SHAKESPEARE’ SECRET (17 page)

“So where do you think the diamond is?” Danny asked. “In the house? In the yard? It's a big diamond, right? It shouldn't be so hard to find.”

Mrs. Roth sighed. “Maybe we're wrong,” she said. “Maybe it's not there at all.”

“But the note—” Hero protested, then bit her lip.

Danny looked at Mrs. Roth with interest. “What note?”

Mrs. Roth glanced at Hero. “Well, I suppose the cat's out of the bag on that one. But, Daniel, I'd prefer not to answer police questions about this.”

“Oh, come on, Miriam. I told you, I won't say anything. I promise. And my dad won't ask me. It's not like he's still working on it.”

Mrs. Roth went into the house and returned a few minutes later. She held out the note card to Danny, angling it carefully so that he could only read the back. “It's from Arthur,” she explained. “We think it has something to do with where the diamond is hidden.”

Danny peered at the card, frowning. “I don't get it.”

Mrs. Roth shook her head in mock disapproval. “Now, Daniel, aren't you in the eighth grade? I thought Hero told me that English literature is part of the curriculum by then. It's by Dylan Thomas, a very famous poem he wrote to his dying father.” She read it aloud:

“Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

“So that's our clue,” Hero explained to Danny. “The only one we have.”

“Okay.” Danny reached for another cookie and chewed it thoughtfully. “What does it mean?”

They sat in silence. Hero watched Mrs. Roth cover the card gently with her pale hands.

“'Rage against the dying of the light,'” Danny repeated.

Hero nodded. “So we thought, something that fights death.”

“Or something that fights the dark,” Danny said. “Like a light.”

Hero looked at him. She looked at Mrs. Roth. She felt a strange, thrilling flip in her stomach.

“A light,” she repeated, staring at the side of her house. “There are lots of lights. Lots of old, glass lights on the ceilings. Could it be hidden inside one of those?”

Mrs. Roth opened her palms, staring at the writing, stark on the creamy paper. She turned to Hero. “Could that be it?” she asked softly. “Are they like the ones at my house? When you change a lightbulb, do you unscrew a knob to remove the glass bowl?”

“I don't know. I've never done it.”

“The fixtures are so ornate, made of cut glass. It does seem possible.” She touched Danny's shoulder. “And it would be just like Arthur, too, to be literal. Not 'the
dying of the light' as metaphor, as death, but literally the light being turned out.”

Hero scrambled to her feet. “We have to start looking! Let's go.”

“What about your parents?” Danny asked. “We should wait till no one's around.”

Mrs. Roth nodded. “You can't be ransacking the house beneath their very noses,” she said gently. “Certainly not without an explanation.”

Hero slumped in disappointment, but then she brightened. “They have a party Friday night. And Triss has a sleepover. But that's so far away.”

Mrs. Roth smiled, her eyes soft. “Oh, Hero. Think of the diamond. What if we've found it?” She took Hero's hand and curled it into a fist. “What if the next time I see you, you're holding it here in your hand?”

For the entire week, while she waited for Friday, Hero thought of nothing but the diamond. At school, the teasing had miraculously subsided. She wasn't exactly sure why. Maybe it was the brief scolding by Mrs. Vanderley about the need to respect fellow students. Or the impending school assembly on harassment. But more likely, it was Danny's paint job in the bathroom, which had caused its own stir. Hero could tell that the other kids viewed her warily now. It wasn't “the way in” that Beatrice had promised, but it was something—a way out of the other situation.

And it let Hero focus all her attention on her real interest. She spent her school days doodling sharp-sided, glittering diamonds in the margins of her notebooks, sometimes connecting them in a long
jewel-laden necklace. She kept imagining the feel of it, the cold, heavy weight in her hand.

It was the same at home. Hero found herself wandering from room to room, staring at the light fixtures so intently that even her mother noticed.

“Is there a spider up there?”

“Uh, no,” Hero answered quickly. “I was just thinking that we have really pretty lights in this house.”

“And since when are you so interested in interior decor? Does your newfound curiosity about history extend to architectural detail, too?”

“Sort of.”

Her mother shook her head, smiling. “Well, do our electricity bill a favor and try to remember to turn
off
the light when you're finished appreciating its finer features.”

“Oh, sure, Mom. Sorry.”

On Friday evening, Hero lay on the bed in her parents' room, watching them get ready for the party. The air was heavy with hair spray and cologne, and Hero pulled her shirt over her nose so she could breathe.

Her mother leaned across the dresser toward the
mirror, holding up two different earrings. “Which one?” she asked Hero.

“The gold looks better.”

“Really? Maybe you're right.”

