by Zondervan
“Come sit down.” Aunt Portia set the final fork on the chrome-legged table. Then she straightened up and threw her bright blue feather boa over her left shoulder and out of the way.
We’re not British, thought Linus, as he did every teatime. Why not simply call it supper and leave it at that?
The kitchen, painted a horrifying mustard color with turquoise cabinets, was located on the second floor of the family home. The twins now sat on two of the six antique dining chairs, placed bright pink cloth napkins on their laps, and waited patiently to eat as Aunt Portia passed around potato pancakes, mashed potatoes, and potato salad. The poor dear has never quite understood that variety in a meal means ingredients, not just preparation. Her apricot hair, styled in a large wavy coiffure (hairdo) around her face, shivered with each movement. And she’d placed a tiara on top for good measure. A real diamond tiara, word has it. Where she obtained it, nobody knows. And Portia refuses to say. Good for her. A woman needs a few secrets.
“We’re having a party next week,” Portia said as she stabbed a piece of potato salad with her fork. The twins also began eating (to the delight of potato farmers everywhere). “We’re calling it ‘Medieval Knight Fever.’ “
Oh dear. She’s rather corny, isn’t she? But don’t blame her. The name was Auggie’s idea. Portia sticks to the classic movies.
Portia continued, “I’m going to need your help. Would you help me serve the food?”
“And we’ll need you to dress fifteenth-century French. I have just the items,” said Augustus as he joined them, arranging his poplin suit just so. He rearranged his silverware to perfection, then picked up the fork.
What I just described about Augustus is known as telling detail. It reveals something about a character without coming out and describing it with exact words (in this case Uncle Augustus is overly neat and somewhat of a perfectionist. You should see his room. I’ve been in hospital chambers with more joi de vivre. (Joi de vivre is a French term that means “joy of living.”)
“I just saw a copy of The Hunchback of Notre Dame!” Ophelia crowed. “I’ll start reading it right away in preparation.”
“Good girl,” Portia beamed. She loved books as much as Ophelia did. “After you’re done with it, I’ll pass along the book I’m reading now—The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot.”
A snoozer if I’ve ever read one. Hopefully you won’t be forced to read it too.
“And as for you, Linus,” Augustus said, “I need you to construct a fake set of stocks for pictures. It’ll be a stitch.”
Linus nodded. Now that I can do. He cleared his throat. “We heard there was a scientist living here at one time.”
“Oh yes!” said Portia. “Cato Grubbs. Mad! They say he conducted crazy experiments in the attic.”
“The attic?” asked Ophelia, trying to put as innocent an expression on her face as possible.
Uncle Augustus cleared his throat and set down his fork in the three o’clock position. He wiped his mouth on a napkin and said, “Funny thing, though. We can’t find the entrance to the attic. He must have sealed it up when he left.”
The adults explained the mysterious circumstances surrounding the scientist’s disappearance.
“Is he dead or alive?” asked Linus.
“Nobody knows. At least not around here,” said Portia.
A shadow darkened the tablecloth, cast by the body of Mr. Birdwistell who lived above the clock repair shop next door.
Birdwistell is really his name, I assure you. Sometimes writers employ names to further characterization, meaning it helps the reader know the character better. Sometimes the names fit perfectly (read any Charles Dickens book and you’ll see what I mean); sometimes they’re the opposite of what they really should be. Mr. Birdwistell (pronounced “bird whistle”) should have been named Mr. Sharpthistle or Mr. Snakehissle or some such uncomfortable variety of name, for he was more prickly than a yard full of blackberry bushes and meaner than any snake you’re likely to come across in your comfortable, boring lifestyle.
Birdwistell tapped the tabletop and harrumphed, “Well, Augustus, it’s time for cards at Ronda’s. She’s making rumaki (bacon wrapped around water chestnuts and baked in a barbecue sauce) and stuffed celery. Are you going to sit there all evening or might we make our way?” A squat man, Dr. Birdwistell teaches philosophy at Kingscross University, and … well, I hate to tale bear (gossip), but he’s gained a terrible reputation for grading arbitrarily. (In other words, he’ll give you good grades if he likes you.)
