At this, the little girl crossed her arms. “You have a bad memory.” Then she sighed and held out her hand. “Very well, then. My name is Daisy.”
“Could’ve guessed that,” Adam mumbled, glancing at the same flower in her hair. He shook her hand. “I’m Adam. But you knew that already.”
“I did know. I don’t forget things like you do.”
Adam blinked at the girl as he remembered something. Daisy. It couldn’t be the same person, could it?
“Do you know a girl named Francine?” he asked.
“Who?”
“Curly hair, dark skin, lives in New York City…?”
Adam stopped talking when he caught the girl’s parents listening with suspicion. He decided to figure it out later. He knew there was a logical reason for all of this. And he supposed a small bite of lunch wouldn’t hurt in the meantime.
He reluctantly settled into his chair. He picked up the gleaming silver spoon and carefully sipped his soup. His eyes widened. It was extraordinary, unlike any other chicken soup he’d tasted.
Daisy was studying her bowl thoughtfully. “Grandmother taught me how to make this,” she said. “I think I did rather well.”
Adam gaped at her, unsure if he heard correctly. “You made the soup?”
Daisy nodded. “And the macaroni salad, too. The cook helped me.” Seeing the look on Adam’s face, she explained, “I like to make food. It’s fun.”
“Wow. How old are you?”
“I’m five.”
“I keep telling her we have maids for that,” the girl’s father said from down the table, sounding unimpressed. “We own the entire town. We don’t have to lift a pinky if we don’t want to. She should be more like her brother, who demands proper respect. Isn’t that right, Robbie?”
The chubby boy let out a loud belch, said, “It could use more salt,” and scarfed down his third bowl of soup since they’d sat down.
Throughout lunch, the mother asked Adam to remind her who he was again, and how old he was, and what his parents did for a living—the type of steady questions adults ask when they’re trying to probe. Because of the long table, Adam had to raise his voice and practically shout, something he wasn’t used to. He answered as vaguely as he could, and left out the part about the magic snow globe.
“New York City?” repeated the mother. “That’s quite a ways from here.”
“He must’ve taken the train in,” said the father to the mother. “Shame, it used to be a mighty respectable way to travel, but any riffraff can ride them nowadays.” He added, “Can’t trust New Yorkers. Ask if he’s in cahoots with whatshisname and that ridiculous group of vagabonds that came by here the other day. They—”
“I’m sure he isn’t. He is much too young.”
Adam was indignant at this remark. Whatever they were talking about, twelve years old was certainly not too young.
“Ask him,” retorted the father. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that crackpot magician’s recruiting children now, trying to claim our fortune.”
“Now, see here, Robert…”
As the parents continued arguing, Adam leaned closer to Daisy and murmured, so the others wouldn’t hear, “How did you know I’d be in the garden?”
“Last time you saw me, you said you’d arrive again on the fourth Monday of May at eleven o’clock,” the girl replied. “And here you are.”
“But I’ve never met you before,” Adam insisted. “When did I meet you?”
“A month ago, not long after Grandmother’s funeral.”
“Impossible.”
“You’re just like Mommy. She has a bad memory too. One time she ate breakfast twice, because she forgot she already ate that morning. Another time she went outside in the rain without her umbrella, came back to get it, and forgot it again.”
Adam glanced at the arguing adults, then asked Daisy, “So you don’t know anyone from New York City named Francine?”
Daisy shook her head. “I’ve never been to the city. Mommy says it’s not safe.”
Daisy’s parents finally ended their argument, and Daisy’s mother joined in Adam and Daisy’s conversation. “Yes, too many jealous folks in that city. They say the nastiest things to us, thanks to that ex-magician spreading rumors. Ever since he got out of jail—”
Daisy’s father snorted. “That’s what you get when you’re a successful multimillionaire,” he gloated, and leaned forward to get another helping of salad. As he did, Adam caught sight of a golden pendulum glistening underneath his collar.
The Gold Mold! Adam thought, recalling what Jack had told him. With a jolt, he recognized the man sitting across the table.
“You—you’re Robert Baron!” he gasped, remembering the newspaper clippings.
“The Robert Baron is my father,” the man said haughtily. “I am Robert Baron the Second. And this is Robert Baron the Third,” he added, motioning proudly to the chubby boy down the table.
“What—what year is it?” asked Adam.
Asking someone what year it is, of course, is as common as asking how many potatoes they have in their pocket. After a long, awkward pause, Daisy’s mother crinkled her eyebrows and said, “Well, it’s been 1922 for five months, hasn’t it?”
It all made sense now. Adam was in the Baron household, the owners of Candlewick’s Candles Corporation. He began breathing heavily, the way he did after an intense run in gym class.
Meanwhile, the rest of the family was oblivious to how Adam had gone pale. Mrs. Baron excused herself and disappeared to another room with her half-full plate. Her son, who would one day become the actual Gold Mold, was now concentrating on a roll. His father, Robert Baron II, was boasting about his state-of-the-art electric dishwasher.
“I can get the latest technology—the best telephone sets and radios,” he was saying. “In fact, I can get anything I want. If I want ice-cold lemon sherbet right now, I have someone who will pick it up for me from the finest dessert shop in the New York area. If I desire a brand-new Rolls-Royce—the finest automobile around—I can have it tomorrow. I can even get another pesky cat for Daisy to replace Mr. Flabbypaws.”
Daisy shook her head. “No one can replace Dr. Tabbypaws,”
