A Tale of Highly Unusual Magic (13 page)

“I'm telling you, I heard those other players. They're better than I am.”

“So—you're not going to play? At all?”

“Every time I play, I think about my dad, and how I let him down.”

The other thing Kai thought of each time she opened her violin case was her mother's face as she read the rejection letter, and her expression when she turned to Kai.

“So—is that what you were thinking of, just now?” Doodle asked. “Your dad?”

“Well . . . I was. The first couple of times. But then, something happened.”

“What?”

Kai nodded at the peanut butter jar.

Doodle bolted upright. “Has it moved again?”

It had twitched the first night, and then lay still, no matter what Kai or Doodle did.

“It moves every once in a while,” Kai explained. “I think it depends on what I play.”

“Does it like the music?”

“Yes, but it's particular. It only likes when I play the . . . uh . . . buggy music. Watch.” With a shrug, Kai opened her violin case, tightened her bow, picked up her violin, and nestled it into position. She paused, nodding at the jar with the cocoon, which still sat on her bedside table. Then she began to play the night music, the sounds of the crickets and rain on the leaves, the rattle and hum of the insects and worms as they burrowed into the earth.

Kai stopped and both girls stared at the cocoon. Once more, the white bundle jumped and dangled.

“It did it,” Doodle whispered.

“It doesn't always happen.” Kai played a few more notes. The cocoon was still, and then jumped.

“Holy grasshoppers,” Doodle said. “You have to do a demonstration at the Lepidoptery Fair!”

“You think so?”

“Kai, I swear, this cocoon is like—who knows how old. Maybe as old as Edwina Pickle! And your music is
waking it up
!”

Cold fear washed over Kai. “Maybe it's a coincidence.”

“Maybe it isn't! Maybe these cocoons need a certain
kind of music—a certain frequency—to open!” Doodle jumped up and danced around the room, jigging madly.

“It may not even
be
a cocoon . . .”

“Don't you see it?” Doodle pointed. There was a tiny tear in the long white lumpy pearl, a scar running from end to end. It was opening. “Don't you
see
?!”

Kai's fingers felt thick and heavy. What did it mean—that the cocoon was hatching (molting? Kai wasn't sure of the word) after being frozen in resin all of this time? It frightened her.

“Play!” Doodle urged. “Play! Don't stop now!”

Kai forced her fingers to move, slowly at first, then more quickly as Doodle kept on dancing. The cocoon was quiet now, perhaps resting after its efforts, or perhaps frightened into stillness by Doodle's frantic dance. But Kai played on and—for the first time in four months—saw something other than her mother's disappointed face just beyond the violin strings.

At dinner that night, Aunt Lavinia wore a strange expression. “I heard you playing that violin tune. Where did you learn it?”

“I . . .” Kai wondered how much she should say. “I read it in an old book.”

“Yes; I think it's quite old. I've heard it before . . . long ago. . . .” Lavinia's eyes were far away. “Somewhere.”

“Have you ever heard of someone named Edwina Pickle? We think she wrote the music.” Kai's words came out all in a rush.

Lavinia shook her head. “Pickle? No, sugar. I think I'd remember that name.”

“What about Ralph Flabbergast?” Kai asked.

“Ralph Flabbergast?” Lavinia repeated. “Why, yes, I've heard of
him
.”

Kai gasped. “Did he live around here?”

Lavinia had taken her hair down from its twist, and the silver waves hung loose around her face. Her eyes met Kai's. For the first time, Kai realized that her aunt's irises were a very similar color to her own. An unusual light brown ringed by black. It was strange to see her own gaze reflected back by someone else. It was disorienting and comforting at the same time. “He lived
exactly
here,” Lavinia replied at last. “He was my dear old uncle.”

Ralph crutched his way out to the wide lawn, beneath a sky soft with clouds. Despite the awkwardness of his movements, he managed to hobble quickly. The notes fluttered and floated, shimmering like soap bubbles, as he shouted, “Edwina!”

