The Peculiar Night of the Blue Heart

by Lauren DeStefano

  For Mary, who is wonderfully peculiar.

  Never stop being you.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Acknowledgments

  Childhood is measured out by sounds and smells

  And sights, before the dark of reason grows.

  —John Betjeman

  CHAPTER

  1

  Lionel was a wild boy. Sometimes he forgot he was a boy at all. He growled and purred, and fell asleep curled beneath the table during breakfast.

  Mrs. Mannerd was always exasperated with Lionel, but she had seven other children to mind, and some days it was easier to serve him his porridge under the table than it was to make him use a chair.

  Lionel might have been useful if only he’d been cooperative. When he talked to the chickens, they would lay eggs, but he would not dare steal them from the roosts. He was so patient and so still and so endearing that he could lure a wild rabbit into his hands, but he would not allow Mr. Porter, the butcher, to skin it for supper. One afternoon he walked into the barn just as Mr. Porter was about to take an ax to the Thanksgiving turkey, and he screamed and caused such a ruckus that the turkey was spooked and took off running, and feeble old Mr. Porter had to chase it around the barn with his bad back and his ax in one hand, all as Lionel shouted, “Run, run!” and tried to set the turkey free.

  It had been a delicious turkey supper, but Lionel spent the whole meal sobbing in the darkness of the stairwell, blowing his nose on the good napkins with the embroidered fleurs-de-lis that the late Ms. Gillingham had imported from France (God rest her soul).

  Everyone in the house agreed that the boy was strange, except for Marybeth. Marybeth could often be found following Lionel, and she always offered him some of the pralines that her second cousin sent for the holidays.

  Marybeth was a very normal girl, with dark hair that she wore braided into pigtails, and round spectacles with red metal rims. She always washed her face and brushed her teeth without being asked, and what she wanted with a boy like Lionel was perplexing to everyone in the house.

  Mrs. Mannerd hoped that some of Marybeth’s graces would rub off on the boy. Marybeth was nine and Lionel was nine and three-quarters, but she was at least five years wiser—or so Mrs. Mannerd liked to say. But Marybeth hoped she wasn’t an influence on Lionel; she quite liked him the way he was: clever and brave, as though he could never be harmed simply because it never occurred to him.

  Before she followed him outside that morning, Marybeth snuck two of Mrs. Mannerd’s coconut cookies into her dress pockets and ran through the screen door in the kitchen. Lionel was already several yards ahead, and she hurried to catch up to him, her braids bouncing against her shoulders. “Where are you going?” she asked him.

  It was a question Lionel heard often. He never sat still and he was always going somewhere, and he was always gone for a long time. He was very good at not answering. He would yawn or bite into an apple or howl like a wolf. But he liked Marybeth; she never scolded him or stole his pillow or told him to eat his stew. So he gave her a straight answer. “I’m going to make friends with a fox I saw last week.”

  “Is it one of Mrs. Rustycoat’s babies?” Marybeth asked. Mrs. Rustycoat was the name of a fox they’d found last spring. She wouldn’t come close while Marybeth was in tow, but Lionel told her that when he was alone, Mrs. Rustycoat came and ate blueberries from his hand. He said she was so aloof and cautious because she had a litter somewhere.

  “It wasn’t one of hers,” Lionel said. “It had a blue coat.”

  “Can foxes be blue?” Marybeth asked.

  “I’ve never heard of it,” Lionel said. “But I know what I saw. It stood on its hind legs and looked at me and then ran into a shrub.”

  “Did you look it up in the encyclopedia?” Marybeth asked.

  “Mrs. Mannerd says I’m banned from the encyclopedias for a week.”

  “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “She said they give me wild ideas.”

  Mrs. Mannerd was an adult, and had been one for a long time. So long, in fact, that the children suspected she had no memory of being a child herself. Her hair was gray and she was very tall. She was afraid of children with wild ideas. She said that she’d been caring for orphans for forty years and she had seen all kinds of children—good ones and mean ones and smart ones and dull ones—but she had never under all her stars had a child like Lionel. She once said that Lionel must have been born in a barn, and Marybeth politely pointed out that Jesus had been born in a barn, and Mrs. Mannerd didn’t have anything to say to that except, “Finish your carrots, Marybeth.”

  Lionel had smiled at her from across the table. Only for a moment, though, and then he dipped his head. He didn’t like for the other children to know what he was thinking.

  He was in good spirits now. He stepped into the woods, as light on his feet as a ghost. Marybeth stayed close behind him and tried not to make too much noise. She looked over her shoulder just once, to see how far they’d gone from the little red house where Mrs. Mannerd would be collecting the laundry from the hampers right about now, muttering about things the children left in their pockets. The older ones would be in their rooms studying their French and their cursive, no doubt envious of Marybeth and Lionel, who were the only children young enough to be allowed to squander their Saturday mornings outside.

  Not long ago, there had been another child their age, a little girl with long hair and eyes the same color as when the daylight hits the sea. She was extremely polite and curtsied when she said hello. She was adopted by a young couple with kind eyes and creased clothes, and once she was gone, Mrs. Mannerd told the children, “You see what happens when you behave?”

