Little Lion

by Ann Hood

  “Think,” Maisie ordered. “What are we doing wrong?”

  “Really,” Felix said, trying not to sound too eager, “I think we should just go back to the apartment and forget all about it.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “I thought you wanted to go back to New York,” she said.

  “To our New York. Not New York in 1920 when there wasn’t even the Holland Tunnel yet.”

  Maisie still held the blueprints tightly in both hands. She glanced down at them before she said, “The Holland Tunnel is on Canal Street, right? If we got back, we’d be what? Twelve blocks from home?”

  “But the timing is off!” Felix said, frustrated. Then a thought occurred to him. “The timing is way off!” he said. “That letter for Clara was dated almost thirty years after we saw her, remember? So if we went back and met Clifford Holland, it could be way before 1920. Maybe even before 1900.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” Maisie said, furrowing her brow in concentration. “The rules of this are so complicated. If we could just figure them out, we could control where we went and when. I’m sure of it.”

  Felix shook his head. “I think it was a fluke,” he said. “That weird storm that blew in during the tour of the mansion. Remember how freaked out the docent got? The vase fixing itself somehow. All of it.”

  In the middle of their VIP tour, the wind broke a fancy Ming vase into a million pieces. Then, magically, the vase got put back together. Almost. Maisie had managed to keep a shard of it for herself. And mysteriously one other shard remained missing.

  Now, Felix started to walk out of The Treasure Chest, and to his surprise, his sister followed him, placing the blueprints back on the desk as she passed it.

  “I’m not giving up, you know,” Maisie said as she closed the wall back up.

  “I know,” Felix said.

  They began down the Grand Staircase in silence. But at the landing, Maisie paused and looked right in the eyes of young Great-Aunt Maisie’s picture.

  “What do you know about all this?” Maisie said to the photograph.

  As soon as she said it, her face brightened.

  “What does Great-Aunt Maisie know?” she said, excited.

  Before Felix could answer, Maisie grabbed his arm. “She knows something. If we ask her why it didn’t work this time, maybe she can help us.”

  Uh-oh, Felix thought as Maisie pulled him down the stairs with her. He knew she was right. Great-Aunt Maisie could tell them exactly what to do, and once she did, there would be no stopping his sister.

  $ $ $ $ $

  “Why didn’t we think about this in the first place?” Maisie said, pleased with herself.

  She and Felix stood at a bus stop on Bellevue Avenue, waiting for a bus that would take them to Great-Aunt Maisie’s assisted living facility.

  “At home, we took the subway by ourselves all the time,” she added. “I can’t believe I didn’t think about taking a bus wherever we want to go.”

  Across the street stood the Tennis Hall of Fame, and Maisie watched as men in dark red pants and polo shirts went in and out. Normally the way people dressed here bugged her. Grown women wore belts with little whales and ladybugs on them and men wore boat shoes and pants like these guys, which were practically pink. But today, at this minute, instead of bugging her, Maisie was delighted by all of it. Today she felt in charge of her life. She would get on a bus and go to Great-Aunt Maisie and find out . . . well, something. Wasn’t that what Clara Barton had suggested? Hadn’t Clara herself said that their aunt might have a lot of things to teach them and that they should listen to her?

  A bus came down Bellevue Avenue, slowing at the stop. Maisie and Felix climbed on, shoving coins into the turnstile. Even that simple act felt wonderful to Maisie. It was like being in a city again. At the subway stations in New York, she always got a tiny thrill whenever she pushed through the turnstile. She loved looking down the long tracks and seeing the lights of an approaching train. Maisie smiled. She could come to love buses, too, she decided as she slid into a window seat.

  They were the only passengers, and Maisie relaxed into the blue seat. Pressing her face against the glass, she stared out at the stores and restaurants they passed. In the distance, she saw Narragansett Bay gleaming in the morning light and a few sailboats with puffed out sails moving across it. She might like it here, Maisie thought, if their father lived with them, too.

  Felix nudged her with his elbow.

  Up ahead, the Island Retirement Center came into sight. Maisie reached up and pulled the cord for the bus to stop, and she and Felix made their way down the aisle.

