“Do you live here all alone?” Trina whispered.
She pulled back the doll’s covers, shook the dust from the quilt made of little squares of flowered fabric, and wiped the doll’s delicate little face with its corner. The doll was made of white porcelain, and when Trina sat her up, her sparkling blue eyes opened. She had long blonde hair and wore a frilly white dress with short sleeves. Her little black boots had hooks and ties and were made of real leather. Trina was impressed with the tiny stitches and the detail of the doll’s face and clothing, but she didn’t think much of dolls. In fact, she’d never owned one, so she was quick to put this one back to bed.
But she loved the dollhouse.
Maybe it could be her project. Maybe she could show her dad how much she could do all by herself.
Trina was crouching, sitting on her heels, trying to stand up the little black horse and straighten his bridle at the same time, when she heard something rustle. She held the horse as still as could be in midair and listened.
Nothing.
She wondered if mice lived in this hidden room, or if maybe even a bat had made its home in the walls. She held her breath, waiting for another rustle, a hiss, a squeak. Any sound at all.
Nothing.
And then—something.
Trina cocked her head, trying to place the faint noise. If it hadn’t been for the silence of the secret room, in a corner of a great empty house, sitting all by itself in the middle of a cornfield, miles from anywhere, she wouldn’t have heard the tiniest voice imaginable ask, “Are you my prince?”
The tiny porcelain doll was sitting up in her tiny four-poster bed.
And her tiny blue eyes were open.
Trina dropped the horse and fell backward, but she didn’t scream. She opened her mouth and tried, but she couldn’t make a single sound.
As the doll got out of bed, Trina scooted away. When the doll leaned out her bedroom window, Trina plastered herself against the closed door.
“If you are my prince, the first thing I would like you to do is build me a fire so I can warm myself by the hearth. Can you not see that I am shivering with cold and fear?”
No, she couldn’t. As far as Trina was concerned, she was the one shivering with cold and fear. Trina shook her head. Then, thinking logic might be her only weapon, she said in her own small voice, “A fire is too dangerous.” But just in case she needed to be kind to the doll, she said, “Would you like a sweater?”
“A sweater?”
The doll cocked her head, confused. Trina realized the doll didn’t know what a sweater was, which somehow made her much less frightening. “Would you like me to find you some warmer clothes?”
The doll clasped her hands together happily, making a little tinkling sound. “Oh, so you are my maid. Why did you not say so?”
“No, I’m not your maid. Or your prince,” Trina said emphatically, thinking she should stay in control of the situation. “I am the girl who discovered you, but that’s beside the point. You’re a doll and dolls don’t talk, not for real. On top of that, I am too old to play with dolls. And I have no interest in playing with you, so this shouldn’t be happening.”
The doll looked at Trina curiously. “Then why are you here?”
“I live here,” Trina said.
“Here? In my house?” the doll said incredulously. “But you are much too large.”
Trina shook her head. “No, not in your house. I live in the house that your house is in.” Trina knew she wasn’t sounding very logical anymore. “I am a person and you are just a doll.”
The doll looked taken aback. She descended the stairs from her second floor and disappeared, but Trina could hear her dainty footsteps getting closer. And then the doll stepped out her front door and started walking toward Trina.
“You stay right there,” Trina said.
“There is no reason to be afraid of me,” the doll said, “for you are very large and I am very small. I should think it would be the other way around.”
The doll had made a good point. Still, there was every reason to be afraid of a doll that talked.
“And, by the by, where I come from, dolls do talk.” The doll rose up on her tiptoes, looking at Trina as if she were some kind of mountain in the distance. “You do not look like a girl. Your hair is too short. Maidens have long, beautiful hair, like mine.” She twisted her hair at her shoulder and stroked it with both hands. “And furthermore, if anyone has reason to complain, it would be me. Suddenly the sun is shining in my face and I am wide awake. And I am cold.” The doll shook enough for her little porcelain joints to rattle. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to at least tell me your name.”
