A Corner of White

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Belle took on the character of her low, dry voice, her eyes almost sultry, her words lethargic.

  ‘The only thing,’ she said, ‘is it hurts to talk. Otherwise I’m better.’ Then, with a shrug and a quick lift of her eyebrows, she said: ‘Of course, if you people could learn to read auras, we wouldn’t need to talk. We could just, like, glance at each other’s auras and know everything in all our heads.’ As she spoke, her eyes shifted from Holly to Jack to Madeleine, studying the air above their heads.

  ‘Or we could learn telepathy,’ suggested Holly. ‘No need to interpret colours. Cut to the chase.’ She moved into the kitchen, announcing she was going to make Belle ginger tea with honey.

  ‘If you’d all just keep up with your horoscopes,’ Jack said, ‘we wouldn’t even need to meet. We’d just go, oh, right, so that’s what’s going to happen, may as well sleep while it does.’

  Madeleine was laughing, but she had the curious sensation that her body was too small. Too neat and rigid compared to Belle, who was somehow more present and at ease in the room. But this was Madeleine’s flat, and that was Madeleine’s boyfriend beside her. The feeling made no sense. She tried to rattle it out of her head, but instead, looking sideways at Jack and Belle, she felt sudden, intense embarrassment.

  She felt as if she had spent the last few weeks accidentally wearing someone else’s coat. Now the owner had returned and was gazing at her with shrewd, wry amusement, astounded that she’d never noticed her mistake, but ready to forgive if she apologised.

  At the same time, watching Jack joke with Belle—he was touching the centre of Belle’s forehead, telling her she should just close her third eye sometimes, out of respect for privacy—as Madeleine watched this, she saw him.

  Suddenly, and for the first time, she saw Jack.

  And what she saw was this: that he was complex, imaginative, funny and kind, and that he had, in addition to his beautiful nose, golden-green eyes like a tiger. That he was smarter than anybody realised, and that, behind those tiger eyes, he was Byron.

  He was Byron, just like he claimed. He was reckless, passionate, scared, hopeful and, in his soul, a poet.

  Helplessness washed over her; she wanted to get Jack out of here, get him alone. She wanted to tell him what she had seen, to speak in an urgent voice, or to write a letter to him. She wanted to praise him and praise him. There was an ache to have him touch her and gaze at her in wonder, only this time she wanted to gaze back in the same way. But even as she had these thoughts, she knew she was too late. She’d had her chance, and missed it.

  Belle’s return would signal the end of the summer romance, and this was all Madeleine’s own fault. She had designed their relationship as a summer romance, and Belle, seeing that, would make Jack see it too. It would be over.

  Holly handed Belle the tea and returned to the kitchen.

  She switched on the kettle.

  ‘I’m just making Belle a cup of lemon tea with ginger,’ she called.

  Jack and Madeleine turned to look at her. Belle drank from the mug in her hand and faced the window.

  ‘You already made one,’ said Jack.

  Holly smiled.

  Then she pressed her fingers to her forehead, very carefully and methodically, as if she was looking for something that she’d left inside her head.

  ‘Sinus headache,’ she said. ‘They’re bad in the morning, although they usually get better once I walk around.’ She reached for the kettle. ‘I’ll just make Belle a . . .’

  Then she lowered it again.

  ‘Do you know,’ she said with a surprised tilt, ‘I think I might lie down for ten minutes?’

  Jack, Belle and Madeleine talked at once, suggesting painkillers, herbal remedies, antibiotics, and promising to leave her alone, but Holly waved her hands in the air.

  ‘Stay here,’ she said. ‘All I need is ten minutes—and it’d be nice to hear you chatting while I doze. Then, when I get up, I will teach you something.’

  She walked across the room to the bed. All three were silent, watching her. Holly wrapped her arms around one pillow, put her head on the other, and closed her eyes.

  ‘You should change into your pajamas,’ Belle said. ‘I hate lying down in jeans. We’ll face the other way while you change.’

  Holly smiled without opening her eyes and snuggled into the mattress like a child.

  Jack and Belle sat on the couch, and Madeleine took the sewing-table chair.

