The Colors of Madeleine 01: Corner of White (40 page)

Her words seemed to creep into the room, like creatures crawling from the opening of a shell.

“It’s a thick sort of custardy grime in my head,” muttered Holly. “And my knee does this thing where it wants to dance a jig.”

Madeleine was silent.

“You know, of course,” Holly added, “that Tinsels and Corrigan and Warlock were just your imaginary friends.”

There was a shot of ice through Madeleine’s chest.

“No,” she said firmly, trying to warm the ice. “They were real. You’re just forgetting them.”

“They were special,
very
special, to me
and
to you, but entirely imaginary.”

Madeleine switched on the bedside light again.

Holly sat up, and looked at her daughter closely. “They were your brothers and sisters,” she said.

Madeleine shook her head.

“Or maybe,” Holly added thoughtfully, “maybe Tinsels was a cat.”

Tears were spilling and spilling, and Madeleine kept shaking her head.

“Of course I like you,” Elliot was saying.

“Nonsense.” The flute sound struck a new pitch.
“Nonsense.”

“Well.” He sat on the couch and looked across at the Butterfly Child. “Look, if I
haven’t
liked you, I’m sorry. I guess maybe I blamed you for keeping me here. I wanted to go find my dad, see. I was planning to go to the Lake of Spells the day after I found you and it’s not your fault or anything, but you kind of trapped me here.”

“I know that.”

“Well, then.” Elliot tried to lift his hands in the air, but they were too heavy.

“It’s more than that. You dislike me for something other than that, but I don’t know what it is, and this — the fact of your dislike — it offends my sensibilities.”

“No, it was just that. Which I feel bad about, ’cause it was obviously not your fault. I’ve been blaming all the wrong people lately. See, I was wrong about wanting to go anyway, and now I’m planning to stay. So you know, I like you just fine, and we can intertwine souls for as long as you need me. If you’d explain just exactly how to do that.”

“Oh, nonsense.”

The Butterfly Child maybe folded her arms at that point, which again matched up with the words. Or maybe he was seeing things through his half-closed eyes. Everything was blurring.

“Tell me,” she persisted, the flute notes piercing now. “
Tell
me why you don’t like me.”

“Ah,” murmured Elliot, shifting on the couch, closing his eyes, and he wasn’t sure if he was speaking or dreaming. “Just didn’t
want
to like you, I guess. Seeing as you can leave at any time. What’d be the point? There’s my dad gone. Uncle Jon dead. Now Kala gone too. Any moment, any second, so they say, you’ll be gone too. Why would I bother getting to like you? I mean, you’re so tiny, you’re
already
not here.”

And his voice folded itself into sleep.

Belle sighed deeply, and scowled.

“Maybe I don’t
want
to answer the question.”

“Are you saying you didn’t suggest alternative treatment for Holly because she’s loopy? Because she collects pebbles?” wondered Jack. “But doesn’t pebble collecting make you, sort of like, the perfect candidate for acupuncture, if you get my point?”

“Ah, you haven’t got a point, Jack. And it’s not that she’s loopy, it’s something else.” Her voice trailed into quiet. She chewed on her nails.

“What?” said Jack.

Belle chewed harder, and looked away from him.

“Just tell me.”

“I don’t want to,” Belle said.

“Yes, you do.”

“It’s — well, did you notice how I didn’t look at her today?”

“Yeah, I just mentioned it.”

“It’s because … it’s because she’s got an aura like a black hole.”

Jack made an exasperated sound.

“That’s what you said about Madeleine. You and your auras. Belle, you’ve got to get over this thing about rich people having bad-ass
auras. I mean, those two aren’t even rich anymore. So, sort of forgive them, yeah?”

“It’s nothing to do with money.” Her voice seemed to thump to the floor. He looked at her, surprised, but she turned her face away from him. “This is not like Madeleine’s aura,” she said. “That one was more, sort of, false, but it’s getting better now. But Holly’s — Holly’s means she’s going to die.”

Jack stared. “We’re all going to die one of these days.”

“No. Soon. She’s going to die very soon. That’s why I hated looking at her. It could happen any moment, and there’s not a single thing that anyone, or any therapies or aura healing or anything, can do.”

“There must be,” whispered Jack.

Belle shook her head.

Her mother was sleeping again, and Madeleine was sitting cross-legged on the bed.

Holly breathed in and out, in and out, and each breath felt like a zipper inside Madeleine’s chest, a metallic tearing, opening and closing, opening and closing.

She was thinking about Lord Byron.

When he first came to Cambridge, Byron had hated it. He and a friend used to swim in the river, first throwing objects into the water, like plates, eggs, and shillings, and then diving for them. Byron later remembered that there had been the stump of a tree in the bed of the river, and that he used to cling to this stump and wonder how the devil he came here.

He said it half broke his spirits. He said it was one of the deadliest and heaviest feelings of his life, to feel that he was no longer a boy.

“Some nights,” said a voice — Holly was awake again.

She pushed herself up and smiled at Madeleine.

“Some nights,” she repeated, “are darker than others.”

Then Holly’s hand flew sideways and she sagged onto the bed.

1.

