A Tangle of Knots (13 page)

35

Marigold

M
ARIGOLD SMOOTHED DOWN ONE OF THE THICK, GLOSSY PAGES
of the book she’d bought in the museum gift store—
Fifty Years and Counting: The Search for the Missing Piece
—once more taking in the full-page illustration of her mother’s hairpin.

Only it wasn’t exactly a hairpin, now was it?

“So you just took this bone?” Marigold asked. Her mother turned another corner on their way back to the Emporium. She was upset about Will, Marigold knew she was upset. But they’d find him. They
always
found him. “This”—Marigold read from the book—“‘invaluable piece of paleontological lore’?” Her mother ran her fingers over the hairpin sitting between them on the armrest, as though it were an old friend she was thrilled to see again. But her face was red, just like Will’s when he got caught eating too many cookies. “That thing’s probably worth thousands of dollars, Mom!”

“Millions.”

It was the first word Marigold’s mother had uttered since they’d left the museum.

“Well, that’s just great, Mom. What am I supposed to do? Turn you in?” Marigold could not believe she was having this conversation with her own mother. “Didn’t you teach us not to steal?”

No wonder Zane was turning into such a screwup.

“First of all,” Mrs. Asher began, glancing at a flitting motion on the side of the road before continuing, “I didn’t steal it. No one but me even knows the thing really exists.”

Marigold turned back to the section of the book she’d found earlier. In her best school voice, she read the passage aloud to her mother. “‘Over half a century ago, a tremendous paleontological find in Northern Madagascar opened up a new world of research. A nearly complete skeleton was excavated of an extinct bird—the Jupiter bird, it would later be called. At twenty feet tall, the Jupiter bird was the largest bird ever to walk the planet, a marvel of science. Perhaps even more marvelous, however, was the prospect that the Jupiter bird may have had the power of flight, making it by far the largest creature ever to soar in the skies.’” The book went on to say that scientists had been arguing about whether or not the Jupiter bird had been able to fly for over fifty years. They were still arguing today. “‘Those who believe that the Jupiter bird did indeed fly say that the answer lies in a single bone—a toe bone, which no one has yet been able to dig up, despite dozens of excavations. If the mythical bone does in fact exist, its discovery would change the face of paleontology—of science—forever.’”

Marigold snapped the book shut.

Her mother pursed her lips together. “So . . . I guess you figured out that the bird could fly.”

“Mom.”

“Look, I’m not proud of it, all right? I never meant . . .” Mrs. Asher let out a sigh. “You want the whole story?”

Marigold pressed the book against her legs, clammy in their jeans, and nodded.

“Well,” her mother began, “it was eleven years ago.” She tapped her fingers against the wheel. “When I was in graduate school, interning at the museum. I was there on a scholarship for Fair students.” Marigold knew this much of the story already—her mother had always been extremely proud of her work at the museum. “The museum had sponsored a dig in Madagascar for a few months to search for the bone, and I got to go. You remember your father and me telling you about Madagascar?”

Marigold twisted her bracelet around her wrist.

“Anyway,” her mother continued, “it was one of the best experiences of my life. I got to work with all of these Talented researchers and paleontologists. Those guys were practically gods to me, and they actually let me dig right in and examine the earth, even though I was Fair. Like I was one of them. I wasn’t just one of the volunteers they let tag along to do their grunt work; I was practically a real scientist. I can’t tell you how great that felt, after so many years trying to prove myself.”

Marigold opened the book again to the illustration of the bone.
The assumed shape of the Jupiter bird’s toe bone, as imagined by paleontologists,
the caption read. She looked up at her mother. “So?” she said. “What happened?”

“So.” Marigold’s mother took a deep breath. “I was pregnant with Zane at the time. Pretty far in. I can’t believe I spent all that time digging in the sun with a belly like that, but I was determined.” She grinned a little at the memory. “Anyway, because I was pregnant, I had to leave the dig early. The day before I was supposed to leave, the scientists planned a little celebration for me at the site. I was really looking forward to it. Only . . . I didn’t get to go. One of the volunteers asked for my help. His wife had died the week before, very suddenly, of pneumonia, and it was all very tragic. He needed help with . . . well, he was going through a rather difficult time. I didn’t know him very well, but we’d always been friendly. So I helped him. Missed my own going-away party to do it.”