  “Thank you,” Maisie said to the driver.

  “You visiting someone special?” he asked her.

  His eyes reminded her of the water she’d been gazing at just a moment ago.

  “Our great-aunt,” Maisie said.

  The driver seemed to be looking right through her with those eyes.

  “Maisie, come on!” Felix called from the sidewalk.

  “You go on now,” the driver said.

  Maisie hurried off the bus. She and Felix made their way up the front walk that led to the Island Retirement Center, Maisie walking quickly ahead of him. She couldn’t wait to hear what Great-Aunt Maisie might tell them.

  $ $ $ $ $

  Great-Aunt Maisie sat in the chintz chair in her room, dressed in a pale blue silk dressing gown with a matching robe. The last time they had visited her, she’d looked pale and old, but today she had on face powder, small spots of rouge on her sharp cheekbones, and her favorite Chanel Red lipstick. Usually, that makeup on her frail face made her look kind of scary, but Maisie thought their great-aunt actually looked pretty sitting there.

  When she saw them in the doorway, Great-Aunt Maisie brightened.

  “It’s about time you two showed up,” she said happily.

  Maisie and Felix glanced at each other. Ever since she’d had her stroke back in the spring, Great-Aunt Maisie’s speech had been so garbled they’d had trouble understanding her. But now her words were clear and clipped, with her slight rich person’s accent evident again.

  Great-Aunt Maisie pointed to the peach-colored Victorian love seat across from her.

  “Please sit down. Perhaps one of these dreadful nurses can even bring us some tea.”

  She picked up a small silver bell from the round wooden table beside her and gave it a good, hard shake. With her pursed lips and hard-set jaw, Maisie could tell her aunt was not happy at all. Immediately, a nurse appeared.

  “Miss Pickworth, that bell has to go. There’s a buzzer right there for you to call us,” the nurse said as she bustled in. She had on mauve scrubs and purple Crocs, and her hair was in a sloppy bun held up with a big clip.

  “That buzzer is uncivilized,” Great-Aunt Maisie said. “I’ve already told you that. I’ve been calling servants for almost a century, and I always use a bell.”

  The nurse put her hands on her hips and glared at Great-Aunt Maisie. “I. Am. Not. A. Servant,” she said through gritted teeth. “I have a degree from the University of Rhode Island in nursing and—”

  “Yes, yes, that’s lovely, dear,” Great-Aunt Maisie said, fluttering her fingers dismissively. “Now we’d like a nice pot of tea.”

  She looked at Maisie and Felix, who were stunned by how lively their aunt had become.

  “Earl Grey?” she asked them. Before they answered, she returned her gaze to the nurse. “Yes,” Great-Aunt Maisie said. “Earl Grey. And some of the shortbread I had delivered.”

  “Miss Pickworth—” the nurse fumed.

  “And please use my sterling teapot, dear. The Pickworths have been drinking their tea from that teapot since the turn of the century.” Great-Aunt Maisie paused. “The turn of the last century,” she added, pleased with herself.

&n
bsp; The nurse took a deep breath. Her cheeks burned bright red.

  “Why are you still standing there?” Great-Aunt Maisie asked her.

  Frustrated, the nurse turned around and stomped out, her bun slipping out of its clip.

  “I must talk to her about her attire,” Great-Aunt Maisie said. “No one looks good in all that purple. And her hair needs a trim.” She thought a moment, then said, “Perhaps I’ll have Henri come and do her hair for her. Yes! That’s a wonderful idea.”

  She picked up a small notebook and a slender gold pen and made a note. Then she closed the notebook firmly and smiled.

  “So,” she said. “Where were we?”

  “Great-Aunt Maisie?” Felix said cautiously. “Are you okay?”

  “Okay?” Great-Aunt Maisie laughed. “Why, I’m marvelous, child!”

  “But what happened?” he asked, confused.

  Great-Aunt Maisie studied Felix’s face carefully. She opened her mouth as if she might say something, but then she closed it again.

  “You look wonderful,” Maisie said. “And so . . . lively.”