  There were infants sometimes as well. They came and went, each one identical to the one before it. Mrs. Mannerd didn’t like infants. They always needed something, and they couldn’t help out around the house. But they were adopted off soon enough. Babies were preferred by the barren. Best to shape them from the beginning, rather than taking an older child and dealing with who they’ve already become.

  Lionel was certain that nobody would ever adopt him. That suited him just fine. As soon as he was old enough, he would live in the woods and be a wild thing, and he would never eat porridge again.

  “Stop,” he said, and held out his arms. When the leaves ceased to crunch under Marybeth’s scuffed black boots, he listened. The animal was nearby. He could feel its pulse in the air, like the rumble of a train getting closer.

  He crouched low, and then he began to crawl.

  Marybeth stood still, holding her breath for as long as she could stand just to be quiet.

  Finally she said, “It won’t come out because I’m here.”

  Lionel stood. His eyes were distant, and at first Marybeth didn’t think he’d heard her, but then he said, “Maybe.”

  “I can go inside.”

  “I don’t want you to go,” Lionel said. He wasn’t looking at her, and he gnawed on his lip pensively as he considered the hiding animal, unaware of how his words had touched
her. Marybeth, like the other children in the house, was unaccustomed to being told she was wanted.

  “Come out, you stubborn thing,” Lionel said. “Mr. Porter and the older ones aren’t here. It’s just us.”

  “Maybe it’s best that it’s scared, whatever it is,” Marybeth said. “No animal would become supper if it knew to stay away from humans.”

  “We aren’t humans,” Lionel said. “We’re Lionel and Marybeth.”

  Sometimes, for just a moment, Marybeth stood on the very edge of his world, and through the shadows she could almost see what he was thinking.

  “Come on,” she said. “We can go to the river and talk to the fish. They always come to you.”

  “All right,” Lionel said, quite frustrated with the blue creature, who could not, it seemed, know the difference between an ordinary human and Marybeth. He began to suspect he had overestimated the thing’s intelligence.

  They spent the rest of the morning making faces at the fish and chasing each other, giggling as they caught each other between the trees until Mrs. Mannerd called them to their chores, and they ran to her voice.

  That evening, after dinner, Lionel slipped outside as the older ones argued over who got to take the first bath while there was still plenty of hot water.

  Mrs. Mannerd knew that Lionel had gone because he’d left the storm door open, and the wind made it flutter against the frame.

  She also knew that going after him would prove futile. He was quick as a fox, and he liked to climb. She lost her breath chasing after him, always to no end.

  Marybeth, however, was never any trouble to find. She was sitting at the empty table, her posture ever straight as she read from a cover-worn book she’d checked out of the library.

  “Do you know where Lionel’s gone off to?” Mrs. Mannerd said.

  “To feed the foxes, maybe,” Marybeth offered. “He had berries in his pocket.”

  So that was why the blueberries kept disappearing, Mrs. Mannerd thought.

  Marybeth closed her book. “I can find him.”

  “Don’t be too long. The sun’s going down.”

  Of all the children in the house, Marybeth was the only one to ever do as she was told, and without complaint, no less. She didn’t even need to be reminded to put on her coat before she opened the door.

  When Marybeth stepped outside, she was greeted by a gust of cool autumn wind. This was the time of year when Lionel was more prone to disappear. After most of the birds had abandoned their nests in preparation for the winter, he turned his focus to the foxes and rabbits, and left offerings to the coyotes in the hopes of charming them as well.

  She knew better than to call out to him. Her voice would only startle whatever small creature he was trying to allure.

  She was no expert tracker; she wasn’t deft or silent. But she did know Lionel, and she could see the subtle traces that he left on his way out of the house. For starters, he never stepped in the soft earth like the kind that had formed after yesterday’s rain. Soft earth left footprints. He would hop over that and tread only in the grass.

  Marybeth looked for the grass that was slightly bent. There was an empty patch where she remembered seeing some clovers earlier. They were gone now, which meant that Lionel had plucked them.

  He would feed them to the rabbits, she thought. Along with the bits of bark that were missing from a nearby tree.

  Moving as quietly as she could, she ascended into the tree line and made her way to the warren.

  Sure enough, she found Lionel lying on his stomach, looking into a mossy opening beside a giant tree. He didn’t look at Marybeth, but she saw his ears prick up. He was being a rabbit himself just then.

  She took a step toward him.

  “Quiet,” he whispered, and made room for her beside him.

  Marybeth lowered herself onto the ground, breathing as quietly as she could.

  Lionel looked at her, and only she would have been able to recognize the smile in his eyes, on his face that was otherwise firm with concentration. “There’s a fat mother rabbit in there,” he said. His voice sounded just like the wind, his words barely audible. “She’s shy, but she can’t resist the clovers. Give me your hand.”

  Marybeth held out her hand, watching curiously as he filled her palm with rumpled clovers.