“Mom.” This was the way Zane rambled when their parents asked him about his most recent report card. “You were going to tell me about the bone?”

“Ah, yes,” Mrs. Asher said. “The bone. Well, maybe it was because I was feeling sad about missing my send-off, I don’t know, but whatever the reason, I wanted to see the excavation site one last time before I left. They had regulations about digging hours and solo visitors, but I didn’t care. I went, dead of night, just me and a flashlight. It was magical. And I’d only planned to look, really. But . . . well, once I got there, I couldn’t help myself. I started to dig.”

Marigold didn’t realize she’d been leaning forward in her seat while she listened, but she was. Just a tad. She pushed herself back against the headrest. “And you found something,” she said.

“Did I ever. Imagine how shocked I was—me, this Talentless little thing, making such a world-changing discovery. It was . . . I can’t even describe how amazing that moment felt to me.”

For one second, Marigold thought, she really did, that she might know what her mother had felt like, all alone on that dark night in Madagascar. It might feel a bit like playing the oboe, when the notes came out exactly perfect and tickled your lips and wrapped themselves around your body and danced through your hair . . . right before you went sour on the C sharp for the eightieth time.

“Anyway, I must’ve been at the site longer than I’d thought,” her mother went on, “because soon enough your father was there in a panic, telling me we had to rush to the airport to catch our flight. I didn’t even have time to tell anyone about this incredible discovery I’d made. And I thought—I guess it was silly, but I thought at the time I’d just tell them later, when I got back home. So I slipped the bone into my pocket. I didn’t even tell your father I’d found it, because . . . I think I simply wanted to hold on to that feeling a little longer, this knowledge that I had. Me, the only person in the entire world.”

“Dad doesn’t know?” Marigold asked. “Even now?” Her mother shook her head. “But why didn’t you ever tell anyone?”

“I kept meaning to. Always thought I would. But one day went by, and I thought, ‘Let me just keep this feeling a little longer. One more day.’ And then another day went by, and another. Then I found out they replaced me at the museum, with this Talented fellow from Romania. Only until my maternity leave was up, that’s what they said. But I knew they didn’t want me back. Why would they want
me
when they could have someone like that? You should have seen all the papers he’d written!”

“But if you’d
told
them about the bone,” Marigold said, “then they would’ve taken you back in a heartbeat.” It was like trying to talk sense into Zane, she thought, or scolding a bad puppy.

Her mom simply shrugged. “Maybe they would have,” she replied. “Or maybe they would’ve been furious at me for keeping it from them for so long, and the credit would have gone to someone else.”

“But you don’t
know
that’s what would’ve—”

“I was a pregnant, Untalented young woman,” her mother said, and she sounded much more serious now. Much more like her old self. “I have a pretty good idea of how things would have gone.”

“But—”

“Anyway, that’s the story, really. The days turned into weeks, and then months, and I never told anybody. I took up knitting to bide my time waiting for your brother to arrive, and we all know how that turned out. One day your father saw the toe bone on our nightstand and asked what it was, and I told him it was a hairpin. He never even batted an eye.”

Marigold looked at her mother’s face as they turned onto Argyle Road, beginning the long, wooded stretch that would lead them back to the Emporium. And for the first time, Marigold felt like she was really seeing her. Her high cheekbones, her mischievous eyes. Her mother had had a whole life before Marigold and her brothers were even a thought in her head. Marigold had always known that, of course, but now . . .

“You’re going to tell them now, right?” Marigold asked her. “At the museum? You’re going to tell them about the bone?”

Her mother thought about it.

What was there to
think
about?

“Mom?”

“I know I should, but—”

“Mom!” Marigold slapped at her knees so hard, the book tumbled to the floor. “You
have
to. You know that’s the right thing to do. Aren’t you always telling us to do the right thing?” Marigold didn’t like the feeling that had developed in her stomach—the feeling like she was being more of a mother than her mother was. “You know Principal Piles wants Zane to go to boarding school next year?” Marigold hadn’t planned on ratting out her brother, but her mother had to know. She had to understand that there were
consequences
when you acted—hadn’t her parents always said there would be
consequences
? “She sent you a letter, but you haven’t even read it. He’s in trouble, Mom. He gets in trouble all the time, and don’t you think he needs a good examp—”

Mrs. Asher stopped the car. Pushed her foot to the brake, right there in the middle of Argyle Road.

