Wishes and Wellingtons

by Julie Berry

  I nodded, and took the coat and hat Alice handed me.

  “One more thing,” Alice whispered. “I went to the grocer’s this morning.”

  “All by yourself? You snuck out?”

  She grinned. “I’m learning bad habits from you. I thought you might need… Well, I left something for you in a coat pocket, in case you get hungry.”

  I gave Alice one final embrace, then followed Sarah outside.

  “You’d best wait over there, miss, out of sight of the school’s windows, while I hail a cab,” she said. “Behind that fence ought to do the trick.”

  I waited behind the fence and ate the bun Miss Plumley had given me. As I chewed, I watched the grim, squat front of Mission Industrial School and Home for Working Boys reaching up into a weak tea-colored sky. My school’s many chimneys puffed out smoke from its many fireplaces, but the boys’ home sent only a wisp of smoke upward, no doubt from the cooking stove.

  What had it been like for Tommy to stay overnight at the prison? It might’ve been awful. Or it might have been his first warm sleep in a long, long time.

  The door opened, and a man hurried out toward the street. Again, I had to pause and take a second look to be sure my eyes were right. They were.

  “Mr. Poindexter,” I said as he came near. “Good morning to you.”

  “Ah! Miss Maeve, am I right? Tommy’s young friend?”

  I nodded. “What brings you here to Mission Industrial School? I saw you come a few days back, also.”

  His face became grave. “I received a notice from the director of the home informing me that Tom had some trouble with the police last night. Incidents of breaking and entering?” He looked at me thoughtfully. “They said something about a girl from the school being involved. Was that you?”

  My mouth went dry. I nodded. “I can explain—”

  “It’s all right,” he said. “It grieves me, because I was quite interested in taking him on as an apprentice. He’s a fine young man, and conditions at this school are appalling! No boy should be here.” He gazed at me intently. “But I began to have second thoughts after he told me all about your magical flight to Persia and your battle with ancient protector spirits.” He studied me closely, as though my eyes might reveal some clue to a mystery. “As I said to you on another occasion, Miss Maeve, to dream is a wonderful thing, but to draw your friends into your fancies can be dangerous.”

  I tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come. Had I ruined Tommy’s life again?

  “Young Thomas was so insistent, even when I pressed him to tell the truth, that all of this had actually happened,” Mr. Poindexter went on. “It suggests a mind not quite in tune with reality. He’ll need some kind of help, which, a bachelor like me, a busy shop owner, is not equipped to provide.” He sighed. “This unfortunate business with the police only confirmed the decision I’d already reached. I need someone upright and solid to work with me in the shop. Especially if an apprentice is to join me in my travels.”

  He sighed and checked his pocket watch. “And now I must be going. Opening the store won’t keep.”

  Sarah came bustling around the corner “There you are, Miss Maeve! It’s taken an age, but I finally have us a cab. Oh!” She saw Mr. Poindexter. “Pardon me, sir.”

  “No pardon needed,” he said. “I was just leaving.” He tipped his hat to me. “Good day, Miss Maeve.”

  I reached for the sleeve of his coat. He turned in surprise.

  “Mr. Poindexter,” I said, “Tommy is…” What could I say? I had to say something. “Tommy’s clever, and brave, and sensible. You wouldn’t go wrong with him as your apprentice.”

  From the side yard of the school I heard the cabbie bark out, “You coming or what? I ain’t got all day, you know.”

  I swallowed hard.

  “Mr. Poindexter,” I said again, “please. You don’t know how much this means to him. He’ll never let you down. Any blame in this matter—the fanciful stories, the scrapes with the constables—all the blame is mine.”

  Mr. Poindexter rested a hand on my shoulder. “And that,” he said, “must be a heavy source of regret to you indeed.”

  Sarah stood at my side, urging me toward the cab.

  I’d failed. Again and again, I had failed.

  “It was good of you to speak up for your friend, though,” Mr. Poindexter said. “It says much for you, and for him.” He smiled. “Good day, now. Come by the shop anytime you please.”