Plus, he thought the twins nuisances — as evidenced by the way he ignored them as they sat eating their tea. Or dinner. Or supper.
Ophelia smiled at him, but he returned her effort with only a condescending grimace.
Then, without warning, Linus’s glass of milk tipped over onto Mr. Birdwistell’s shoes.
“Oh no!” cried Opehlia, leaning down to clean the polished wing tip with her napkin.
“Clumsy!” Mr. Birdwistell pointed at Linus. “Augustus, you should have a firmer hand with these two. A firmer hand, I say.”
Ophelia looked up at Linus and winked.
The gentlemen left, both lighting up pipes as they walked up the street, and the twins were then expected to clean up the “tea things” (or “the supper dishes,” as Linus thought of them), while Portia headed out to attend a lecture on marketing over the Internet. The poor thing is always trying to bring her business up to date. But how could she, really, with wares so odd and odiferous (stinky)? Not many people realize how off-putting smelly books are. Most of us long to spray them with a good disinfectant (and I know my disinfectants). Thankfully, most university professors fail to care about such inconveniences, and they frequently show up at the shop despite all of that.
So the twins’s lives weren’t exactly perfect. They had to do chores, help out, and even endure being ignored or yelled at by snooty neighbors. And now with school starting in September, Uncle Auggie had said to them, “We’ll expect you to make the grade.”
Linus worried about that because he’d never tested well. You see, the children’s parents had never so much as looked at their report cards. But Ophelia whispered to her brother, “Don’t worry, Linus, I’ll help you through. You know I will.” As they dried the dishes in the kitchen, a crisp rapping vibrated the back door of the store downstairs. Linus rushed down to open the door, and there stood Madrigal Pierce, the headmistress of the Kingscross School for Young People, a rather genteel yet run-down boarding school (which used to be the Pierce family mansion, built in 1811) located on the other side of the Seven Hills bookshop.
I must tell you, the school thinks itself snootier and more well-heeled than reality suggests. Most of the students come from backgrounds where their parents must sacrifice greatly — or rack up debt if they enjoy eating out and going to Disney World—in order to send them there. But nobody seems to realize it because they make themselves so busy by overstuffing their lives back home. One exception is Clarice Yardly-Poutsmouth. Her parents are richer than everybody else put together, but she never tells a soul.
“I saw you children loitering at the park today,” Ms. Pierce said, her thin lips turned down over a perfect chin.
Paris Park sits on the Bard River; it’s across the street and up a block.
“Hello, Ms. Pierce,” Ophelia said as she stepped forward. “How are you today?”
“How can I get my students to behave when you’re running around like ruffians?”
“But it’s summer, and I’d hardly call throwing a baseball—”
“Don’t contradict me!”
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Ophelia redirected the conversation.
“Why yes, thank you.”
Madrigal Pierce always came to criticize and ended up staying for tea. Ophelia just has that way about her, you see. The woman, who seems to be around fifty years of age, gathered her summer shawl around her shoulders and paraded on her high heels through the bookshop and up the stairs to the
family’s living room. She kicked off her shoes and curled them beneath her on the couch.
It would be easy to describe her as unattractive to suit her personality; but, like Mr. Birdwistell and his name, Madrigal Pierce’s looks and demeanor constantly warred against each other. In other words, she’d been a looker in her youth, and she remained a looker in her middle age. But believe me, I know to stay away from her. That’s my advice to you as well.
“What are you reading?” She drilled Ophelia with questions like this every time she came by.
“The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. I just started reading it a few minutes ago.”
“Victor Hugo. Good.” She patted her hair. “Ah, the horrible Quasimodo. How different life would be for him today.”
Ophelia, however, wasn’t so sure about that. She’d been made fun of all her life because she loved to read and was a good student. She hated to think how Quasimodo would fare with the students at her old school.