“Mole!” she shouted, as she removed the bow from her violin and then ran—ran!—toward him. She looked as if she wanted to throw her arms around him, but instead she reached for his hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze.

“I'm well! I'm quite well!” Edwina twirled, and her serge skirts swirled about her ankles.

“I can see that,” Ralph said. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes sparkled. Her joy made her almost radiant.

“She gave the doctor quite a shock.” A young man with an earnest expression stood up from a wicker chair and walked over to join them. He held out a hand. “I'm Edwina's brother.”

“Parker,” Ralph said. “Good to see you. I don't suppose you remember me, but we met long ago.”

“I do remember.” Parker's eyes crinkled at the edges.
“And even if I didn't, Edwina has told me so much about you that I feel we're friends.” Parker's words were kind, but his face was troubled, and Ralph felt his joy evaporate a bit, like steam in cold air.

Edwina plucked a few notes on her violin. “The doctor says I may be able to go home as soon as next week,” she told Ralph.

“Yes,” Parker said. “But Edwina, we mustn't be hasty.”

“Dear brother, we'll see how hasty you are to leave a hospital once you've spent six weeks there.”

“I do hope the company hasn't been too dreary,” Ralph said.

Edwina smiled. “On the contrary, dear old mole, the company is all there is to recommend the place.” She narrowed her eyes as a figure in white strode purposely toward them. “Oh, bother. Here comes Lucille. I'm sure the doctor wants to listen to my lungs again with that dreadful cold stethoscope. I've been avoiding him all morning. Can't he see I'm well?”

“Please do as the doctor says, won't you?” Parker asked, putting a gentle hand on his sister's arm.

She looked appealingly at Ralph. “Don't look at me,”
Ralph told her. “You'll never escape Lucille. She's like a dog after a rabbit, and the rabbit is you.”

Lucille truly did look like a bulldog, and—with a sigh—Edwina called, “All right, all right. You've found me at last! I surrender,” and trooped toward the nurse.

Ralph and Parker watched her go for a moment. “Her recovery is truly a miracle, isn't it?” Parker asked.

Ralph nodded, unable to contain his joy. “It's magical.”

“Yes . . . that's the word that Edwina used.” Parker cocked his head, and placed his hat at a jaunty angle. “Mr. Flabbergast, you are my sister's friend. May I trust you with a—private matter?”

“Of course.”

Parker gazed off toward the woods. “Mr. Flabbergast, you are aware that our guardian is a man with a certain reputation.”

Ralph hesitated. He didn't want to say anything unkind about Edwina's guardian. “I have always heard it said that he was a good man of business.”

Parker looked at him plainly. “I will say that he is not a kind man. In fact, I have met spiders that are kinder.”

“And less bloodthirsty,” Ralph agreed before he could stop himself.

But Parker just nodded. “Good. So we understand each other. While it grieved me that my sister was ill, I always felt there was a certain . . . security here. At the hospital.”

“Security—from your guardian?”

“In short, my sister and I are heirs to a large fortune. I believe, though I cannot prove, that our guardian has been poisoning her.”

Ralph gasped as bile burned through his stomach, churning up muck and acid. “Poisoning her?”

“I know it sounds impossible—but he makes her work at the casket factory, and the place clearly makes her ill. And then, the very same day that he comes to visit her here, she falls ill again?”

“But why aren't you ill?”

“I don't know! I can't explain it! But my sister has always been sensitive. And you've met my guardian—his very presence is poison!”

“Can't you explain to Mr. Jonas that the factory makes her unwell?”

“He knows. I'm convinced that is why he continues.”

“Yes . . .” Ralph frowned. “But you don't seem to fear him.” His voice held the unspoken question: Why?

“I fear him. But not for my own sake. Our parents died
when I was quite young, and they never altered their will to include me. The will states very clearly that Edwina is the heir, and, after her, Melchisedec Jonas.”

“But surely you have a claim?”

Parker's smile was wretched. “Melchisedec knows that no one is likely to challenge him in court. Not any of the courts around here—he has paid off the judges. And I certainly won't dare if something happens to my sister. Ralph . . . I don't want her to return to our house.”

