Revived Spirits

by Julia Watts

  He gave Mrs. Havard a quick kiss. “Er, Frederica’s. . . in a mood.” He picked up a briefcase and was gone. Baxter roused himself to see his master to the front door and Mrs. Havard glanced toward the bedrooms. She sighed, poured another glass of juice, and headed down the hall.

  Liv could hear their voices—Mrs. Havard’s soothing tones, answered by rapid staccato bursts from Frederica. She returned to the kitchen, gave McGinty a kiss on the beak and Baxter a pat, then pulled a sweater from a wall peg. She took her violin case and shoulder bag from a kitchen chair.

  “Well, dear, I’m off to a rehearsal and Frederica’s got a French lesson, so we’ll leave you and the animals to it. Just lock the door on your way out if we’re not back when you finish.” She gave a cheerful wave, a striking contrast to the pouty look Frederica shot Liv as she stomped into the kitchen and slammed down her empty juice glass.

  Liv resisted the urge to return the look and simply said, “Thanks.” McGinty eyed Liv. His owners were barely out the door before Liv was in the reception room with the door closed, Baxter by her side.

  She chose the Steinway because it was nearer two enormous windows that looked out over the balcony and the street below. The tops of fresh June trees swayed, tickling the balcony railing.

  Liv sat down, reached for the knobs on either side of the bench and began to adjust the height. A cold, wet nose bumped her left hand, and she smiled as she dug in her pocket for a chewstick. She could see he was torn between hating the piano and loving his favorite treat.

  Liv shoved the rawhide into his mouth with her left hand and played the entire right hand of her favorite Bach Invention, the one in B Flat Major. He gobbled the treat, relaxing as if he didn’t mind the sound.

  When she wiped her hand and reached for the keyboard, he whined and traded good behavior for another chewy. This time he was treated to the left hand of the same piece and some ear-scratching.

  She had won him over. At least one of the animals in the family disagreed with Frederica’s opinion of her.

  Liv pulled the book of Mozart Sonatas from her backpack, and Baxter moved as close to her toes as he could without getting hit by the piano pedals. He flopped onto his stomach, stretched out his hind legs, and allowed her to play without further interruption—a clear message to the world that this human, unlike his mistress, knew how to handle people, himself in particular.

  She plunged into a difficult passage, playing it slowly, then in different rhythms, until she had mastered it. She became so caught up in the satisfaction of her task and the beauty of the music that she barely noticed Frederica’s returning footsteps in the foyer. Baxter snored beside the damper pedal.

  “Traitor,” Frederica muttered as she passed the opening to the reception room. Baxter opened one eye, then closed it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Liv stopped playing and checked her watch—almost twelve o’clock. A few more minutes, and she’d say goodbye to Baxter, lock the door and be on her way. Frederica was nowhere to be seen, but Liv had heard her talking to McGinty. No need to seek her out—she’d just call “Bye” as she left.

  She played through a section she’d just memorized, closing her eyes and enjoying the satisfaction of accomplishment. What was it that made her feel someone was watching her? Had it been a slight breeze, or did she hear the faintest creak of a floorboard? Struggling to concentrate, she heard the rich sound of the grand piano vary as if it were bouncing off something near.

  Enough—time to go. Reaching for her backpack, Liv felt nothing. With a sinking feeling, she turned around.

  The backpack was gone. Her heart dropped all the way to her stomach. She—Liv—the dependable one, had done the unthinkable.

  She had let someone take the box.

  Panic began to turn to anger, and she walked through the passageway to Frederica’s room. The door was open, and Liv’s unzipped backpack lay on the floor. She paused near the threshold and stared, barely suppressing her gag reflex at the sight of Frederica sitting on her bed, sleeves pushed up, methodically making small cuts on her arms with a penknife.

  Frederica’s face showed no emotion and she appeared not to notice Liv standing there. The cuts she was making now were tiny, but above them were raised scars that looked frightening to Liv. Could Frederica’s parents know about this? How could they not?