“And while we’re at it, Ophelia, my darling, I want to tell you about one of our new students. His name is Walter, and he’s here all the way from London. So I thought, what with you and Linus being deserted by—pardon me—living away from your parents, perhaps you might help him adjust, give him a few pointers. He’s the only one, other than Clarice, who’s here for the summer, and I really don’t wish to be bothered with worrying about him all the time. Clarice, as you know, can take care of herself.”
Oh my, could she!
She really must be worried about him if she’s asking us for help, Ophelia surmised (guessing with some insight attached).
“Send him over, Ms. Pierce. We’ll show him around and help him feel at home in Kingscross.”
“And so you should if you are decent children—which, I must add, still remains to be seen.”
They finished their tea, and then Madrigal took her leave with a forceful, “I have to get back to raising funds for the school!” She obviously tried to make it sound positive, but Ophelia could tell she was only giving herself a pep talk.
Ophelia settled in her room for the evening with her book and a plate of cookies that Ronda, the neighborhood hair stylist, had brought by earlier in the day. You will adore Ronda! She can guess any song in three notes during a rousing game of Name That Tune.
Linus threw himself on Ophelia’s bed. “Reading tonight?”
“What else? What are you going to do?” He sighed. “Design some stocks, I guess.”
“How exciting.” She offered him the plate.
He bit down into a cookie and instantly brightened up. Cookies do that to a person, even more so than a cake or pie or, heaven forbid, candy.
While they didn’t possess the proverbial nasty relatives, horrible food to eat, rags to wear, mysterious housekeepers, or windswept moors (wide open plains that go on and on), the twins were overcome by something else. Boredom. The ultimate enemy of children everywhere, if what they mutter to themselves while drifting about the house is to be believed.
“I might ask Clarice if she wants to take a walk,” Linus said while staring at Ophelia.
Already engrossed in her book, she waved him off.
But not even ten minutes later, she started. Take a walk with Clarice? She hurried over to the window overlooking the street and watched as Linus and Clarice disappeared into Paris Park.
At least they aren’t holding hands, she thought.
Later that night, Linus sat in the attic lab with a large glass of milk and some cookies. Sitting just underneath the trefoil window (looks somewhat like a shamrock), the moon shone on his face as he thought about plans for the stocks and wished for an adventure. Clarice came to mind. He liked her, but she sure didn’t say much!
He opened his notebook and began sketching, scribbling down dimensions and making notes of how much wood and other materials he’d need for the project.
This is just what I need to get through the next few uneventful days, he thought. His eyes drifted about the room until they landed on the shelf full of potions and powders. He pursed his lips. I wonder if any of this stuff is still good?
Never one to hesitate, Linus reached for the bottle of rainbow liquid and the glass container labeled One. When he opened it, he saw a bright red powder caked inside as if it hadn’t been touched in years. As he set a beaker on the table, Linus wondered if he should add the liquid to the powder or the powder to the liquid. He figured one was as good as the other when a guy knew absolutely nothing about what he was doing. Linus grabbed a nearby letter opener, dug out a pinch of the mysterious red stuff, and then dropped it in the beaker. Best not to use too much at first, he thought. He pictured a purple, red, and gold column of fire rising through the roof and making a thunderous cloud over Kingscross.
Let’s hope these things have lost their potency.
He took a sip of milk, then reached for the bottle of rainbow solution.
Praying a short, fervent “Dear God, please don’t let me blow up the house” sort of prayer, he poured one drop of solution onto the powder and waited.
Three seconds. Four. Nothing.
Oh well. He tried two more drops. Still nothing. Then four more drops.
Suddenly the table shook, a green mist collected in the belly of the beaker, and then it disappeared in a snap.
And so did the glass of milk!
Interesting. Linus clearly needed to find out more about the works of one Cato Grubbs, the mad scientist of Rickshaw Street!
three
Party Like It’s 1399
Or Enough! Let’s Get the Plot Rolling!