S
uch a bright morning, the sky blue, the sun in one of its energetic moods.

Hector sat at a table at the Bakery and looked around the square. There was a breeze about, which now and then got itself flustered. The flags at the Pennybank Store curled themselves together, and a passerby reached up and unraveled them. A couple of kids crossed the square, carrying a kite between them. From his table, Hector could see Clover Mackie drinking coffee on her porch, hair flying sideways, then settling again.

The Twicklehams had called him the night before and asked if he could meet them here this morning, just before they left.

They had something of
“vital import”
to tell him, they’d said, and they’d summoned the Mayor to meet them. She should hear this too, they’d said.

Seemed like a waste of everybody’s time, but Hector figured they deserved a little leeway, what with how the town had treated them.

He was early, but he’d brought some paperwork to do while he ate his pastry and waited. He reached for his leather satchel — there was Derrin’s drawing in the plastic window; it made him sad to see it — and drew out a pile of papers.

The breeze wanted to take them, of course, so he put his elbow on them hard and reached for the sugar dispenser to weigh them down. For good measure, he added the salt and pepper shakers.

Somewhere down the pile of papers, a yellowing edge was poking out. What was that? He slid it out.

To the Good Sheriff of Bonfire in the Picturesque Province of the Farms
, it began, and right away, he remembered.

It was that fax from Gwent Cwlyd in Olde Quainte. The missing child with the whistling mother. He’d meant to give it to Jimmy, but of course Jimmy had been sick since that night, so it had stayed in his satchel.

He turned it over ready to put away again, but as he did, the concluding lines caught his eyes.

Why should this sweet child have gone? Was it a Green that has took her? For haven’t we had the most unlikely influx of Greens in the last year or two — as to a tree in the springtime? But Greens are not known to steal children! Or was it a ferocious Wandering Hostile? For haven’t they too traversed our town of late? But what cause would THEY have to kill or take a little child — and one so dear as this?

Ah, it broke your heart, the things that happened to people.

(Not to mention the hopelessness of Olde Quainte law enforcement.)

Hector closed his satchel, thinking he’d drop the report over at Jimmy’s that afternoon. Seemed to him that Jimmy had been sick for long enough by now. Although, if he started saying that this missing girl had been whisked across to the World, well, Hector would send Jimmy back to bed.

The clock tower struck eight. Things were picking up in the square. Rows of oranges were appearing in the stands out the front of the Pennybank Store. High-school kids, on vacation, were wandering toward the Candy Shoppe and the Bakery too.

The breeze was lively again; it knocked over the menu on Hector’s table, and smack-smack-smack, the menus at the next three tables too.

There was a rattling sound and a woman emerged from the staircase alongside the Bakery itself. It was Olivia Hattoway, the grade-school teacher. Of course. She lived above the Bakery.

She was dragging two suitcases, one in each hand, but paused to smile at Hector.

“Good morning, Sheriff! Just taking these to my car.”

“Nice day for a road trip,” Hector replied. “And it’s good of you to take the Twicklehams along for the ride. Need any help with the luggage there?” He stood from the table, but Olivia smiled and resumed her walk.

“Easy!” she said. “See, they roll? And I’ll enjoy the Twicklehams’ company, so it’s not ‘good’ of me at all! See you in a couple of weeks!”

He watched her cross the square.

There were voices at the next table along, and he realized it was Elliot’s friends — Cody, Shelby, Nikki, Gabe — settling down with their coffees and pastries.

He watched them a moment, and listened. Seemed that Kala had sent Cody a postcard from her boarding school, and they all wanted to hear her news. The Sheriff half listened, then he glanced at his satchel. There was Derrin’s drawing again — the sad-faced man and woman all in green — and he couldn’t stop himself.

“You kids,” he said, and they turned to him. “You proud of yourselves?” His voice grew blustery. “Your shenanigans and whatnot with the Twicklehams? They’re leaving town this morning, you realize that? You went and broke them, and I’ll tell you something, it just about breaks my heart.”

They stared, wide-eyed. They looked so young suddenly. Nikki pulled at her lower lip. Gabe rubbed at his hair. Cody looked down, drumming his fingers quickly on the table.

“Yeah, we heard,” said Shelby. She scowled and put her hands in her pockets. “We feel bad about it. But the thing is, Sheriff, what else could we do?”

There was quiet.

He was ready to storm again, to get into a frenzy along with the wind, but then there was a kind of shrug inside him, and he leaned back in his chair and sighed.

He knew what Shelby meant. It was that helplessness you feel when there’s nothing you can do to comfort a friend.

Those kids had all wanted to go along with Elliot on his trips to the Purple caverns, but Elliot had refused. He’d let them do this, though. He might never have said it expressly, but they would have guessed: He’d
wanted
them to scare off the Twicklehams, to get them out of his dad’s shop.

So what else could they do?

Across the square, Hector could see Olivia Hattoway piling her suitcases into the trunk of her car. From the opposite corner, the Mayor came striding, swinging her hands out in that way she had, as if she was constantly making a point. And walking under the clock tower and into the square were the Twicklehams themselves.

Ah, it was too bad. The things that happened to people. Starting out in a new town, full of hope, and it all falls to pieces like this.