Hero rolled on her back and studied the light in the middle of her parents' ceiling. Like the others in the house, it was etched glass, with grooves and ridges outlining little flowers. At the base was a brass knob. If a diamond were hidden there, wouldn't it show? Wouldn't there be a shadow, some shape against the glass? Her eyes began to hurt from staring at it so long. She turned back to her mother, squinting against the dark blotches that clouded her vision. She thought about her conversation with Danny.

“Do you ever get tired of being a mom?” she asked.

Her mother laughed. “What do you mean?”

“Do you get tired of it? Do you ever just want to quit?”

Her mother sat next to her and slipped her feet into her stockings, unfurling them along her legs. “Well, I get tired of making lunches. I would be perfectly happy not to make another sandwich for the rest of my life.”

“So you do get tired of being a mom?” Hero persisted.

Her mother shook her head. “No, I don't think
that's possible. I think you get tired of something you do, not something you are.”

Hero thought for a minute. “Triss and I could make our own lunches,” she offered.

“Yes, you could, couldn't you? But my mother always did it for me, so I suppose I can do it for you. It's not a big deal.” Her mother stood up, smoothing her dress. “What do you think?”

“You look good,” Hero said.

“Thank you. Too much perfume?”

“Well, sure. Always.”

Her father leaned out of the bathroom, adjusting his tie. “You think I'm wearing too much perfume?” he asked.

Hero laughed. “No, you should wear more.”

“I prefer a subtle effect, unlike your mother.”

Her mother rolled her eyes. “Did Beatrice leave already?” she asked Hero.

“Yeah, a while ago. She yelled up to you. Didn't you hear her?”

Her mother shook her head in disgust. “You girls never let me know what you're up to.”

Hero hesitated. She knew she should tell them about Danny coming over. But they wouldn't understand, and she couldn't explain the real reason. She would tell them later, she decided.

“Why are you getting all dressed up?” she asked, watching her mother slide on her pumps and check herself in the mirror. “What's the party?”

“It's the opening of that new exhibit at the Maxwell,” said her mother. “Remember, I designed the invitations?”

Hero vaguely recalled the crimson print. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “But what's the exhibit?”

Her father sat on the edge of the bed, holding one shoe.
“Hamlet
Revisited: Displays of the Bad Quarto, the Good Quarto, and the Folios.”

Hero sighed. It might as well have been another language. “What's a bad quarto?” she couldn't help asking.

“It's a very early printed version of the play. The text is a bit different from the later Folio versions, and the meaning of
Hamlet
changes depending on which one you read.”

“Why would anybody read the bad version?” Hero wanted to know.

Her father laughed. “It's not really 'bad.' It's just a different, early version, and people think there are errors in it.”

Hero rolled on her stomach, resting her chin in her hands. “And that's the whole exhibit? Just a bunch of copies of the play?”

“Oh, no. There's scholarly interpretation, of course, and various period artifacts—costumes, portraiture, that sort of thing.”

“But I thought it was a library. How did the Maxwell get all that other stuff?”

Her father stood up. “The same way we get most of our documents. The same way we got the Bad Quarto. We bought it. That's what the endowment is for.”

“Does it cost a lot of money?”

“Yes, of course. Some of the pieces are worth millions.”

Hero looked at the bedside clock. It was almost seven. She twisted her hair restlessly. “When does the party start?”

Her mother glanced at her. “Don't worry, we'll be out of your way in no time.”

Her father laughed. “'How poor are they that have not patience!'”

Hero made a face at him and kept fiddling with her hair. She would call Danny as soon as they left.

When Danny appeared at the back door, Hero grabbed his sleeve and dragged him through the kitchen. “Come on, come on! It took you forever to get here.”

“I didn't even have dinner yet,” Danny protested. He stopped at the cupboard next to the refrigerator. “Is there anything to eat in here?”

“Like what?”

“I don't know. Cookies?”

“Can't you wait till we're finished?”

“No. I'm really hungry.”

“Oh, geez.” Hero swung open the cupboard. “No cookies. What do you want? Cinnamon toast?”

They both laughed.

“Yeah, what's the deal with Miriam and cinnamon toast?” Danny asked. “It's like she's making money on
it. I almost fell over when she gave us cookies last time.”

Hero shrugged, feeling suddenly protective of Mrs. Roth. “She just likes it, I guess. I do, too. It reminds me of when I was little.”

She reached into the cupboard, sorting through boxes of tea and jars of spices until she found a bag of chocolate chips. “How about these?”

Danny ripped the foil package and dumped a small pile on the counter between them. “So how's it been at school?” he asked, his mouth full.

Hero thought for a minute. “Well, nobody really talks to me. But they don't bug me now either, so I guess it's getting better.”

Danny shook his head. “You know, you and Triss are really different from each other.”