  They raised their eyebrows at each other.

  ‘I think we should get out of here,’ Jack said across the room to Holly. ‘You need quiet.’

  Again Holly smiled, her eyes closed. ‘I told you to stay,’ she murmured. ‘I would’ve said if I wanted you to go. Don’t you have homework or something?’ Her voice faded into a yawn, and within moments her breathing slowed and deepened.

  ‘She’s asleep,’ whispered Belle.

  ‘Should we go?’ said Jack.

  Madeleine looked across at the small, curling shape of her mother on the bed.

  ‘I want to stay with her,’ she said.

  ‘Well,’ Jack whispered, ‘she told us to work. I’ve got stuff to do on my tourism project for Denny. Maybe I’ll run downstairs and print it out. You want me to get anything for you two?’

  Madeleine asked him to print out an attachment to one of her emails, giving him her password so he could, and Belle explained that she was so far behind in everything that there was no point trying to catch up. She’d just watch them work.

  They listened to Jack’s footsteps, his knocking on the door downstairs, the door opening, Denny’s voice.

  They looked at each other

  ‘You get glandular fever a lot?’ Madeleine asked, even though they’d already covered this when Belle arrived.

  Belle sniffed, ignoring the question. Her eyes were moving around the flat, her foot tapping slowly.

  ‘So,’ she said, turning back to Madeleine. ‘You and Jack, eh?’

  This time Madeleine did not reply. She felt a sudden surge of something—of her own self, her pride, her past—and she found herself holding Belle’s gaze. She’d do what she could to keep Jack.

  Belle watched this, and twisted her own lower lip thoughtfully.

  There was a long silence—sudden intakes of breath from Holly; the rain outside; traffic; a motorbike revving—and more silence.

  Then voices downstairs, and the sound of Jack running up the steps.

  His footsteps pounded quickly and then slowed and slowed, an almost comical slowing, like a machine winding down.

  There was silence in the stairwell.

  Belle and Madeleine glanced toward the door, then back at each other, and widened their eyes. The quiet out there continued.

  ‘What’s he doing?’ said Belle. ‘Putting on his Superman suit?’ And it occurred to Madeleine that it might be okay. Somehow she had passed Belle’s test.

  The door opened slowly and Jack came in.

  At first, Madeleine did not notice the change. Her focus was on the papers in his hands, and the fact that he was moving towards her, holding out a single sheet.

  ‘Printed this for you too,’ he said, his voice an even murmur, his eyes on Holly, asleep across the room. ‘I noticed it in your inbox, and I knew you’d want it right away. I saw the name Tinsels, so . . .’

  Madeleine grabbed the paper.

  But when she looked down, there were just three lines.

  Hi, I just found this in my junk mail, and I don’t know you so I think you must be thinking of another Tinsels (who knew there’d be more than one of us?). So I’m just letting you know so you can find the right one. T.

  In Madeleine’s head there was a tangle of confusion (how could she have remembered the address incorrectly?) and disappointment (the jump in her heart when Jack said Tinsels’s name), and anger (with this Tinsels, for being the wrong one), and then confusion again (she was sure she had the email address right), and then at last she became aware that something was wrong.r />
  She looked up. Jack was leaning against the kitchen bench, the papers in one hand and a curious expression on his face.

  Madeleine felt her heartbeat panic while her mind rummaged for an explanation—and then, almost at once, she knew.

  Her own email to Tinsels was right there beneath the reply.

  Now her eyes fell on the phrases she’d written weeks before, and as they fell, she knew that he had seen them.

  Standing on the staircase outside, Jack had read this.

  Sorry it’s been so long, she had written to Tinsels. It’s been totally BIZARRO! Then she’d complained about rain, damp, cold and beans. She’d said life here was a survival adventure. She’d said, it’s like we’re in a fairytale, locked in a freakin tower trying to spin gold—only, if this were a fairytale, I guess I wouldn’t say freakin, and I’d know HOW to spin, or at least sew.