  And he was gone. Sarah bundled me into the cab, apologizing to the driver, and away we went. We headed into the heart of town, the banking district, for St. Michael’s Bank and Trust. I watched out the window and silently prayed I could do a better job helping Father than I’d done helping Tom.

  Chapter 35

  The cab drew up in front of the bank, and my stomach sank into my shoes. This was the moment of truth, and I had no more of a plan than I had wings to fly.

  Then again, I’d flown with a djinni once. That djinni was back in my pocket now.

  Maybe more was possible than I thought.

  Unless I had to give him to Mr. Treazleton to save Father.

  Would I? Would I give away my last wish, and place untold power into the hands of a rich, greedy, selfish, arrogant man? Think of the harm he could do! Make himself king, even!

  But what choice did I have?

  Maeve Merritt does not give in to bullies. She refuses to play their games.

  Was that still true? Or was that the arrogance that had gotten me into such a deep mess?

  The cabbie helped Sarah out of the cab, and she haggled with him over the fare, then paid him, while I climbed out. We both gawked at the marble columns that seemed to disappear into the clouds. Guarded by men in smart uniforms, decorated with grand carved doorways and windows, the bank felt like a fortress. A fortress guarding another, protected world—a world of men in important suits, carrying important papers, wielding important fortunes, moving important goods via ships and trains around the world.

  All I had to storm the fortress was a tin of sardines.

  “Do you know what you plan to say, then, Miss Maeve?” Sarah asked.

  “Not a bit of it,” I told her. “Come on, let’s go.”

  The guards watched us out of the corners of their eyes as we entered the bank. Without Sarah there, I’d be shooed away like a stray cat. Unchaperoned youths were about as welcome in banks as rats.

  The inside of the bank was even more imposing than the outside. Chandeliers and gleaming furnishings. More columns, and granite floors. More guards and clerks, working silently by the light of flickering gas lamps in the cool dimness. The occasional clerk who puttered softly from one door to another, reverently, like a priest in an ancient temple.

  “May I help you?”

  A tall man in a black suit materialized at Sarah’s shoulder like an apparition. Judging from his wrinkles and his gravelly voice, he was probably a hundred and two. Possibly already dead.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Edgar Pinagree,” I told him. “May I speak with him?”

  The man’s eyes widened. “The director of the entire bank? Might I ask what is the nature of your business with him, before I inquire into his availability?”

  I cleared my throat and tried to sound grown-up. “It’s a matter of private business involving Mr. Alfred P. Treazleton.”

  Again the eyes widened. They seemed to have an infinite capacity for it.

  “Mr. Pinagree is meeting with Mr. Treazleton at this very moment.”

  “Inquire into his availability,” my eye. You knew that all along.

  “Then it’s all the more important that I be shown in to speak with them.”

  Sarah nodded. “That’s right. It’s very, very important.”

  Our interrogator sniffed at our important business—our important feminine business, no doubt. “Your n
ames, please?”

  “Maeve?”

  I looked up to see my father hurrying toward me as rapidly as a bank clerk is allowed to hurry in the financial sanctum. The sight of him gave me a little pang. He looked even more worn with worry than usual. Thinner, even, than he’d been just a short while ago at Christmas. Poor Dad.

  He reached my side. He looked as happy to see me as he would be to greet, for example, my highly religious, scolding great-aunt.

  “Maeve, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you in school?”

  “Pardon me,” said the deep-voiced man. “You know this young person?”

  I’d swear I saw my father flinch. “She’s my daughter, Mr. Smithers.”

  “Ah.” The man wrinkled his ancient nose. (Huge nostrils.) “She claimed to have urgent business with Mr. Pinagree and Mr. Treazleton.”

  His gaze moved briefly to a wood-paneled door. Father’s gaze went there, too. The meeting location. I was sure of it.

  My father stiffened. “Thank you, Mr. Smithers. I’ll take it from here.”

  Father steered us toward the opposite end of the bank, to a small office, and gestured me inside. I smelled a trap. I wouldn’t go in.

  “Maeve,” he whispered, “what is the meaning of this? Why aren’t you in school? Who is this person accompanying you?”