“But what will she do?”

“I have been offered a teaching position. A prestigious one, teaching at a new mission school. There's a place for Edwina, as well, teaching small children, if she will come. Now that she's well, we have the opportunity to get away. The voyage might even do her good, but it can do her no more harm than being forced to work in the factory or live with our guardian.”

“Voyage? Where?”

“To India. The Punjab. Mr. Flabbergast, you will convince her to come, won't you? As her friend, you must. I beg of you.”

India? Ralph wanted to say. But India is full of dangers! She cannot leave me!

He looked up at the evenly pale gray sky, like an ocean of mist. He felt lost in it as his mind spun, trying to find a new answer. How could he keep Edwina here? What option did he have? He could not ask her to marry him—he was barely seventeen, he had no money, and her guardian would never allow it.

“It's for her sake,” Parker said.

A single raindrop, cold as a pinprick, fell against Ralph's arm, as he thought of the vial in his pocket. The cruel vial that granted wishes—wishes that were granted, but with a disappointing end. A tree hit by lightning. Delicious sauerkraut that almost made them rich. Ralph looked into Parker's eyes, eyes that were so like Edwina's, and yet so different, and although he opened his mouth to say no, no she could not go, not even to save her, no, the word that came out was, “Yes.”

L
EILA DID NOT LIKE
this turn of events.
The Exquisite Corpse
had now followed her to the bathroom—or perhaps gotten there first—and was propped up on a towel bar, waiting for her, when she turned to wash her hands.

“Have you ever heard of
privacy
?” Leila asked. She took the book out to her room and walked the twenty-three steps to the bed. There was no point in trying to put the book away. It wanted her attention, clearly, like a puppy with a Frisbee in its mouth. With a resigned sigh, she flipped through the handwritten pages to the latest section and ran her eyes over the entry.

When she reached the part about Parker and Edwina leaving for India, she stood up. Then she sat back down
again, until she read the word
Punjab
, and then she stood up again.

Lahore is in the Punjab,
she realized.
And Pakistan would have still been part of India when Edwina was alive.
Fifteen steps to the bureau, and Leila grabbed a pen from the jar she kept there.

Are you trying to tell me something?
She scribbled in the book. She closed the book. She counted to fifty. Then she opened it again and let out a little scream.

A new sentence had appeared.

I thought you were trying to tell
me
something,
it read.

A
LL THE WAY ON
the other side of the world, Kai sat on her bed. The heavy evening air, ripe with rain and mosquito-thick, had driven her inside. She was reading the newest entry in the book when a scribbled message began to appear:
Are you trying to tell me something?

Her heart's regular rhythm sputtered and faltered.
What?
Her mind bucked and spun, like gears unable to catch.
What?

Fingers trembling, she pulled a ballpoint from her jeans. Her breath was shallow and quick; she couldn't get enough air.

I thought you were trying to tell
me
something,
she wrote.

Letter by letter, the reply appeared.
I don't get your story. What does it mean?

Kai sat back, taking in this message.

She had found the story about Ralph and Edwina confusing. She had found the magic book mysterious and a little frightening. She had found the link between Ralph Flabbergast and her aunt Lavinia to be—unlikely to the point of bizarre.

But this was even weirder. She had always more or less assumed that the book knew what it was doing. That it had a point, as books do. That it was telling a story. And yet, it seemed as if the book were now trying to make her captain of the ship.

You're writing it,
she pointed out to the book.

But you started it.

Kai had to admit that this was true.
Barely! It isn't my story,
Kai wrote.
It's yours
.

I'm not making it up!

Kai stared at the words. She had the feeling that she wasn't understanding them properly, as if they were coming through on a lousy radio.

Well, I can tell you that she wasn't. She didn't know that she was writing to Leila. She didn't know Leila existed.

And Leila didn't know about her.

The book knew, but wisely kept silent.

Are you saying it's real, then?
Kai wrote.

You tell me.

Ralph Flabbergast
was
real—she knew that much. He was Lavinia's uncle. Edwina was real. She and Doodle had read her journal—and seen her signature there on the pages.