  She had said:

  You should see what I’m wearing—these mad combinations of colours—it’s like I’m ADDICTED to colour and you know why? It’s cos I’m desperate for it. Cos, honestly, there are no colours here! There’s like a blankness—it reminds me of those paintings Warlock used to do when he was three or four, and he’d just use whatever dried-up paint was left on the brush and a lot of water. So it was just faded, washed-out greys. That’s exactly what it’s like here. And that includes the people—like, I’m homeschooling with people named Jack and Belle and they’re nice and all, but seriously, they’re both just, kind of like, colourless voids.

  Her hands clapped over her paper, as if she could stop the words now, and she looked at Jack, shaking her head.

  ‘I didn’t,’ she started. ‘I couldn’t—’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ said Jack with a small smile.

  ‘You weren’t supposed to see this—I didn’t . . .’

  It was worse because they had to be quiet, contain it at the level of whispers.

  ‘What is it?’ said Belle. Her eyes moved from Jack to Madeleine to the paper in Madeleine’s hand, and she snatched it before Madeleine could stop her.

  Belle scanned the letter.

  She lowered it.

  ‘Now I understand,’ she said, almost to herself. Then she smiled at Madeleine: ‘You move to England then you sit around feeling sorry for yourself and trashing the place. It’s funny how it never sort of occurred to you that there’s people in the world who might think that Cambridge is special, like maybe even more special than a princess like you?’

  ‘I know,’ whispered Madeleine urgently. ‘I don’t know what to say. I’m so—’

  A terrible expression, a savage sort of sneer, replaced Belle’s smile, and she spoke in an everyday voice.

  ‘I know what to say,’ she said. ‘And it’s this. All this time I thought you were sort of rubbish and full of yourself, but I also believed that you really were our friend—me and Jack’s friend. So stupid of me! Do you know why I never read your aura, Madeleine? Do you know why I always make excuses not to?’

  She was looking for her bag as she spoke, moving toward the door. Her head tilted at Jack, and he dropped the papers onto the sewing table and grabbed his own backpack.

  Belle opened the door.

  ‘It’s because of what your aura’s like,’ she continued. ‘It’s never once changed since I met you, Madeleine, and you know what it is?’

  She paused.

  ‘It’s black,’ she said. ‘I can honestly say I’ve never seen an aura so full of deception.’

  Then she walked through the door.

  Jack glanced back once. ‘You don’t always have to eat beans, you know,’ he said. ‘They’ve got cheap frozen sausage rolls at Sainsbury’s.’

  He held her eyes a moment, then closed the door behind him.

  The sound of their footsteps faded down the stairs, and in the distance, the front door opened and closed.

  11

  In the Sheriff’s station, Hector was typing. Every few clatters, he’d stop and press the heels of his hands against the desk so that his chair rolled backward. Out in the open, he’d spin from side to side, chewing gum, thinking. Then he’d smile, propel himself back with his feet, and type again.

  At his own desk, Jimmy sipped coffee, humming and leafing through papers.

  The sun shone hard through the windows, picking up the dust and cheerful mood.

  One final clatter, then Hector wound the paper from the machine, adding it to the small pile on his desk.

  He swung his chair sideways now, sidling up to Jimmy and handing him the whole set.

  ‘Feast your eyes,’ he recommended, and leaned back, smiling.

  ‘This is what you’ve been doing?’ Jimmy shook his head, leafing through the pages. ‘It goes on forever, Hector. You sure there’s not any stray Reds caught up in your shirtsleeves?’

  Hector ignored him.

  ‘Read it,’ he said. ‘It’s a letter.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Jimmy could be dry as bark sometimes. He sighed and began to read.

  To the Right Hon. Splendid and Harmonious

  Royal Tour Selection Committee

  Dear Sirs and Madams,

  Now, it’s true that there are only a few short weeks left in the Princess Sisters’ Tour of the Kingdom.

  It’s also true that what I’m about to ask is unorthodox in the extreme.

  However, here I am, asking it.

  What if the Princess Sisters skipped part of their tour in Jagged Edge and, as a substitute, headed back to the Farms, to visit another town here??

  The town I would suggest for this honour is:

  Bonfire.