  Sarah curtsied. “If you please, sir, I’m Sarah Trippin, and I’m newly in service at Miss Maeve’s school. I came to escort your daughter on an important errand.”

  “I see. Er, thank you.”

  Father gave up on trying to stuff me into the private closet. He pulled up a chair to see right into my eyes.

  “What possible business could you have with the general manager of the bank, Maeve? And with Mr. Treazleton, a member of the board?” He blew out his breath. “Even I scarcely ever speak with Mr. Pinagree. Of late.” He sighed, then locked eyes with me. “Maeve, I forbid this. Whatever you’re planning, I forbid it. Go back to school right away.”

  I took my father’s hand.

  “I know you won’t understand this, Daddy,” I told him, “and there’s nothing I can do to explain it, but I promise you, I swear to you, that I need to do this. It’s for your good. For everyone’s.”

  Father’s mouth hung open. He’d worn this same look of bafflement over the holidays whenever Evangeline tried to explain to him why a certain kind of costly silk fabric was absolutely, positively essential to a respectable Christian wedding.

  He pulled himself together and drew me closer so he could whisper into my ear, out of Sarah’s hearing.

  “This is hardly the place or the time for one of your schemes, Maeve,” he said. “Especially now. I can’t afford even the tiniest misstep with Mr. Pinagree. I’d be thrown out on my ear if my young daughter went waltzing in there, interrupting him with some cuckoo idea.”

  My eyes stung. “You’ll be thrown out on your ear if I don’t, Father,” I told him. “Even now, we might be too late. Please don’t delay me any further.”

  “Mr. Merritt,” Sarah said. “I have strong personal reasons for believing your daughter is telling the truth.”

  My father wasn’t impressed by the intrusion, nor swayed by the opinion of a domestic servant and a stranger. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, then tucked it back into his pocket. When he spoke again, his voice was angry and hard.

  “Now, you listen to me, Maeve,” he said. “That’s enough. Whatever you’re playing at, it ends now. My associates are starting to stare at me. I’m not here to hold picnics with my children during the workday. Go back to school this instant.” He glanced at Sarah. “I request you to accompany my daughter safely back to school.”

  “Mr. Merritt?”

  A clerk from a nearby office called to Father. He straightened up to answer him. He turned his back toward me.

  I made a terrible decision.

  I bolted and ran straight for the wood-paneled door.

  Chapter 36

  “Maeve!” my father cried.

  But I didn’t stop, and he didn’t catch me. Sarah stepped in front of him to block his path. Bravo, Sarah!

  I burst into the office. The enormous portrait of a long-ago general manager of the bank, in a long, powdered wig, frowned down upon me, while two men seated on opposite sides of a vast desk looked up at me in astonishment: Mr. Treazleton and Mr. Pinagree. I’d only met the latter once, but I couldn’t forget that shiny dome of a head, round as a cannonball and nearly as hairless, with a monocle screwed tightly into one eye. He wore a gray coat and trousers, with a gray-checkered vest buttoned tightly over his round belly. He reminded me of an angry gray sausage.

  There’s a fortune to be made in buttons.

  “What is this?” the bank manager barked in his nasal voice. “Who are you?” He rang a tinkly bell on his desk. “Smithers!”

  Mr. Treazleton’s eyes gleamed. “This is the daughter of the very man himself,” he told his comrade. “Miss Maeve Merritt. She attends my daughter’s school, though not for much longer, I’ll wager.”

  Father burst through the door and skidded into my back. “Gentlemen,” he panted. “I regret this interruption. I’ll show my daughter out, and you can return to your conversation.”

  Spooky Mr. Smithers followed Father in. I wondered where Sarah was. Not that she could offer me any protection in this den of lions.

  Mr. Pinagree waved a pudgy hand. “No, Merritt, stay. You might as well sit down. Never mind, Smithers, you may go, there’s a good man. Close the door behind you, that’s right. Take a seat, Merritt, take a seat. This brings me no pleasure, I assure you, but it must be done, and there’s no sense putting off a duty just because it’s an unpleasant one.”