He was pretty sure the kids hadn’t meant it to go this far — they were wild but they had good hearts.

It was just the way the pieces fell sometimes.

Broken pieces falling.

And here came the Twicklehams now.

“Wake up.”

Elliot woke on the couch.

His eyes went first to the doll’s house, but it was empty.

Then to the clock on the mantelpiece, but that must have stopped. Quarter past eight, it said, whereas Elliot woke at the exact same time each day.

Ten before six.

The house was quiet.

There were rustlings around: the wind rattling windows and door, that buzz from the fridge in the kitchen.

Another thing: It seemed brighter than it should.

He went into the kitchen and the clock on the oven said quarter past eight.

Couldn’t be.

He switched on the radio, waited through a song, and the announcer told him it was eight-seventeen.

For crying out loud.

He’d overslept. His mother must be out there in the greenhouse, wondering where he’d got to. Ah, he’d promised Corrie-Lynn he’d meet her at the Watermelon Inn to try to talk the Twicklehams into staying. Well, there was still time for that at least, if he moved fast.

It was that Butterfly Child.

He’d been up half the night trying to get her to talk, and then there was that strange —

Well, he didn’t know what it had been.

An actual conversation with her? A dream? A sleep-befuddled hallucination?

He stood by the doll’s house, looking at its empty rooms. The little pieces of wooden furniture that Corrie-Lynn had built: chairs, tables, a miniature wooden chest. Most of these, the Butterfly Child ignored, concentrating on the bed.

The covers were on the floor at the moment, and Elliot picked them up between his thumb and forefinger, ready to straighten up for her.

But something odd was on the bed.

There were five or six mothballs lined up there. At least, that’s how they looked. Little white balls, anyway, maybe pills or candy.

“Wake up.”

There was that voice again. It had woken him on the couch. It was the flute voice from last night actually, sounding patient enough, but maybe a little sigh behind it too.

He laughed aloud.

Those weren’t
mothballs
, they were healing beads!

“Thank you,” the voice said promptly.

“No. Thank
you
,” he said aloud, grinning.

Ah, this day would turn out all right after all.

He’d go see the Twicklehams, see what he could do. Then he’d
take these little white candies — “Cut it out,” chided the voice. Well, that’s what they looked like, they didn’t
look
like healing beads.

“How exactly did you
expect
healing beads to look?”

He hadn’t given it much thought. More magical, he guessed. Like dewdrops, maybe, or at the very least like glass.

“Oh, blah,” murmured the voice.

Anyhow, he’d deliver them to Madeleine, and then she would believe in him and the Kingdom.

He found an envelope in the kitchen stationery drawer. Slipped the healing beads into it, folded the envelope, and put it in his pocket.

Got himself an orange juice and a blueberry muffin.

Drank and ate leaning up against the counter.

Thought about taking the truck, but it was such a bright day, and the breeze was so jumpy, he’d ride his bike instead.

It happened just like those menus falling over. Slap-slap-slap. Pieces falling into place so fast Hector could hardly catch them.

Twicklehams approaching him. The usual formation — Derrin between them, the three holding hands.

Looked down a minute, and there was Derrin’s drawing on the side of his satchel. Green wind blowing across a green field, a green man and a green woman, each with green tears and sad green mouths.

The Mayor called, “Howdy, Hector!” striding toward him.

Next table along, the kids were talking again. Cody was telling them more about Kala’s news. “She’s met three different people with the name Twickleham,” he said.

“Must be a common name in Olde Quainte,” Nikki said.

“And one of them even said they had cousins who’d been planning to move here to Bonfire,” Cody continued. “But it didn’t work out.”

“What are the chances?” Shelby murmured, and the kids were quiet, and Hector could feel the guilt in the quiet.

The adult Twicklehams raised their free hands, waving at Hector. Their faces were solemn. In Fleta’s waving hand, a piece of paper fluttered.

He looked back at Derrin’s drawing, and the difference jarred.

Three people approaching — but in this picture there were just two. Now why had Derrin not drawn herself in as well?

The wind shifted his papers, even under the salt and pepper shakers.

What
are
the chances?
Hector thought, confused.
There were
other
Twicklehams planning to move here?

They were almost upon him, and slap-slap-slap, it was falling into place.

For haven’t we had the most unlikely influx of Green attacks in the last year or two?

Here in Derrin’s picture, everything was green.

The child’s mother was known in our little town for her whistling — ah, she would go about so gaily, whistling more than she spake —

Here in Derrin’s picture, these two sad adults. They were skinny as beanpoles! And weren’t those Twicklehams plump?

He looked closer at the woman in the picture. Her little mouth was a circle; he’d taken that to be sadness, but could it be that her lips were pursed? Was she actually
whistling
?

It was falling into place, but the pieces were still tangled, and still he’d have doubted if it wasn’t for what happened when he looked up again.

It must have shown on his face.

His slow revelation, his bewilderment, his questions.

They saw it right away.

The Twicklehams saw it, and they hesitated.

“Stop them,” said the Sheriff, his voice croaking with effort.

The Mayor herself stopped, surprised by the Sheriff’s face.