  Incidentally, Bonfire is my town.

  Now, you might recognise its name, on account of we already applied for selection. You might also recall that you didn’t get a chance to stop here, since a fifth- level Grey arrived just as you did.

  But I think you should return and think again!

  The reasons I’m suggesting this are compelling. They are:

  1. Now, no offence, but the Jagged Edgians can be downright derisive about the Royal Family. That’s not just Hostiles I’m talking about, there’s a whole lot of people in J.E. who think they’re better than the Royals, even people that are otherwise quite nice. No disrespect to the Edgians, but they’re a bit over-educated, and it does their heads in.

  2. Therefore, why put the Princess Sisters in line of that sort of attitude? Why not just do a small part of the official itinerary there, by which time I’m sure Their Royal Sweethearts will have had it up to HERE with the mockery—then head over to the Farms to visit us!

  3. Now, as charming as Applecart is, there’s not a chance in heck that anyone in Bonfire would burn a sweet-potato pie. When I heard that’d happened when the Royals went to Applecart, I just about lay down for a week. (I didn’t though.) Seems to me that the Farms deserve a chance to redeem itself. (Might seem a bit much, to call a burnt pie crust a catastrophe, but here in the Farms there’s not much we hold in higher esteem than baking.) (Other than farming, I suppose.) (And the Royal Family. But that goes without saying.)

  4. The Princess Sisters were keen to see our pyramid of pumpkins! I read it in their Royal column!

  5. Now, it is true that our Pyramid of Pumpkins has since been dismantled (weather conditions; the usual decaying ways of nature, etc.); however, we have something else here now, and some might say it’s even better. I will give it a new number.

  6. The Butterfly Child!

  7. Yes, as you may have heard in the newspapers and so on, the Butterfly Child is RIGHT HERE in Bonfire.

  8. Our Butterfly Child was caught in her jar by a local resident, name of Elliot Baranski.

  9. Why do I mention this? Well, because Elliot Baranski may be only fifteen years old, but he’s a legend in these parts, and some might say that HE is an additional reason for the Princess Sisters to visit.

  10. Here is what Elliot has already achieved, despite his young years, aside from being known as very fine looking, and with a kind heart but no no
nsense about him, and a good sense of humour, and one of the best pecan-pie and blueberry-muffin bakers in the province—what else has he achieved? Well, he has been captain of the local deftball team, taking them all the way to the provincial championships this year (which, however, they did not win, but you can’t blame Elliot for that); his grades, I hear, are very good to excellent with occasional slips into average, but those can be forgiven. Also, he has suffered a serious personal tragedy a year ago, in that he lost his uncle and his father (along with the high-school physics teacher—although I should say that I don’t think that Mischka Tegan was actually Elliot’s teacher, she taught the senior grades; however, the loss of ANY teacher at a school has a ripple-down effect) in an attack by a third-level Purple yet he has continued to be a very nice kid; and, as I just mentioned, he caught the Butterfly Child, but I did not yet mention that he broke his own ankle in making sure he caught her, which just goes to show. The sort of personal sacrifice Elliot Baranski will make if need be, is what I mean.

  11. It therefore seems to me that the Princess Sisters might like to meet him and give him a medal, or at least pat him on the back for good Cellianship. The best way to do that would, of course, be to come to Bonfire.

  The above eleven points strike me as excellent.

  The facts are: we are a fine, neat, clean-living town of humble and hardworking folk; we’ve had it tough this last year, what with the crops failing (as have most of the Farms, it’s true, but I get the sense that Bonfire’s had it especially tough—and the Butterfly Child has not yet reversed that problem, which is strange, but we are all being very quiet and patient about that, and despite her excessive sleepiness and slowness re the crop effect, the Princess Sisters will LOVE her!).

  Finally, you might have heard that I myself was caught in that fifth-level Grey attack that prevented you from stopping in our town, but I assure you that it has not hindered my capacity to function as Sheriff, or that things have slipped in any way in Bonfire as a result. On the contrary, it has only served to heighten my awareness of danger, which, when you think about it, is a good thing in a sheriff.