet Rough Ricky?”
I stood on my tiptoes, easing the wrench in my shoulders. It was the same kind of wrenching the Sheriff had done to Gentleman Jack on that first Day Zero, when Gentleman Jack tried to escape.
Everything was the same in the sitting room. “I have enough trouble without you up and disappearing.” The candles still burned, the men still played cards and drank and spat. Except now Gentleman Jack was here.
“You are never,” he said, “to leave this house without telling me where you’re going.”
Was it because of the trouble from the Blue Rose? But why would the Blue Rose give Gentleman Jack trouble about me? Why would anyone care where I was? No one had ever cared before, back when we lived in the hideout.
I was just the Robber Girl. I was just the girl who’d been abandoned in the wilderness. “I have something for you,” I said. Gentleman Jack dropped my arms; I turned to face him. He ruffled his fingers—ruffled them toward himself. “Give it to me!” said his fingers. His fingers knew I’d brought butterscotch.
I fished the bag of butterscotch from my pocket.
“Late as usual,” said Gentleman Jack. “Don’t tell me the Judge delayed you again.”
“I have something even better for you.” I would not talk about the Judge and lateness. I twitched the green opal pendant up and over my head. “It’s the most valuable opal in all of the Indigo Heart.” That was so it would match his valuable green eyes.
“It’s your good-luck opal,” I said. Gentleman Jack reached for it.
When people are surprised, their eyebrows go up and their eyes go wide. Gentleman Jack’s eyebrows went up. Gentleman Jack’s eyes were already so round you wouldn’t think they could get any rounder.
You’d be wrong.
I liked seeing Gentleman Jack being surprised. It showed I’d done something good. When people are surprised, they drop their jaw. The more they’re surprised, the more they drop their jaw.
But Gentleman Jack didn’t drop his jaw. Of course—I hadn’t been exercising judgment. How could I have forgotten that Gentleman Jack’s best smile never showed his teeth?
Gentleman Jack stared at the opal. “An opal should be bright.”
Gentleman Jack was surprised, but he was surprised in the wrong direction. I could fix that, though. “It needs to warm up to you,” I said. How strange to know more than Gentleman Jack. “It matches your eyes, which means it will get warm and bright when you wear it.”
I wouldn’t think about how green opals were especially common. How they weren’t especially valuable.
Now at last, Gentleman Jack dropped the chain around his neck. The opal remained cool and dull and gray. It was like a fish eye.
We waited. The opal was a fish eye.
What made a fish eye so fishy? Maybe it was because the pupil in a fish’s eye never changed, which made them seem as though they didn’t care about anything. You couldn’t even always tell if they were dead or alive.
But you could tell that the opal was dead.
It was a fish eye.
A fish eye.
A fish—
Gentleman Jack made a sort of shrug with his mouth. He turned around. He walked away from me. The opal was a dead fish eye, but still he wore it. Still, he walked away from me.
I awoke to a rattle and growl that sent me sitting upright, my heart thumping against my ribs. It’s only a train, I told myself as my thoughts caught up with my heart. I was still in the sitting room; Gentleman Jack and Rough Ricky were asleep in their chairs; the Brewster Boy lay asleep on the floor.
It was almost light. I rose and stretched. My shoulders remembered Gentleman Jack. “Let’s find the exits,” I said.
“You don’t need exits in Grandmother’s house,” said the dagger.
“You always need exits,” I said.
The sitting room led to the dining room. It had dark wood walls and a dark wood table. There was a door off the dining room, but I didn’t open it. It was set with heavy panels that said “I’m private. Keep out!” The dining room led into the kitchen. I hardly recognized the blue enamel stove Gentleman Jack had described so often. It was all smeary with grease and chicken carcasses. At the end of the kitchen was a door, set with a window. It overlooked a weedy yard, strewn with bottles and a couple of mismatched boots.
Except it didn’t open. It was nailed shut.
The house was more straight-ahead than I’d imagined. No, not straight-ahead. It was narrow. I thought about what made it seem so narrow, and then I realized: except for the foyer, there were no in-between spaces. There were no corridors or landings. There were no spaces to help you get used to the next space.
You couldn’t be a thief in this house. It was a good house to live in if you expected an attack. There were no places to hide.
There came a swish of skirts and Grandmother’s voice. “Already up, Girl? Excellent.”
I liked the word Excellent.
“You’ll help with the morning chores.”
Chores were excellent. They were like orders. I liked it when Gentleman Jack gave me orders. I liked knowing what to do.
Grandmother led me to the door with the heavy panels. The door that said “I’m private. Keep out!” Grandmother lit a candle because her house didn’t have fire running in its walls. The candlelight glinted off blue and silver bed hangings.
“I keep it ready with all the things he likes,” said Grandmother. “A bar of his favorite soap. You can smell it if you like. But don’t touch the cravats. He’s very particular about his neckwear.”
Gentleman Jack was particular about his neckwear, but he wore frills, not cravats.
“Who’s He?” I said.
“John,” said Grandmother. “W
ho else?”
“Lord John?”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Girl,” said Grandmother.
But I didn’t need to play dumb. Gentleman Jack said I came by it naturally.
Grandmother showed me Lord John’s razor. “It has an ivory handle, see? I strop it every day and keep it clean, sharp, and dry.”
Clean, sharp, and dry. That was just the way I’d always kept the dagger, except that now it refused to sharpen. Funny that Gentleman Jack had used those exact same words, over and over; and then Lord John, in exactly the same way; and now Grandmother—
Lord John and Gentleman Jack were brothers. I should have realized; they looked so alike, and they both looked like Grandmother, not to mention Grandmother looking like them. They all had round, quick eyes and square jaws. Lord John had a shrine, but he was the no-account brother.
“Do you keep a room for Gentleman Jack?” I said.
This was not a new thought. I’d imagined Grandmother making a shrine for Gentleman Jack. Making sure his lace was beautifully clean. Maybe slipping a pair of peach-colored gloves in among the primrose. Maybe pinning a little ruby brooch onto his neck ruffles as a nice surprise.
“Jack makes too much of a mess.” Grandmother waved me out of the shrine-room with the back of her hand. She’d wanted to show off the excellence of Lord John, and now she was going to tell me about the excellent morning chores.
“I suppose I’ll have to show you how to set the table,” said Grandmother.
But I already knew. I laid the fork on its napkin, to the left of the plate. I laid the knife to the right of the plate, the sharp edge turned inward. There was something about setting the table that was bright and clean and orderly. I hoped it would make my thoughts orderly, because I needed to figure out what was tugging at the edges of my mind. It had to do with Gentleman Jack and Lord John looking like each other, and Grandmother looking like both of them.
And since I looked like Grandmother, I looked like them, too. That was a good thing, wasn’t it? Why didn’t I have a Good Thing feeling in my stomach?
I’d give myself a Good Thing feeling. I’d think about how much I loved setting the table. How wonderfully orderly it was except . . .
The Robber Girl Page 31