by Lisa Graff
The suitcase was empty, save for a small black ceramic bird, nestled into an interior pocket. A hole was shaped in the creature’s middle, purposefully, all the way from the bird’s feet to its pointed yellow beak.
Miss Mallory tucked the bird into her pocket. She wasn’t sure why, but somehow she was entirely certain that Fate had brought it to her.
25
Mrs. Asher
“MOM, SLOW DOWN! WE’RE GOING TO CRASH INTO A TREE.”
Dolores did not slow down. There was no slowing down when your youngest son was missing. Those idiots at the post office had said they had no idea what had happened to him, that the suitcase had just fallen off the truck somewhere. Which was not exactly the constructive sort of information she’d been looking for.
“Mom,” Marigold said again. And even with her eyes glued to the road, Dolores could tell that Marigold was spinning that red bracelet of hers around her wrist in the way she did when she was upset. “At this speed we won’t see him even if we pass him.”
Dolores did her best to temper some of the fury that was burning inside her. She pressed her right foot gently onto the brake to slow the car. “I just don’t know what got into you,” she told her daughter.
Marigold smudged the window with her nose as she peered into the nearby brush. “I told you,” she mumbled. “I wasn’t paying attention. I was mad at Zane for stealing my bracelet.”
“That hardly seems like a good reason for shipping your brother off in the mail.”
Marigold sighed. “I knew you wouldn’t understand.” She was back to fussing with that bracelet. “No one in this family understands anything about me.”
Dolores’s loose hair tickled her shoulders as she followed the curve of the highway. She let out a sigh of her own. “I know it was an accident, Mari. It’s just that you’re usually so responsible. You know”—Dolores flicked her eyes to the passenger’s seat—“I bet I understand more than you think,” she said. “I was Fair myself for twenty-seven years.”
“Yeah. And now you’re not.”
“Mari.” Dolores tried to make her words soft like butter, so they might actually melt in. “I know it doesn’t seem this way to you now, but being Fair is not the end of the world.” How many times had Dolores’s parents had this same conversation with her when she was Marigold’s age? “In some ways”—she paused to turn another corner—“it’s actually a gift.”
Marigold snorted. “Some gift.”
Dolores stamped on the brakes suddenly when a movement on the side of the road caught her eye, but it was only a deer. She inched the car along at a crawl now, ignoring the annoyed honks of the cars behind her. “Go around!” she shouted at the closed window.
In the passenger’s seat, Marigold was silent.
“You know,” Dolores told her, “if I’d found my Talent when I was your age, I never would have taken up archaeology.”
“But then you did find your Talent,” Marigold replied. “And aren’t you so much happier now?”
Dolores continued to drive.
On and on. On and on. Dolores checked the clock. Forty-five minutes, and still no sign of Will. She fought down the fire that rose in her throat.
“Mom?” Marigold said softly, breaking the worried silence that had been growing between them. “We’ll find him. We always find him.”
“I just . . .” Dolores blinked, then blinked again. “I don’t even know where to look. I feel so . . . useless.” A mother should know where to look for her son. A mother should always know.
Marigold set her hands on her knees. “Where would you go if you wanted to get lost?” she asked.
Dolores tightened her mouth into a thoughtful knot. And then, her heart just barely daring to hope, she turned the corner onto River Street.
26
Zane
ZANE TUGGED OPEN A DRESSER DRAWER AND RIFLED THROUGH the contents. Socks, nothing but socks. He yanked open another. Only sweaters.
Zane could not believe Marigold had gone and stuck her nose in his business. What was she thinking, trying to mail his treasures to New Jersey? He’d spent days collecting that stuff, and now Marigold had probably gone and told their mom, and if that were true he’d be in even more trouble, especially if his parents ever discovered that he was . . .
WORTHLESS.
Zane slammed the sweater drawer closed and opened another.
His only hope now, he reasoned, was to get enough money from Louie to fix the whole apartment. With the bicycle Zane had found parked against the dying hedge outside, he could be at the pawn shop in less than an hour. Sure, he’d have to create a convincing lie about how he came by so much money, but when his parents saw all that cash, they wouldn’t question him too hard. They’d just be thrilled about how thoughtful their son was, offering up his hard-earned fortune to help the family.
Zane moved on to the closet. Whipped his way through the dress shirts and slacks. He’d thought for sure that Toby would have something worth stealing (the quietest ones, in Zane’s experience, always had the best secrets), but it seemed Zane was wrong. There was nothing interesting or valuable in Toby’s room. Just some boring old clothes, a neatly made bed, and a half-full glass of water on the nightstand. The only decoration on the plain white walls was a small, sketchy illustration in a black wooden frame.
What a dud.
Zane hoisted the powder blue suitcase to his side and stepped into the hallway.
* * *
Had Zane taken a moment to inspect things a little more closely, he would have discovered that there was, in fact, something quite interesting about the picture in the black wooden frame.
Beige.
Cracked.
Knobby.
As wide as a rib of celery and as long as a pencil.