Had Linus realized that he’d have to wear a pair of colorful pantyhose to this party, he might have left the house for the evening under false pretenses. (In other words, he might have lied and said he had a more pressing engagement elsewhere. Please don’t judge him too harshly. Pantyhose will make certain fellows cast their principles down the river, and there’s not much one can do about it.)
Ophelia felt no better as she put on the most ridiculous hat she’d ever seen. She could have worn the typical coned-shape hat that one sees all the time in women’s medieval garb (fashion). But oh no! Hers had to have two cones.
“I look like an upholstered bull, thanks to Uncle Auggie,” Ophelia moaned.
Linus nodded.
“Where does he find this stuff?”
Linus shrugged and shook his head.
“Can you make it disappear like that glass of milk in the attic?” she asked with hope aglow in her eyes.
“I wouldn’t even try.”
“And you look like a fool, Linus.”
He adjusted the sleeves of his jester’s costume. “I’m supposed to.”
“Oh.” She gathered her skirts. “Well, it’s still silly looking.”
Tell me about it, Linus thought. The mental image of their parents roughing it in bug-infested tents and eating those same bugs offered him only a bit of satisfaction. A few minutes later, Linus and Ophelia entered the bookshop carrying trays of unrecognizable hors d’oeuvres made by Ronda from next door. She supplemented her income from the beauty shop with the occasional catering job. Medieval fare. Linus didn’t want to ask.
Ronda’s dark hair now glistened from the heat of the kitchen. An aside note: I mentioned previously that Headmistress Pierce of the Kingscross School for Young People is a looker. Well, Ronda might just stop your heart with her mahogany hair and aquamarine eyes.
As Ronda swiped the sweat from her brow with her forearm, she said to her reluctant servers, “If any of them dare ask what you’re serving, you tell them to look it up. Those professors deserve it!” She punctuated her joke with one robust, “Ha!” heard all the way down the steps.
Obeying Uncle Auggie’s instructions to be circumspect (proper, polite, and somewhat dull, really), they circulated amid the guests and offered them the disgusting bits. (No offense, dear Ronda.)
Ophelia leaned close to her brother’s ear as they picked up another set of trays holding equally disconcerting (confusing, pe
rplexing) morsels of food. “Do you think we’ll have to do stuff like this the whole time we live here?” she asked.
“Yep,” he replied.
Gazing over the crowd, Ophelia appreciated the colorful display before her—and not just the costumes, but the people themselves. An odd lot for certain, they were mainly university professors she figured. But there were also a few local business owners and several musicians present.
Augustus Sandwich had played the violin in the Boston Philharmonic as a young man, and he made it a point to never let good friendships go. I suggest you do the same.
Ophelia enjoyed eavesdropping on adults’ conversations with topics ranging anywhere from gardening to Plato’s Republic (a book which Ophelia hates, by the way; and I agree—give me Aristotle any day of the week). She enjoyed seeing their flushed faces and sparkling eyes as well, and she took some comfort in the fact that several of their costumes looked even more ridiculous than hers. Linus felt the same way. The party spilled out onto the backyard where torches blazed and people posed in the stocks for a souvenir photo. (Linus had done a wonderful job building them.) Aunt Portia always insisted on providing souvenir photos at her parties — much to everyone’s open dismay and secret delight. The air burgeoned (was filled to bursting) with laughter and the smell of the kerosene torches. A breeze picked up and shook the brightly colored flags hanging from clotheslines strung between long poles jammed into the ground.
This sure beats having to live on Butterfly Island, Ophelia thought as she headed back toward the kitchen for a new tray filled with odd food. When she passed Mr. Birdwistell, she offered him the last hors d’oeuvre on her tray. But he simply turned his back on her and continued his discussion with another professor, this one dressed like a friar.
Ronda, however, was delighted to snap up the suspicious morsel as soon as Ophelia entered the kitchen. She popped it in her mouth, chewed quickly, and swallowed. “When will you let me get to those curls, Ophelia?” Ronda asked as she reached out and sectioned off a portion of Ophelia’s dark hair with her fingers.