  Great-Aunt Maisie nodded thoughtfully.

  “Tell me,” she said, “have you children had any more . . . adventures?”

  Maisie shook her head. “We tried this morning. But it didn’t work.”

  Great-Aunt Maisie gasped. “It must work,” she said.

  “But we don’t know what we did in the first place,” Maisie said.

  The nurse came back in noisily, wheeling a cart with the tea and shortbread. Even though the silver teapot was tarnished, Maisie could see the engraved P on it.

  “I suppose you want me to serve you, too,” the nurse said sarcastically.

  “Well, I’m not going to serve myself,” Great-Aunt Maisie said.

  With sharp, jerky motions, the nurse poured three cups of tea. Then she slammed the heavy teapot back down on the cart and stormed off.

  Great-Aunt Maisie watched her go, sighing. “She wouldn’t last a day at Elm Medona,” she said. “Why, she didn’t even add the cream and sugar.”

  Felix jumped up and busied himself doing just that. He opened the little sugar packets and poured them into the cups of tea, then opened the small containers of half-and-half.

  “Maisie,” Great-Aunt Maisie said, “make a note in my little notebook here, would you? I need some china teacups and saucers, the silver creamer and sugar bowl, and those darling little silver sugar tongs.”

  As Maisie jotted these things down, Great-Aunt Maisie smiled at her.

  When she finished, Great-Aunt Maisie turned her attention back to Felix. “Tell me what you did this morning. We have to determine your error.”

  “Well,” Felix said, “we picked up a document . . . blueprints actually—”

  “We? Both of you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. I’m thinking maybe it was the time of day? Or that we didn’t say the same things as the first time?”

  Great-Aunt Maisie shooed at the air as if Felix were a fly.

  “Open the drawer there by the bed,” she ordered him.

  Felix did as she asked.

  “See the Fabergé egg inside?” she said.

  “Wow!” Felix said. “This is amazing!”

  He held up a pink enamel egg on a stand made of gold decorated with green-gold leaves, rubies, and pearls.

  “Bring it here,” Great-Aunt Maisie said, motioning him toward her.

  “It’s beautiful,” Maisie said when Felix handed it to their aunt.

  “This is a Fabergé egg that my father gave me on my tenth birthday,” Great-Aunt Maisie said. “Czar Alexander III commissioned the first one in 1885 as an Easter present to his wife, the czarina. That one had a little surprise inside—a golden hen hidden in a golden yolk. The hen wore a tiny crown with a ruby on it.” Her face grew wistful. “So whimsical,” she said. “So . . . surprising.”

  “Does this one have a surprise in it?” Felix asked. The egg was maybe the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  Great-Aunt Maisie smiled. “It does,” she said. “I haven’t opened this egg since I was a young girl.” Again, her voice grew wistful. “I swore then that I would never open it again. But you need to see what lies inside, in order to . . . understand Elm Medona.”

  Anagrams

  Maisie gingerly reached out to touch the clusters of pink pearls that formed flower petals across the egg.

  “Oh, Great-Aunt Maisie!” she said. “These are peonies, aren’t they?”

  “That’s right. The Pickworth peony,” Great-Aunt Maisie said proudly. She carefully turned the egg upside down to reveal a pearl knob on the bottom. A tiny alphabet circled the knob.

  Maisie peered closer. “Is there a secret combination to open the egg?”

  “Smart girl,” Great-Aunt Maisie said. “Instead of numbers, my father used letters. Metaphoric kiwis,” she added softly.

  “Metaphoric what?” Felix said.

  “Kiwis. My father first ate a kiwi in New Zealand when he lived with the Maori in 1892,” Great-Aunt Maisie explained. “How he loved those funny, furry fruits with their sweet, green flesh.”

  “But what’s metaphoric kiwis?” Felix asked.

  “Write it down in my notebook,” she told Maisie.

  Maisie did as Great-Aunt Maisie asked, double-checking how to spell metaphoric.

  “Do the letters mean anything to you?” Great-Aunt Maisie asked them.

  Maisie and Felix stared at the letters for a long time, finding nothing there but the two strange words.