  “Hold it up by the entrance,” he said, nodding to the small cavern. “Go on.”

  Marybeth did as he instructed with a sense of caution. Lionel sometimes tried to include her in his endeavors with wild creatures, but she lacked his natural magic. She always ended up scaring the poor things away.

  For several seconds, nothing happened. It was beginning to get dark, and soon Mrs. Mannerd would grow cross with them.

  “Lionel—”

  “Shh. Shh. Look.”

  Marybeth sensed the rabbit before she saw it. It peeked its gray-brown head from its warren and twitched its nose against her fingertip. Marybeth felt a chill and did her best not to giggle.

  Bit by bit, the rabbit came out into view. It really was a chubby thing, and it went for the clovers in Marybeth’s palm. It looked at her with its nervous black eyes as it chewed.

  Lionel talked softly to it, murmuring sweet things mothers said to sleeping babies—or so Marybeth would imagine—and stroking its cheek with his knuckle.

  A sharp gust of wind pushed across the sky, rattling the bare branches and fallen leaves. The rabbit’s ear twitched, and it hopped back into hiding.

  Marybeth burst into giggles and rolled onto her side. “I don’t think she liked me very much.”

  “Sure she did,” Lionel said. “It’s taken all week for me to get her to come out.” A smile was beginning to creep onto his serious features. Marybeth plucked a blade of grass from his unruly hair.

  She was the only one he would allow to do such a thing. When Mrs. Mannerd attempted to comb his hair, he hissed. Be reasonable! Mrs. Mannerd would cry, which of course only made him less reasonable. But Marybeth never told him what to do. She never tried to tame him, not even when she didn’t understand why he behaved the way that he did. She merely cared for him, the way that he cared for the rabbits. The way a mother bird guarded her nest.

  “What did you do with the berries you took?” she asked.

  “I left them by the river. I’m sure I saw the blue fox go there.”

  Marybeth stared at the bit of clovers still in her palm. It was a simple-enough thing, a clover; people stepped over them on their way to grander things. But she knew that it was the greatest thing Lionel had to offer her. It was an invitation into his peculiar world.

  From far away, they heard the storm door open.

  “Children!” Mrs. Mannerd called.

  Marybeth cringed. “I was supposed to find you and bring you back inside.” She stood and held out her hands. He took them, and she pulled him to his feet.

  The smile was still lingering on his face, and it grew. “Race you back.”

  He took off running before she could answer.

  “Lionel!”

  He held an unfair advantage, and he knew it. He was barefoot while she wore stiff leather shoes that were secondhand and a size too small. And when he had a mind to be, he was the wind itself, flying over the surface of the earth, impossible to catch.

  But when he reached the side of the little red house, he waited for her. That was the thing that made him human again.

  CHAPTER

  2

  The wind and rain picked up late that night. The older ones did not notice storms, and they slept on.

  Marybeth shared a bedroom with three older girls, and she slept on the rickety top bunk beside the window that overlooked the woods. There was a maple tree that grew beside the house, and its branches would rap on the glass when it was especially windy, as though it wanted to wake her and show her something.

  Only there was never anything out there to see. Marybeth rubbed the sleep from her eyes and squinted through the blur of her nearsighted vision.

  She
was just falling back to sleep when she saw it: a flicker of blue.

  She sat upright immediately, unsure if she had dreamed it. She reached for her spectacles, hanging from a nail in the wall above her pillow.

  The edges of the swaying trees came into focus. When the branches moved just so, she saw it again, a flash of blue.

  She descended the ladder from her bed, minding the missing rung that had broken off before she came to live there.

  There were no windows in the upstairs hallway, and without so much as the moonlight to guide her, Marybeth walked with her hand along the wall to make her way.

  The door to the boys’ room was slightly ajar. Marybeth could hear the older ones snoring.

  “Lionel,” she whispered. His bed was farthest from the door, in a corner where the ceiling leaked when it rained. He kept a galvanized bucket at the foot of his bed, and Marybeth could hear the plunk, plunk, plunk of water falling into it. “Lionel!”

  One of the older ones stopped snoring. He sat up, his silhouette all black against a flash of lightning that brightened the window.

  “I was dreaming that I was a king, and then you woke me,” he told her. “If I’m not still king when I go back to sleep, I’ll hang you by your toes.”

  He might do it, Marybeth knew. She’d been locked in closets and framed for the older ones’ offenses, so that she’d be punished with their chores. The older ones made a game of tormenting Marybeth and Lionel, but Marybeth especially, because she was easier to catch and too timid to defend herself.

  “Beat it,” the older one said, and Marybeth shrank away from the doorway. If she wanted to look for the blue creature, she would have to go alone and tell Lionel about it in the morning.

  She made her way down the stairs, knowing precisely which ones to avoid because they creaked, and took the lantern from the hall closet and struck a match to light the candle. After that, she grabbed her yellow rain slicker from its hook by the door. She wriggled her feet into her rain boots, which were a size too large and beginning to come apart from their soles. They were older than Marybeth herself and had been worn by every child to live in this house before her.