  Liv couldn’t imagine what Frederica must experience inside when doing such a thing. She’d heard of cutting before, but it had never occurred to her that she’d know someone who actually did it. It was a frightening thought, and the sight of blood made her queasy.

  The girl needed help, but Liv didn’t feel like reaching out to someone she barely knew and didn’t like. In fact, she could hardly see herself doing it with anyone she did like. In the meantime, she needed that box, and it was on the bed within Frederica’s reach.

  Frederica looked up, and they locked eyes. Liv lowered hers in revulsion and the absence of anything to say.

  Frederica spoke. “I’m sure you hate me. Everyone does. It’s part of my life that I accept. The outwardly almost-perfect family—glittering, accomplished parents with a disappointing daughter.” The words spilled out in a geyser of bitterness. Liv felt a twinge of pity.

  “Now you know my secret. You probably think I’m some sort of horrid freak—a pitiful creature you need to save by tattling to my parents so they can try to get me cured.”

  Liv had had enough. “Frederica, I’d like to get my property and be on my way. As for saving you, I wouldn’t begin to know how, but I can point out that your choice of places to cut is leading you toward a lifetime commitment to long sleeves.”

  Frederica reached for a bottle of hand sanitizer, squirted the blade of the knife, and pulled a tissue from her jeans pocket. She wiped the blade, over and over. “You’re not going to tell my parents?”

  Liv opened her mouth to say, “Not if you hand over the box,” but shut it. Even though Frederica was annoying, she was actually bleeding. But could she work up sympathy she didn’t feel?

  Maybe if she pretended to be sympathetic, sympathy would magically grow inside her, as long as she didn’t have to hear about cutting. Blood was disgusting. Time to change the subject, distract her, find a chance to grab the box, maybe help Frederica a little along the way.

  “Tell me about your dancing.” Liv had noticed Frederica’s tendency to walk with her toes turned out, the ramrod-straight carriage with shoulders held down, and the bulging calf muscles —she must have had ballet lessons.

  Frederica’s eyes flickered and she gave a derisive laugh. “That was something I was actually good at—from the time I was very little, and I liked it.” She stuck out her legs and flexed her ankles. “By the age of nine, I had broader shoulders than my teacher and bigger feet, and they just kept growing. Try dancing en pointe in size forties, listening to the giggles and whispers.”

  She hugged herself, the blood from her cuts making small spots on her shirt. “I quit. That was two years ago—the first time I did this. I don’t expect you’d understand, but it made me feel better somehow.” She examined her arms and reached for a tissue.

  Liv looked down at her own size eights and back at Frederica. She guessed the girl’s shoe size to be an American nine or ten. It didn’t seem like a big deal.

  “But quitting dance didn’t make you feel better, did it?”

  Frederica shrugged and said nothing.

  “You could start again, or find something else you love—keep trying. And maybe back away from things you do just to please others, like playing the piano.”

  Frederica closed the penknife, put it in the back pocket of her jeans, and shook her head. “Oh, I love the piano—it’s just myself I hate.”

  So much for reaching out and trying to help. What were you supposed to say to someone determined to drown in her own problems? She asked, “Why do you do it?”

  Frederica picked up the box and whistled for McGinty, who flew in but squawked at the sight and smell of blood.
She held out the index finger of her free hand and he reluctantly landed, grasping with his toes and working his way up her arm to her shoulder. He shifted from foot to foot, flapping his wings a little, lowering his head, and working his beak open and closed.

  “I don’t know why. But sometimes, after a tough day at school or a hurtful remark from Mummy or Daddy, it makes me feel better, like I can see the hurt that’s inside instead of just feeling it.”

  Frederica stroked the top of his head, and the bird closed his eyes and grew still. “But let’s change the subject. You know what I think?” She held the box up, shook it like a rattle, and tucked it under an arm. “I think you’re not really that interested in my problems. I think you must want this box very much. What’s in it—a diary? Letters from a boyfriend? Drugs?”