  Finally, frustrated, Great-Aunt Maisie said, “It’s an anagram!”

  “Two words that have the same meaning?” Maisie asked.

  “No, no, two words that have the same meaning are called synonyms. Honestly! Do kiwis and metaphoric have the same meaning?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “An anagram is when the letters of a word or a phrase are rearranged to make new words or phrases. My father loved anagrams. In particular, he loved anagrams that had hidden meanings.”

  “So if we rearrange these letters,” Felix said, excited, “not only will we find a new word, but that word will also have a secret meaning?”

  “That’s right,” Great-Aunt Maisie said.

  “What’s the secret meaning in metaphoric kiwis?” Maisie asked.

  Great-Aunt Maisie sighed deeply. “My goodness, don’t you children know how to have fun? Figure it out! When you find the new word or phrase, you’ll have the combination to open the egg.”

  “This is great,” Felix said, already trying different orders for the letters.

  “My father loved anagrams,” Great-Aunt Maisie said again. “He used them all the time.”

  “Artichoke something?” Felix guessed, scribbling. “Artichoke swim . . . pi?”

  Great-Aunt Maisie clapped her hands together. “Not even close!” she said gleefully.

  Felix kept writing.

  “Just tell us already,” Maisie said, grumpy.

  “Peach?” Felix asked hopefully.

  “No!” Great-Aunt Maisie laughed.

  “Itch . . . witch . . . worth . . . ,” he tried.

  “Pickworth!” Maisie shouted.

  Great-Aunt Maisie pointed her finger at Maisie. “Smart girl!” she said, beaming.

  Felix looked up from the notebook. “It’s Maisie Pickworth, isn’t it?” he said. “Metaphoric kiwis is an anagram for your name.”

  Great-Aunt Maisie held the Fabergé egg in her lap. She closed her eyes long enough for Maisie and Felix to think she had fallen asleep. But just as they decided that they might tiptoe out of the room, she opened her eyes slowly and gave them a sad smile.

  “Sometimes it seems like just
yesterday that I was a ten-year-old girl chasing my brother, Thorne, down the stairs and hallways of Elm Medona. Ah, the tea parties we had on the Great Lawn, in the gazebo. The adventures we had together.”

  As she spoke, her eyes grew teary, and Maisie reached over and gently held her hand.

  “My brother got the matching egg,” Great-Aunt Maisie continued. “His was pale blue enamel and decorated with lapis peacocks that had the most elaborate tails made of rubies and sapphires and emeralds. Thorne liked to say that his was much fancier, but I didn’t care. I loved mine.”

  She held the egg up to admire it. The light from the window danced across it, making the peonies stand out even more.

  “Of course,” Great-Aunt Maisie said, lowering the egg into her lap again, “the real tragedy is the third egg. You see, my father had three eggs made when we were born. This one. Thorne’s peacock egg. And the pineapple egg, which belonged to my mother. She died hours after giving birth to us. And, after she died, he put them all away in The Treasure Chest. On our tenth birthday, he presented Thorne and me with our eggs. Two years later, when we learned about the existence of a third egg, we searched The Treasure Chest for it. But it had disappeared.”

  “Who went in there who could take it?” Maisie asked.

  Great-Aunt Maisie’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Oh,” she said, “there are a few suspects. Gilda LaRoche, one of my father’s girlfriends. Mister Mars, my father’s personal valet. And, of course, Thorne.”

  “Your brother!” Felix said, surprised.

  “Ha! Some brother he turned out to be,” Great-Aunt Maisie said.

  She held up one hand. “But I’ve gone on far too long about all of this, and I’m growing weary. My point is this egg and what is in its secret compartment.”

  Great-Aunt Maisie gave the egg to Maisie. “Now that you know the code, spell it out by turning the pearl knob on the bottom to each letter. Just the way you would open a safe.”

  Carefully, Maisie turned the knob, pausing until she heard the soft click after each letter, until she had spelled out metaphoric kiwis. At the final S, the click was a little louder than the others. Maisie held her breath. Very slowly, the front of the egg opened, revealing a crystal peony.