by Lisa Graff
3. Make a well in the center of the flour mixture and add the vegetable oil, honey, granulated sugar, brown sugar, eggs, vanilla, coffee, and orange juice. Stir with the whisk until well-blended, making sure that no ingredients are stuck to the bottom of the bowl.
4. Distribute the batter evenly between the two pans. Bake for 40 to 50 minutes, or until the tops of the cakes spring back when gently touched in the center. Cool the cakes in the pan for 15 minutes, then turn them out onto a cake rack to cool completely.
33
Mrs. Asher
THE GUARD AT THE DOOR OF THE POUGHKEEPSIE MUSEUM OF Natural Sciences had seen Will entering through the turnstile. Had assumed he was with the family in front.
The curator of the dinosaur wing had seen him wandering up the stairs to the second floor. Had thought he belonged to the school group.
The second-floor janitor had seen him slouched on a bench outside the archaeology annex. Had figured he must be one of the several tuckered-out grandchildren touring the museum that afternoon.
But all Dolores and Marigold found was one very muddy right shoe.
Dolores sank onto the hard marble bench, a wail caught in her throat. He’d been here, her little boy had been here, but he wasn’t here now.
“Mom?” Marigold said, her voice thick with curiosity.
Something underneath the bench caught Dolores’s eye. She bent to snatch it up.
It was her hairpin. Beige and cracked and knobby, as wide as a rib of celery and as long as a pencil. She gripped it tight in her hand.
“Mom?” Marigold said again. And she was insistent this time, firm. Dolores looked where her daughter was pointing.
Above them, looming thirty feet high against the wall, was the name of the museum exhibit in which they currently found themselves.
FIFTY YEARS AND COUNTING:
THE SEARCH FOR THE MISSING PIECE
On the banner was an enormous illustration of Mrs. Asher’s hairpin.
34
Toby
HE WAS ARRANGING BOOKS IN THE MYSTERY SECTION OF THE store when the old man stormed up to him.
“Where is she?” he asked Toby. His voice was, if possible, even more of a growl than usual. “Where’s the girl?”
“Who, Cady?” Toby placed a book on the shelf between its brothers. “I think she’s—” He stopped. Squinted. “Why?” he asked.
“The pathetic little waif is Talented, did you know that?” The Owner flung his arms about as he spoke. “If I had half that Talent, I could—”
Toby didn’t realize he’d dropped his stack of books until he heard the thud. Didn’t realize he’d grabbed the old man by his collar until he felt the icy skin of his neck against his knuckles. “You leave her alone,” he breathed. Toby’s cheeks were hot, burning, the corners of his eyes tense and taut. “Her Talent isn’t yours to take, you hear me?”
The Owner let out a chilling laugh. With icy fingers he plucked Toby’s hand from his shirt. “You can’t protect the girl from everything, Tobias.”
Every part of Toby’s body burned now, from his heels to his hair. “No,” he said, remembering that horrible day in Africa. You certainly couldn’t protect anybody from all the terrors of the world. “But I can try.”
But the Owner seemed not to hear him. “It could be amazing, you know,” he replied, and there was that sparkle in the old man’s eye that was as rare as a comet but just as dazzling. “The Darlington Peanut Butter Factory, back in operation. How could you not want to be a part of that?”
Toby studied the man before him. Considered all the thoughts in his head. And when at last he spoke, Toby’s words came out like hot oil on a stove—still on the surface, but ready to pop at the slightest disturbance. “Is it so hard to believe that I don’t want to be like you?” he said.
They’d leave that hour, Toby decided. That minute. Toby could have his and Cady’s meager possessions packed and be out the door in no time, and then Cady would be safe. Toby would explain it all to her after the bakeoff tonight, after Miss Mallory had declared the trial period officially over. Cady wouldn’t want to leave him after that, even if she knew the truth.
He hoped she wouldn’t want to leave.
Toby turned on his heel and, half-delirious, left to find Cady.
“You know what your problem has always been, Tobias?” the Owner shouted after him as he crossed the storeroom floor. “You’ve never been able to admit who you really are.”
And a suitcase, Toby thought. He would need to find a suitcase.
35
Marigold
MARIGOLD 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
WHEN 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.