  She stood up and moved toward the open bathroom, still facing Liv. Without a word, she slipped in and closed the door. Liv heard the click of the lock and wondered what to do next. Mrs. Havard might return at any minute and witness the standoff. “Listen, Frederica, I’m really sorry about all the stuff that’s bothering you, but that box is mine. I can listen, but please open the door.” No reply. It didn’t feel right. Frederica liked to complain—the silent treatment wasn’t her style. Liv stood perfectly still, straining to listen. Footsteps up the hall and a squawk gave it away.

  The bathroom was connected to a room on the other side! Frederica was on her way out. Liv bolted from the bedroom and through the hall as the front door slammed and footsteps thudded down the stairs.

  She ran to the window of the reception room and looked out to see which way Frederica had gone: down the steps, toward the Natural History Museum. McGinty was still on her shoulder.

  “Sorry, Baxter, you can’t come.” She jumped over the terrier and closed the door, bounding down the stairs. By the time she reached the stoop, they were out of sight, but unless she disappeared onto a side street, Liv could overtake her.

  In only a few minutes, she caught sight of a blond head with a multicolored feathered body beside it. Frederica had started strong, but was slowing down now. Liv decided to drop back, melt into the crowd, and give herself time to think. What would she do with Frederica if she caught up with her? A couple of turns, and they were on Queen’s Gate, headed toward Kensington Gardens.

  She hung back at the Cromwell Road crossing, putting more people between Frederica and herself, then surged ahead to catch up as they reached the museum. Maybe the exertion of the walk would mellow Frederica.

  “I wondered when you’d catch up—took you long enough.”

  “Where are we going?”

  Frederica blinked, as if surprised by Liv’s lack of hostility, and looked vulnerable for a moment. Then she shrugged, and the shell was in place again. “I don’t know—wherever I feel like going.”

  It was going to be hard to keep a conversation going. It was like talking to the wind: it still blew the way it wanted, no matter what you said. Liv tried again.

  “What’s that beautiful round building? Royal Albert Hall? I’d love to see it sometime.”

  Frederica pursed her lips and exhaled through her aquiline nose. “Mummy’s in the Philharmonic, so she’s played there. We all know I never will.”

  They walked awhile more, Liv serving up pleasant comments and Frederica smashing them and seeming to enjoy it. She was tempted to suggest Frederica cut herself some more, but stifled the urge to say it.

  They crossed a street and entered Kensington Park, passing the Albert Memorial and Kensington Palace. What little control Liv had over the situation was slipping away. This park joined Hyde Park, and Frederica obviously knew her way around the huge spaces. Liv couldn’t afford to lose sight of her or the box.

  Finally, Frederica stopped beside the Dutch Garden, a fenced-in area affording a glimpse of beautiful flowers and a pond blooming with water lilies. “I could flatter myself that you’re interested enough in me to follow all this way.”

  She reached up to scratch McGinty with one hand, holding the box with the other. “But, I might as well face it—you just want your ridiculous little trinket. I’m not even sure I care why anymore—it’s probably not worth knowing.” She eyed Liv up and down and grasped the box with both hands.

  Liv held her breath, hoping that Frederica wouldn’t do anything foolish,but prepared to spring at her if she did. Frederica seemed to notice the slight change in Liv’s stance, and asserted herself by opening the box and shaking it. Drawers lurched open and Liv tackled Frederica, bringing the three of them down on the gravel path.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Now look what you’ve done!” Liv strained to get a better look at the box—she could make out the one and seven notches on the thousands and hundreds drawers. So they were somewhere in the 1700s. The tens drawer was even with its neighbor on the left, the last one barely dislodged.

  Seventeen seventy-two, she guessed, glancing down at her flip-flops, then at Frederica’s stylishly faded and torn jeans. She’d never time traveled without being dressed properly.

  Liv glanced toward the palace and the Orangery behind it. Things didn’t appear all that different.

  Frederica stood up and began to look around. Liv wondered what she thought of the subtle differences. The lawn was still green, but not clipped to perfection. The Dutch Garden pond was surrounded by a shorter hedge, and the Orangery wasn’t crowded with people the way it had been a moment ago. In fact, there was no one in sight—just two out-of-place girls and a parrot.