“Mom?”

She leaned over Marigold and flipped open the door to the glove compartment, took out an envelope, and handed it to Marigold. Then she shut the door again and returned her gaze out the windshield.

It was the letter from the school, about Zane. And it was open.

“You read it?” Marigold asked. Her mother nodded. “But what are you and Dad going to—”

Her mother ran her fingers over the bone between them on the armrest. “Your father and I are still deciding. We haven’t talked to Zane yet.” When Marigold’s eyes went huge, her mother continued on. “I know Zane has trouble sometimes in school, but that doesn’t mean—”

“He doesn’t
have
trouble, Mom. He
is
trouble.”

“And you think boarding school will help all that?”

Marigold puffed out a lungful of air. She didn’t answer, even as her mother took back the letter, returned it to the glove compartment, and started back down the road. They remained silent, both of them, even as they pulled into the parking lot in front of the Lost Luggage Emporium.

The truth was, Marigold didn’t know if boarding school would help her delinquent brother any more than she knew if she’d find her Talent in a day or a year or never. How could she know something like that? But what she did know was that her brother had broken the rules—he broke the rules all the time—and Principal Piles had
said
he should go to boarding school. And Marigold knew—she’d been told her whole life—that if you did something wrong, you should be punished for it. (Shouldn’t you?) And if you tried really hard at something, you should be rewarded. (Right?)

Marigold stepped out of the car, clutching the museum book tight to her chest.

“Mari?”

She turned around to look at her mother again. She looked older than usual, with streaks of gray in her hair that Marigold had somehow never noticed before.

“I just need time to think, okay?” Marigold nodded slowly as her mother put the car into reverse. “Keep an eye out in case Will comes back here.”

Marigold shut the door, and her mother backed out of the parking lot, continuing her hunt for the youngest Asher child.

Neither of them noticed the ferret scrambling up the roof of Mrs. Asher’s car.

36

V

W
HEN THE CURLY-HAIRED GIRL FOUND HER, V WAS SITTING ON
the girl’s perfectly made bed, playing her oboe. There was something about the expressive ups and downs of the music—the fluid emotion that escaped with every twitch of V’s fingers—that V couldn’t pull herself away from. But the girl didn’t seem to mind. She simply flopped herself down sideways on the bed, a book slapped over her stomach, and let V play.

A noise in the doorway distracted V from her music for a moment. The young man who ran errands for the owner of the building was standing in the hallway, one powder blue suitcase in each hand. He stopped to ask the curly-haired girl a question, his voice tilting up at the edge of his words—with tension or hurry, V could not be sure. The girl raised herself on her elbows to answer him, and as she did, the book on her stomach shifted ever so slightly. And then the most curious thing happened.

When the man spied the book, his face . . .
changed.

It only lasted a moment, no more than a blink, but V was sure of it. For one fraction of an instant, the man in the doorway had been a different person. The outer edges of his eyebrows had turned up, just a touch. His usually straight nose had tilted to a crooked angle. And his normally flat hair had developed a hint of a cowlick.

The man was a chameleon.

When the curly-haired girl left the room not two minutes later for some task or another, V scooped the glossy white book off the bed. V was curious to know what could possibly make a man so excited that he revealed his true self, a self he clearly wanted to keep hidden.

It seemed to be a book about some sort of archaeological excavation. There were photographs of people digging, people scraping dirt off of bones. V flipped to a page filled with photos of men and women of all sorts holding shovels and smiling. It was a generally unremarkable book.

And then V noticed one particular fist-size photo in the bottom left corner that, for just a moment, elbowed all thoughts of the chameleon clean out of her head. It couldn’t be. It just . . . couldn’t.

It was.

She studied the photo more closely, and as she did, the thoughts of the chameleon trickled back into her brain. V scrambled to the window, where she could just make out the chameleon, tossing his two blue suitcases into the back of his pickup truck. He covered them quickly with a wrinkled brown tarp, then called across the parking lot to the tiny black-haired girl.

With two sharp
shrick-shrick
s, V ripped the photo out of the book. She tucked it in her pocket. And, as fast as her two old legs could carry her, she hurried down the stairs.