By the time the library closes, she decides to rename herself Amity Onawa. Amity, from the Latin
In her new and terrible loneliness, the name Amity — friendship — speaks to what she hopes to give and receive. And after the hideous experiences of the night just passed, she seems to have come out of a lifelong half sleep; she is now as wide awake as any girl has ever been, wide awake to the fact that the world is more dangerous and far stranger than she had previously realized.
She is one month past her fourteenth birthday.
She has not yet wept for her parents or her brother. Those tears will not come for another three weeks, and then they will be a flood.
Now, more than two years later …
Amity, who also calls herself the Phantom of the Broderick, sits in a restaurant booth with Crispin, eating a tasty chicken sandwich and drinking a Coke. She is sixteen. He is twelve and counting down. At their age, four years is a chasm, but it’s bridged by their shared awareness that the world is a more mysterious place than most people wish to acknowledge.
Amity asks, “You still sometimes hear a voice saying you can undo what was done, save them both?”
“Sometimes. Been hearing it since I was nine. Almost thirteen now. Still don’t know what it means.”
“Birthday boy,” she says. “Tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah.”
“The big thirteen,” she says.
“Glad to be here.”
Under the table, Harley chuffs.
“
Crispin nods. “It better be.”
10
July 27, three years and four months earlier …
Crispin wakes at 11:31, blinking at the digital clock, not sure if it’s nearly midnight or noon. Daylight behind the draperies solves that puzzle.
He doesn’t remember going to bed. In fact, he doesn’t remember much of anything after the previous evening’s dinner of tortilla soup and chicken nachos.
As he sits up against the headboard, trying to clear his mind, someone knocks on the door.
He says, “Come in,” and the maid named Arula enters pushing a breakfast cart, as if she intuited that he would sleep later than ever before and would wake precisely at this time.
The kitchen has sent up enough of Crispin’s favorites for three breakfasts. A silver pot of hot chocolate, from the spout of which rises a fragrant steam. A buttered English muffin. A chocolate-chip muffin and an almond croissant. A generous bowl of fresh strawberries with brown sugar and a little pitcher of cream. A fat sticky bun crusted in pecans. In the warming drawer of the cart, if he should want them, are banana pancakes with maple syrup on the side.
In her own way, Arula is as pretty as the other housemaids — it’s amazing how pretty they all are — and always friendly. As she opens the draperies to let in the morning light, she tells him that the day is warm, the bluebirds this year are bluer than they have ever been, and Mr. Mordred will be convening class today only from one o’clock until four, in the library.
Surveying the offerings on the breakfast cart, Crispin feels slow-witted, fuzzy-minded. Although he has never been a moody boy, he is for some reason out of sorts. He complains that he can’t eat so much. “You’ll have to give part of it to Harley or someone.”
Returning to the bed, Arula says, “Pish-posh, dear boy. These are your favorite things, and your brother has his own. Eat what you want, and we’ll throw away the rest. You’re a good boy, you deserve to have choices.”
“It seems such a waste.”
“Nothing is wasted,” she assures him, “if even the sight of it gives you pleasure.”
This is a different cart than usual. There is no bed tray. The top of the cart itself swivels over the bed, conveniently presenting all these delicious items within easy reach.
After adjusting her uniform blouse, Arula sits on the edge of the bed, grabs one of his feet, which is under the blankets, and gives it an affectionate squeeze. “You’re a fine and thoughtful boy, worrying about wasting things.”
Although his memories of the past evening remain shapes in a fog, Crispin remembers something from the previous afternoon. “Why did you bathe Mirabell in milk and rose petals?”
Only after he asks the question does he remember that he knows of this event because he and Harley were eavesdropping.
Arula neither frowns nor pauses in surprise, but answers as if no one keeps secrets in Theron Hall. “In the very, very best European families, there are traditional beauty regimens that girls as young as six are expected to follow.”
“We’re not European,” Crispin mutters.
“You’re Crispin Gregorio now, and you certainly are European, at least by marriage. Remember, the family lives only occasionally in Theron Hall and has houses all over the world. Your mother wants to be sure you assimilate well and know how to live in any country in which you find yourself.”
“I don’t want to take a bath in milk and roses.”
Arula laughs sweetly and squeezes his foot again. “And you won’t. That’s just for girls, you silly thing.”
Nibbling grudgingly on a croissant, Crispin says, “I’ll bet girls don’t like it, either.”
“Mirabell loved it. Girls like to be pampered.”
“I’m going to ask her, and I’ll bet she didn’t like it.”
“By all means, ask her the first time she calls from France.”
Confused, Crispin says, “What do you mean — France?”
“Well, if you weren’t such a terrible sleepyhead, you’d know. We’ll all be going to France in October. This morning, Minos and Mrs. Frigg flew to Paris to prepare the house there, and Mirabell went with them.”
The filling of almond paste in the croissant, which has been sweet, suddenly seems bitter. He puts down the pastry.
“Why would Mirabell go to France before the rest of us?”
“There’s no bedroom in the Paris house suitable for a little girl,” Arula explains. “Mr. Gregorio wants his daughter to be as happy as possible. He’s authorized the expenditure of whatever is necessary to give her the most wonderful bedroom suite that she can imagine. She needs to be there to make choices.”
“That doesn’t sound right,” Crispin says.
“What doesn’t?”
He frowns. “I don’t know.”
Her hand moves up his leg, and she squeezes his knee through the blanket. “Oh, it’s right as rain. Mr. Gregorio is a generous man.”
“What about me and Harley? Where are we gonna sleep when we get there?”
“The Paris house already has bedrooms suitable for boys. You’ll be quite happy with yours.”
He has been sitting up to the breakfast selection. He slumps back against the mound of pillows. “I don’t want to go to Paris.”
“Nonsense. It’s one of the greatest cities in the world. You want to see the Eiffel Tower, don’t you?”
“No.”
“I swear,” Arula declares, letting go of his knee and rising from the bed, “you must have taken a grumpy pill this morning. Dear boy, France is going to be a grand adventure. You’ll love every minute of it.”