  “We’re in the same place, but it isn’t the same,” said Frederica. “The crowds are gone, the trees aren’t as huge, and. . .”

  “Exactly.”

  “Did I do it?”

  “Probably.” She stepped slowly toward Frederica, reaching out with both hands to take the box. “Just stay very, very still, and I’ll try to get us back.”

  “Back to wh-what?” Frederica stood rigidly still, her eyes open so wide their colorless lashes nearly touched her eyebrows.

  “Never mind—I’ll explain when we get back.”

  From the front of the palace came the rumble of male voices, and Liv whispered, “Hide—we need to hide!” The urgency in her voice was contagious, and Frederica crawled along with her in the grass. McGinty dug his claws into Frederica’s shoulder.

  “Ow!” She pulled at his toes and Liv watched in disbelief as the parrot flapped his wings and soared above their heads. Frederica pursued, leaping and missing him, and dropped the box in the process. Liv longed to make a beeline for it and save herself, but she followed Frederica, and together they watched McGinty land in a chestnut tree branch that overhung the gravel path.

  Liv grabbed Frederica’s arm and pulled her back. They crouched behind a large boxwood as two men rounded the corner and walked toward them. One wore George Washington-style clothes, cut from silk instead of plain cloth, and as they walked he removed his powdered wig and tucked it under an arm. His uncovered head was completely bald.

  His companion, who kept his wig on, was dressed more eccentrically in a long, sleeveless coat of maroon silk embroidered with gold thread, worn over a flowing white shirt. Short red breeches matched the coat, with white hose beneath them.

  Three unacceptable things tumbled into Liv’s mind at once: the box was out of reach; McGinty was eyeing the head of the bald one; and he looked vaguely familiar.

  Her shock turned to fascination when he spoke. “I tell you, Maskelyne—er, Sir Nevil, I’m at wits’ end over that rogue Morehouse. All he needs to do is help round up his fellow pirates – there aren’t many of them left—and he’d be paid handsomely.” He wiped beads of sweat from his head with a silk kerchief. “But he let the word get out that he’s bound by some silly sense of loyalty. Imagine! Loyalty to His Majesty is the only kind that counts, and piracy has been out of fashion for years!”

  Maskelyne stifled a yawn and made no comment.

  “I was counting on a peerage or a baronetcy in exchange for bringing him over to the Crown’
s way of thinking. Perhaps a title to pass on to my heirs. Lord Cumpston—that has a nice ring to it.”

  Of course. Even bald and with no fake tan, there’s a resemblance. The set of the jaw, the hardness of the eyes—they were very much like his modern descendant, Morehouse’s partner. And he knew Morehouse!

  Liv held her breath and strained to listen. “At the very least, I had hoped for a knighthood or generous land grant if I simply eliminated him.”

  Maskelyne raised his eyebrows, but Cumpston continued: “But the man is like a shadow. I’ve pursued him in London, exposed his slight cheating on taxes—no more than most of us, but enough to get him arrested, I thought. I even paid agents to cross the Atlantic and assassinate him in America.”

  He chuckled. “The fellow did at least leave Morehouse with a good scar to remember him by. Still, the whole business has been most distressing.”

  They paused under the chestnut branch. McGinty picked off a piece of bark and let it fall from his beak, where it fell close to the men. He unclasped the toes of one foot, stretched, and regripped, pulling himself almost into a split. The other foot followed, until he was positioned perfectly above Cumpston. His eyelids lowered to half-mast and his body went perfectly still.

  Liv looked from the bird back to the men. Maskelyne complained: “So you’ve chased a rogue pirate for a few years? You call that distressing? You can’t imagine how I’ve suffered at the hands of that miserable John Harrison!” He spat out the words. “Having to hear about his precious clocks for decades, traipsing across the world to Barbados on His Majesty’s orders to test them, when my way is best—I know it is!”

  Cumpston asked, “And how do you know that, Sir Nevil?”

  “It relies on the tried and true—the moon and stars—not the latest fantasy of this son of a carpenter, who squanders time in his workshop trying to squeeze a reward from the Crown and all the glory for himself.”