“Trina,” Trina answered quickly, surprised to be scolded by someone, or something, so small.
The doll made a face as if she had bitten into a lemon. “I have never heard of such a name.”
Being insulted about her name twice in one day was too much. “My given name is Citrine,” said Trina stiffly, “but my mother is the only one who ever called me that. Everyone else calls me Trina.”
“I much prefer the name Citrine,” the doll said brightly, lingering on the last syllable. “It sounds like the name of a beautiful princess, so that is what I will call you.”
“It does?” Trina asked.
“Yes, it does, and I know all about princesses.”
Ci-tree-een. Ci-tree-een. If she said her name the way the doll said it, her name sounded like a song. Charlotte or no Charlotte, Trina fell in love with her name. “What’s your name?” she asked. She couldn’t believe she was having a conversation with a doll, but it seemed polite to return the question.
A sad look came over the doll’s face. She took a deep breath and sighed, which made the ruffles of her dress rise and fall. She sat down on the threshold of her house with a little clink. “I do not know. I do not believe I ever had a name. How did you come by yours?”
“My mother named me. Citrine is my birthstone. It’s yellow and it means kindness. It’s supposed to protect me from negative energy.”
“Negative energy,” the doll repeated. “What is negative energy?”
“Bad things,” Trina said.
“Ah, yes. Bad things. I know of many bad things.” The doll raised one little eyebrow and whispered, “Does it work?”
Trina considered this question. A lot of bad things had happened to her. Her mother had left home to travel the world. She had no friends. And now she lived in New Royal. And then there was Charlotte. And, of course, a scary house to live in. Trina eyed the doll, still uncertain what to make of her. “I’m not sure.”
The little doll put her finger to her temple. “Now that I think of it, I had one of those.”
“A name?”
“No, a mother. And a father.” Scrutinizing Trina’s face, she added, “I think I also had one of you.”
“One of me? What do you mean?” Trina shifted to her stomach and leaned in on her elbows to hear the doll more clearly.
“A girl who played with me and put me places. But often I grew annoyed. Sometimes I wanted to sit in the parlor and she put me in the dining room. And sometimes she put me to bed when I was perfectly happy riding my pony. The worst of it was when she left me on the floor and forgot about me.” The doll sighed again. “I have not seen my little girl for ages and ages, nor have I seen my mother. One day she was here and the next day she was nowhere to be seen.”
“Sounds like my mother,” Trina said. “My mother joined a dance troupe in Paris when I was three and never came home. She travels all over the world, from one adventure to another.”
The little doll’s eyes widened. “A life full of travel and adventure sounds wonderful to me.”
Trina shook her head, thinking of all the places she and her dad had been, from Wisconsin to New Mexico and Oregon, and everything in between. “Not to me. I just want to live in one normal place. Forever.”
“Such as Paris, France,” the doll said wistfully. “My dress and my shoes are
from Paris, France.” The little doll sat up straight and tall. “Why, I believe I am from Paris, France.” She brushed her hair from her face with her thin porcelain fingers and continued. “My father is also from Paris, France, but I am quite certain my beautiful mother is from Italy. Is your mother very beautiful?”
“I don’t remember,” said Trina. “Her name is Caroline and that’s about all I know. My father doesn’t like to talk about her. But I understand why. Talking about her makes me sad, too.”
“Ah, then you must tell me all your woes, because I am a doll. Dolls are very good at listening and keeping secrets.” The little doll stood up and straightened her dress. “Is your father also traveling all over the world?”
Trina shook her head. “No, he’s outside. Working.”
The doll nodded, staring into the sunlight. “Do tell me, do you think we could find me one?”
“A father?” Trina asked, confused.
“No, a name.”
Trina shrugged. “Sure. But why don’t you just pick one?”
The little doll’s face beamed. “Is that truly possible?”