  The color drained from my father’s face. He took a seat quietly, looking very small in his chair, submitting toward the Almighty Power of Pinagree.

  “Mis-ter Merritt.” Pinagree spoke like a magistrate passing judgment. “You have been with this establishment for fifteen years now. In all that time, I thought I could trust you. I thought you were an honest man.”

  “Sir,” my father said quietly. “Might whatever you wish to say be better said without my daughter present?”

  Mr. Pinagree shrugged. “Send her out, then, send her out. It’s all the same to me. Deuced if I know what she’s doing here in the first place.”

  “I think the girl should stay,” purred Mr. Treazleton, Titan of Industry. “Life’s full of hard lessons. She might as well know the truth. She’ll feel the effects of it, and she had a hand in causing it.”

  Mr. Pinagree frowned. “How’s that? How could this girl have had a hand in this matter?”

  Time to make myself heard. “Because Mr. Treazleton has falsely accused my father of dishonesty to you, Mr. Pinagree.”

  My father’s eyebrows rose, while the bank manager’s cheeks flushed with indignation. “How dare you, young lady, cast an aspersion upon my esteemed colleague, Mr. Alfred Treazleton? He’s a giant of commerce in this city and a member of the board of directors of this very bank!”

  “I dare to say it, sir, with all respect, because it’s true, and I can prove it,” I said.

  At this, Mr. Treazleton let out a loud, boisterous laugh. Overdoing it, if you ask me. “She can prove it!” he scoffed. “I tell you, Edgar, the tales my daughter tells about this hoyden of a girl would curl your hair.” He chuckled. “Not that there’s much left of it to curl.”

  Mr. Pinagree didn’t appreciate the joke.

  “Maeve,” my father said quietly. “This isn’t helping. Please go.”

  “No, Merritt,” said the bank manager. “I want to hear her tale. Ludicrous though it may be.” He adjusted his monocle and peered at me. “Well, young lady? You claim to have proof of this absurd charge? Produce it.”

  My hands trembled as I pushed them into my pockets. This one? No, that one.


  “Mr. Treazleton covets an object of mine,” I told him. “He wants it so badly that he threatened to slander my father to you, and jeopardize his position with the bank, if I didn’t give him the object.”

  “Pah!” cried Mr. Pinagree. “What could a scrawny schoolgirl possibly have that he wants?” He jerked a thumb toward my father. “I know precisely what your family’s worth per year, and I assure you, anything you possess that Treazleton wants, he could buy without batting an eye.”

  “Not if it’s magical,” I cried. “Not if it’s something ancient, and impossible to find in a store. Not if it’s more powerful than all the world.”

  Mr. Pinagree’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of folderol is this, Treazleton? What’s she jabbering about?”

  I jumped in before Mr. Treazleton could answer. I’d made my choice between arguing Mr. Treazleton’s guilt, or his insanity. I decided upon insanity.

  “I have a sardine can,” I said sweetly, “with a djinni in it.”

  “A djinni,” repeated Mr. Pinagree.

  I tried to nudge his understanding. “Like the one in Aladdin’s lamp?”

  “Whose lamp?”

  I sighed. Bankers. “You know the old story, from One Thousand and One Nights?”

  “Oh. That.” He sniffed. “Proceed. Oh!” He clapped his hands together. “A djinni in a sardine can? You mean, a ‘sardiney djinni!’ Ho, ho!” He seemed enormously pleased with his joke. (I’d thought of it already.) Mr. Treazleton snickered, too, the faker.

  My father stared at the Persian rug like a convict waiting for his execution.

  “Theresa Treazleton told her father about it.” I plowed onward. “He came to the school and pulled me out of classes, twice: first to try to buy it from me, and then to threaten to destroy my father’s character in your eyes, sir, if I didn’t give it to him. Then he said he’d steal it.”

  “Ha, ha, ho!” Mr. Treazleton boomed with false laughter. “Quite a tale, isn’t it?”

  I pulled his note from my pocket and handed it to Mr. Pinagree. “See for yourself. Do you recognize his stationery? His writing and his seal?”