On the wall of Toby’s bedroom was a framed illustration of Mrs. Asher’s hairpin.
The Owner’s Peanut
Butter Cake With Peanut Butter Frosting
a cake that is primarily concerned with peanut butter
FOR THE CAKE:
small sliver of butter (for greasing the cake pan)
2 1/4 cups flour (plus extra for preparing the cake pan)
1 1/2 cups granulated sugar
3 1/2 tsp baking powder
1 tsp salt
1/2 cup creamy peanut butter, at room temperature
3 large eggs, at room temperature
1 tsp vanilla
1 1/4 cups milk, at room temperature
FOR THE FROSTING:
3 cups powdered sugar
2/3 cup creamy peanut butter, at room temperature
1 1/2 tsp vanilla
1/2 to 2/3 cup milk
1. Preheat oven to 350°F. Lightly grease the bottoms of two 8-inch round cake pans with butter. Using the cake pans as a template, trace two circles onto wax paper and cut them out, placing one wax circle in the bottom of each pan. Grease both pans with butter again, covering the wax paper as well as the sides of the pan. Sprinkle the inside of the pans lightly with flour, and tap the pans to distribute it evenly.
2. In a medium bowl, whisk together the flour, granulated sugar, baking powder, and salt, and set aside.
3. In a large bowl, beat the peanut butter and eggs with an electric mixer on medium speed until smooth, about 1 minute. Beat in vanilla and milk until well combined.
4. Gradually add the flour mixture into the peanut butter mixture and beat until combined. Divide the batter between the two cake pans and bake for 30 to 35 minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. Cool cakes completely before frosting.
5. While the cakes are cooling, make the frosting: In a medium bowl, cream the powdered sugar and peanut butter with an electric mixer on medium speed until smooth, about 2 or 3 minutes. Add the vanilla and 1/4 cup of milk, and beat un
til well combined. Gradually add more milk, one teaspoon at a time, until the frosting is smooth and spreadable.
6. When the cakes are completely cooled, place one cake layer on a plate and spread a thin layer of frosting on top. Repeat with the second cake layer, and cover the whole cake with frosting.
27
Cady
THE CAKE CAME TOGETHER QUICKLY. AS CADY SWOOPED THE last curl of peanut butter frosting onto the two-tiered peanut butter cake, she had a whole hour before she and Toby needed to leave for the competition.
She found the Owner slumped at the small desk in the back office, his head in his hands.
“What do you want?” he greeted her.
Cady held out the plate. “I made you some cake.”
“Go away.”
“I . . .” The cake would make him happy, she knew it would. It was the absolutely perfect cake for him. “I won’t leave until you try a bite.”
The Owner grabbed the fork from her so suddenly that Cady almost dropped the cake on the floor. He shoveled a bite into his mouth. “Satisfied?” he said, cake crumbs spewing from his lips. “Now get out of here before I—”
His eyes went wide.
“Where did you get the peanut butter to make this cake?” His words were slow, deliberate.
“You like it?” Cady asked hopefully.
“I said”—the Owner rose from his chair, his feet two inches above the ground—“where did you get this peanut butter?”
“I . . .” Cady hesitated. No one had ever reacted to one of her cakes quite like this before. “I made it. I found a recipe and I—”
“Show me.”
Cady blinked. “Sorry?”
“Show me the recipe you used.”
Without another word, Cady pulled the recipe from her pocket. She handed it, wrinkled and brown and fragile, to the Owner. “I only made enough for the cake,” she said meekly. “I didn’t know you’d want—”
She stopped when she saw the look on his face. It was the sort of look that made Cady feel lit up on the inside. The sort of look people always got when they tried one of her perfect cakes.
She had, without a doubt, made the Owner incredibly happy.
28
Will
SIR WILL HAD BEEN MARCHING FOR A WHILE. HE GRIPPED HIS sword—the beige and cracked and knobby one that some might mistake for a precious heirloom, or even a hairpin—and plopped himself down on a rock on the banks of River Street. It was awfully tiring, all this marching, especially when you’d gone and lost one of your shoes. And he missed his trusty steed, Sally. And he hadn’t even seen any giants yet. Or monsters. Or cake.
He heard it before he saw it—the loud hissing, like a furious creature sucking in an enormous breath of air. A monster! At last! Sir Will’s eyes darted toward the noise.
But it was no monster, only a boring old bus, doing what boring old buses always did—letting off passengers at the bus stop.
And then off stepped a giant.
* * *
“Can I help you, young man?”
To Will’s delight, the giant was even more impressive up close. A real-life, humongous giant, talking to him. Knots of all sorts poked beneath the bottom edge of the giant’s gray suit jacket.
“Young man?”
Will could barely remember how to blink. “I’m on an adventure,” he breathed. He clutched his hairpin sword a little tighter, wishing Sally were with him.
“Life is the grandest adventure one can go on, isn’t it?” the giant said kindly (he seemed to be a very friendly giant). “What else could a person ask for than just to be alive?”
Will knew exactly what else a person could ask for. “Monsters,” he said. “And cake.”