“Yes, but you should think about it carefully. Your name should have meaning,” Trina said.
“Such as Gretel?”
Of all the names in the world, Trina was surprised the doll would come up with Gretel. “Of course,” she said, trying to be supportive, “unless you want it to sound more like a princess.”
“Oh, I do, I do. And you are correct, my dear Citrine. Gretel is not the name of a princess.” The little doll lowered her head and looked up at Trina, batting her eyelashes. “Should I call myself Beauty?”
“Um,” Trina hesitated. “That sounds a little conceited.” Trina thought about her own name and its significance. “I know. When is your birthday?”
“My birthday?” The doll’s face furrowed. “Please, tell me. What is a birthday?”
“It’s the day you’re . . .” Trina paused. She was about to say “born” but dolls weren’t born; they were manufactured. “Maybe we could just name you for the month we’re in right now. August. Except I don’t know the birthstone for August.”
“How about Augus-tine,” the doll said, putting her hands behind her head and leaning against the front door of her house with a very satisfied look on her face. “What do you think of that? Au-gus-tine,” the doll said slowly, practicing.
“I think it’s perfect. You look like an Augustine. Like a warm summer day,” Trina said, beginning to like the fussy little doll.
“I think a prince would find it very beautiful.”
“TRINA!” her dad bellowed up the stairwell.
The little doll ran inside her house and peeked out from behind the door. “What was that dreadful roar?”
“That’s my father. I have to go now. I have chores to do before it gets too late.”
Standing up, Trina opened the turret room door and hollered, “COMING!” and then she turned back to see Augustine with her hands covering her ears and her mouth in the shape of an O as if something had hurt her. “I’m sorry, Augustine. I had to yell so he would hear me,” she said. “I have to go.”
“My dear Citrine, before you go, would you be so kind as to move my house into the big room? I much prefer the big room and I am afraid my prince will not find me if I am tucked in here away from everything.”
Tucked away from everything was exactly how Trina felt, so it made complete sense to move the dollhouse into her room, especially if fixing up the house was going to be her project. Trina picked up Augustine and set her on her tiny four-poster bed. Moments earlier she had been terrified—or at least unsure—of the little doll, but now she was acting like she talked to dolls all the time. Slowly she pushed the dollhouse from the turret room into her room.
“You’re lucky to have such a beautiful house,” Trina said. “It needs a good cleaning and a few things are broken, but I can fix them for you.” Augustine beamed and held onto one of the posts of her four-poster bed as if she were sailing on a ship across the ocean.
“Are you really waiting for a prince?” Trina asked.
“Indeed,” Augustine said. “My prince should be along any minute, because I was asleep for a very long time and now I have awakened. Are you not expecting yours?”
“No,” Trina said, embarrassed at the thought. “I’m too young to have a boyfr—I mean, prince. I’d be happy just to have a friend. Girl or boy.”
Trina pulled the mirrored door to the turret room shut and paused to look at herself again, getting used to herself as Citrine instead of Trina.
“Citrine, will I see you again tomorrow?”
If Trina could figure out a way to avoid going to school and stay home, she’d be able to spend the whole day with Augustine. “Of course,” she said as she crossed the room. “You’ll see me later tonight.” She had her hand on her bedroom door when Augustine stopped her again.
“Citrine?”
“Yes?”
“Is it nearly evening?”
Trina glanced at the window and shook her head. “Not for a few more hours, but the sky is cloudy, so it’s darker than usual.”
“Even so,” the doll said, “would you mind helping me change into my bedclothes?”
Augustine faced away from Trina and held her hands over her head, waiting. Trina felt as if she were wearing her dad’s big work gloves trying to unbutton the little dress.
Once the dress was off, Augustine told Trina to open a dresser drawer where Trina found a white nightgown trimmed in lace. Trina hurried to dress Augustine, sensing the doll’s embarrassment at standing there half naked.