Yes, it's real,
she wrote.

She waited for the reply. Finally, it came.

I want a happy ending, then.

Don't we all, Kai thought, her fingers hovering over the page.
Well, make it happen.

How?

Kai didn't know how to reply. She set the book down on the bed.

Hello?

Hello?

After a moment, the words began to disappear. Letter by letter, from last to first, the words sparkled silver, then seemed to sink into the page until everything that had been written that evening was gone.

Kai didn't know what to think of a book that was confused about its own story; that wanted her to tell it its ending.

Of course, the book knew the ending. But it was a very intelligent book, and knew that the best stories only give enough information to keep the reader interested. It wasn't about to start explaining too much. Instead, it let Kai wonder.

I don't know the ending,
Kai thought.
How can I?

But if I don't and the book doesn't, either . . .

I guess nobody does.

“This came for you today,” Mrs. Flabbergast said as she handed Ralph a parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Feels like books.”

“Yes, books,” Ralph said.

“Don't you have a library card?” she demanded, but Ralph was already headed upstairs. His leg had healed, but for the rest of his life, he carried a slight limp that was especially pronounced on cold, damp days.

In the month that he had been released from the hospital, he had visited Edwina in her home five times. Each time he saw her, she seemed paler and thinner. Blue veins were visible in her forehead and at her throat. She seemed tired. But she was not ill. Although the cold company of Melchisedec Jonas seemed to exhaust her, Ralph's wish kept her reasonably well.

Tonight, Ralph would see her for the last time. Tomorrow morning, she was set to take a train to the port, where she and Parker would board a steamer for New York City. They would sail to England, and from there, around the Cape of Good Hope, up the Eastern Coast of Africa, and finally to Karachi, where they would begin their overland journey to Lahore.

“I expect it will take us two months to get there,” she had told Ralph the last time they were together. “But, oh—think of it! India!”

Ralph had wanted to ask her if she was sure it was quite
safe. His mind reeled with thoughts of snakes and tigers and terrifying unknowns, but he remembered his promise to Parker. “And is the school open yet?”

“Oh, yes. Apparently, the Britishers have been opening schools and churches. There are plans for a very grand one called Aitchison out beyond the edge of the city—it's supposed to be the grandest school in Asia!” When Edwina spoke of her journey, she recaptured a bit of her glow. And so Ralph told himself that it would be all right. That, although the journey was not exactly safe, it was safer than life with Melchisedec Jonas.

And so Ralph acted eager and excited whenever he was with Edwina, and saved his worries and tears for when he was alone.

Now, in his room, Ralph slowly unwrapped the package. Inside were two leather-bound volumes.
The Exquisite Corpse.
Ralph had seen the book advertised in the newspaper, and so had ordered one for himself and one for Edwina as keepsakes.

They had arrived from Kalamazoo, Michigan, just in time for Edwina's departure.

The books were lovely, printed with gold and inscribed
with instructions for playing the game.
Let the magic begin!
it read.

Magic is forcing us apart,
he thought.
If I had never wished for a cure . . .

He was wistful only a moment, until another voice spoke up.
Well, what then? She might have died instead of merely going to India! As it is, she can return in five years, when she fully inherits the factory. And in those five years, you can work, and save, and wait.

What's five years to someone in love? An eternity, of course. But an eternity that's worth waiting for.

Ralph turned to the first blank page of each book. He would write their names in each one. He dipped his pen in the inkwell, and his eye landed once again on the word
magic
. He traced his fingers over the letters.

Magic,
he thought, and sadness—fine and pale as mist—gathered in his heart.

Putting aside the pen, Ralph pulled the vial from his pocket. He knew that there was no magic left inside, but he still couldn't help wishing. He filled the vial with ink, screwed on the cap, and shook it, hoping for some sort of alchemy. Then he poured the ink back into the well.

I wish that, one day, we might continue our parlor game,
Ralph thought as he dipped the steel nib of his pen and began to write the names.
I hope our stories will fill the pages of these books—forever.