The giant grinned a sideways sort of grin, a grin that suggested he knew more about the world than he was letting on. “Well,” he said slowly, “I don’t know about cake, but . . .” This was the part where the giant was going to ask if Will was lost, if it might be a good idea to try to find his parents. Grown-ups were always trying to find Will’s parents. “I just so happen to know where there are quite a lot of monsters.”
The giant held out his hand, which was nearly as big as Will’s head. “Shall I take you?” he asked. “It’s near the balloon repair shop, not even a bit out of my way.”
Will thought about that, gazing at the man’s mammoth hand. His parents had always been very clear that he should never, ever go anywhere with strangers.
But they’d never said anything about giants.
29
The Owner
FIFTY-THREE YEARS, AND HE’D FINALLY FOUND IT. AS SOON AS he touched the wrinkled brown paper, he knew. PERFECT PEANUT BUTTER. His throat tightened at the sight of his mother’s loopy scrawl.
The Owner floated to the kitchen, scanning the recipe’s ingredients as he went. Peanuts, oil, sugar, salt. Pretty standard stuff. But he supposed that, in the right quantities, any ingredients could be made magical.
Let’s see who’s the failure now, Dad, he thought as he shouldered open the heavy kitchen door.
30
Zane
THE HANDLE OF THE POWDER BLUE SUITCASE WAS SLICK IN Zane’s hand as he made his way into the last of the upstairs bedrooms, the Owner’s. Zane had little hope that the grump of an old man had anything that could earn Zane even a penny, but he was . . .
WORTHLESS.
It couldn’t help to look.
Against the far wall sat a single bookshelf, stuffed to the gills with empty jars. Probably two hundred of them at least. Zane took them in. Empty jars wouldn’t fetch a lot of money, that was for sure. And they’d be bulky. Hard to carry. But there was something about them . . .
Without knowing precisely why, Zane removed one of the empty jars from the shelf. Studied it.
He was going to need more suitcases.
31
Will
“HERE WE ARE,” THE GIANT TOLD HIM AFTER THEY’D BEEN walking no more than ten minutes. Will barely even noticed how sore his left foot was in its muddy sock. It was hard to notice a thing like that when you were walking with a real live giant. “And this is where we must part ways, I’m afraid.”
“This is where the monsters are?” Will asked.
“All sorts,” the giant replied, grinning that sideways grin of his. “Bony ones, old ones, ones with jaws of massive teeth, some with fins or fangs or scales.”
Will raised his head up, up, up to take in the immensity of the building before him. Four stories high, shaped from cold gray stone. At the tippy-top, the building’s name was etched in ten-foot-tall block letters.
POUGHKEEPSIE MUSEUM OF NATURAL SCIENCES
Clutching his hairpin sword, Sir Will let go of the giant’s hand and stepped across the lawn to continue his adventure.
32
The Owner
THE OWNER STUCK A TENTATIVE FINGER INTO THE FOOD PROCESSOR, where his first batch of his mother’s peanut butter sat, waiting. He scooped out a mound. It felt crunchy, goopy. Perfect.
Toes tapping anxiously two inches above the floor, the Owner brought the peanut butter to meet his tongue.
And immediately spit it out.
When the food processor hit the wall, the putrid batch of peanut butter splattered. The food processor splintered to bits. The Owner sunk to the floor, chest heaving.
He’d followed the recipe, word for word. And it was his mother’s recipe, that was certain. The very same one he’d lost on that bus ride fifty-three years ago. But it did not taste anything like the Darlington peanut butter he had loved as a child. It did not taste like happiness. He closed his eyes, letting the truth sink in. It had taken fifty-three years, but finally Mason Darlington Burgess, the good-for-nothing heir to the Darlington fortune, had discovered
the secret ingredient to his own mother’s peanut butter recipe.
Talent.
His mother had been Talented. All this time, and he’d never known. Nobody had ever known. It was a Talent for churning happiness into her peanut butter that made his mother’s results so stupendous. And even Mason Darlington Burgess didn’t have a Talent like that in his collection.
He rose to his feet, two inches off the ground.
Mason didn’t have the Talent—but he thought he knew who might.
Mrs. Asher’s Honey Cake
surprisingly spicy for such a sweet cake
FOR THE CAKE:
small sliver of butter (for greasing the cake pan)
2 1/3 cups flour (plus extra for preparing the cake pan)
1/2 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt
2 1/2 tsp cinnamon
1/4 tsp ground cloves
1/4 tsp allspice
2/3 cup vegetable oil
2/3 cup honey
1 cup granulated sugar
1/3 cup brown sugar
2 large eggs, at room temperature
3/4 tsp vanilla
1 cup coffee, at room temperature
1/3 cup orange juice, at room temperature
1. Preheat oven to 350°F. Grease two 9-by-5-inch loaf pans with butter. Sprinkle the inside of the pans lightly with flour, and tap the pans to distribute it evenly.
2. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, salt, cinnamon, cloves, and allspice.