Augustine picked up her dress and handed it to Trina. “I understand you are not my maid, but perhaps you could wash my dress for me. It is quite dusty and I have been wearing it a very long time. I should like to be properly dressed when my prince comes for me.”
“TRINA!” her dad’s voice boomed again, and Augustine’s little hands shot to her ears.
Trina looked down at the rumpled dress in her hand, wondering how she’d gotten herself into this situation, and started out the door.
“Citrine?”
Trina turned around, a little exasperated. “What?”
Augustine was sitting on her bed, swinging her legs, brushing her hair with a brush so small Trina could barely see it. She smiled at Trina and said, “I shall be waiting for you right here.”
Trina wondered whether having a doll waiting for her was a good thing. She had just stepped out the door when she heard the little voice again. “Citrine?”
“Yes?” She tried to sound less impatient this time.
“I believe we are going to be great friends.”
Chapter Six
With Augustine’s little dress cupped in her hand like a rescued butterfly, Trina crossed the hall to the stairway. This time she was struck by how pretty the light was coming through the stained glass windows—pictures of goldenrod, exactly like the ones carved in the woodwork in her new room. She had the funny feeling the house was showing off, saying, “Look at me! Look at me!”
She washed Augustine’s dress in the kitchen sink as gently as she could, afraid it might disintegrate in her hands. She hung the dress on a plastic fork and was wedging the fork under the window lock, so the dress could dry in the warm breeze, when her dad came into the kitchen.
“Man, am I ever thirsty,” he said.
Trina reached into the cupboard to get him a plastic cup, but she was too late. He was already drinking from the faucet, eye-level with Augustine’s dress. “A doll dress?” He gave the ruffle a little nudge. “Since when do you play with dolls?”
“It belongs to Augus—” Trina caught herself and faked a cough through the rest of Augustine’s name. She motioned her dad out of the way and took a swig of water from the faucet too. The truth was, Trina was as perplexed as her dad. She had never played with dolls. And now was talking to a doll who lived upstairs in her room. “You won’t believe what I found, Poppo. The turret room ha
s a secret door and I found a dollhouse in there. Do you want to see it?”
He shook his head. “Maybe later. I need to finish the upstairs windows before it gets dark.” He looked out the window at the graying sky. “Or before it storms.” After one more drink of water, he was out the door.
Trina gave a sigh of relief that her dad was too busy to see the dollhouse. For a millisecond she had wanted to tell him everything about Augustine, but what could she say? To him the idea of a talking doll would sound crazier than saying Goldenrod was a haunted house. Besides, she could never show Augustine to her dad unless she could be sure the doll would keep quiet, or who knew what would happen next.
A doll? Really? Was she really worrying about a doll? And what was she doing washing its silly little dress when there was so much work to be done?
Trina started her chores in the basement by doing the real laundry. Except for the furnace that was as big as a train engine, the basement wasn’t as scary as she thought it would be—until the wash cycle kicked in and the water pipes shook so ferociously she expected the whole house to come crashing down around her. She grabbed the bucket and ran upstairs.
Feeling like Cinderella left alone to clean while her stepsisters went to a party, Trina washed the parlor windows. And then, because the cleaners had done such a poor job, she scrubbed the kitchen floor on her hands and knees. If Augustine asked her if she were the maid now, she’d have to say yes.
Just as she finished, it started to rain. A moment later she heard her dad calling as he came through the front door. “Trina! How about hot dogs for dinner? I’ll do the cooking.”
Trina stopped him at the kitchen door. “Hot dogs sound good, but you have to take your boots off. I just washed the floor.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said as he left.
When he came back he had clean socks on, and his face was freshly shaved. He held out his hands for her to inspect. “You may be seated,” she said, trying not to grin. She had already boiled the hot dogs—three for him and one for her—and she had already set the card table with paper plates, ketchup, relish, a bowl of barbecue-flavored potato chips, and the last of the grapes.
The Secret of Goldenrod Page 6
