The Atomic Weight of Secrets or The Arrival of the Mysterious Men in Black (17 page)

Because Ariana’s throat hurt, and sealed lips were required for her recovery, Noah read to her from books he selected from his father’s library. The books Noah had chosen, however, were not at all to his mother’s liking.

“The
History of the Steam Engine? Discovering the Inner Ear? The Life of the Banana Slug? Ambrose Paré: The Father of French Surgery?”
Ariana croaked. “Honestly, what kind of muck are you reading these days, Noah? You are a boy, not a laboratory rat. Here,” she said, pulling a quill from her drawer and writing out a list of books. “Give this list to Father. Tell him to have someone return these other books to their musty old shelves and fetch
those on my list.” She handed Noah the stack of unacceptable books and the list of those she wanted.

Before lunch, his father’s lab assistant returned from the library with a stack of new books and publications.

“The
Three Musketeers? Tom Jones? Dracula? Tristram Shandy?”
Noah read down the list, incredulous.

“These, my dear boy, are fun to read,” insisted his mother, whispering in a raspy voice. “Now, shut me up and start with this one.” She handed him a thin booklet, a story titled
A Study in Scarlet
by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Noah began to read.

The story was mysterious and exciting. Noah was thrilled as he read. He loved the fact that the detective, Sherlock Holmes, played the violin, and he loved being surprised at the end. He loved the bonbons and the nightclothes, and enjoyed cuddling with the suddenly sweet-smelling Ralph. What he loved most was having his mother’s attention focused on him, the only distractions coming from the delivery of delicious treats.

They spent the next several days reading and laughing, eating chocolate and sipping sweet hot tea.

“If the musketeers were dogs, you’d be d’Artagnan,” Noah told Ralph, who showed little interest in this pronouncement. Ralph did, however, seem to really listen when Noah read the story of
The Three Musketeers,
the dog curling up on Fifi’s pillow, his chin resting on Noah’s knee.

Noah and his mother read all the books, some to themselves and some with Noah reading aloud. Noah played violin for his mother, and even sang “The Strange Round Bird” to a tune he had composed on the spot. When he was a toddler, Noah had always found the rhyme odd and a bit scary, but he’d been determined
to learn it, memorizing the poem during playtime in the garden and singing it to himself every morning when he woke up so he wouldn’t forget.

His father had always been impressed that Noah could recite it with such ease. “It took me ages to learn it when I was a boy,” he had said, beaming at his son.

On the seventh day of the best week of his life, Noah woke to the sound of his mother gargling and singing her scales. His heart sank.

“Are you sure you’re well?” Noah said, hoping she still needed time to recover. “I mean, really, really well? You never can tell with these things. One minute you’re up and the next...” Noah performed a faux faint, crumpling to the floor.

“You silly!” Ariana laughed. “Yes, dear, I’m fine,” she said. “Thank you for taking such wonderful care of me. I’m well because of you.”

“Then I am to blame. Egads!” Noah jumped up from the floor.

“Such nonsense,” said Ariana with a smile. Then she gargled again.

“But maybe it’s too soon,” said Noah, more seriously. “Maybe you need more rest. Maybe three or four more weeks?”

“Why don’t you help me pack?” his mother said.

“Pack? When do you leave?” he asked.

“Not until tomorrow morning. But your father and I will be going to the theater tonight. You’ll finally have a night off from your invalid mother.”

Noah tried to smile, but it must have looked more like a grimace.

“Don’t look so melancholy,” Ariana said. “Most likely, I’ll be
gone just a few weeks or so, and before I head off to Rome, I’ll try to stay here with you for two whole days.”

“Rome?” Noah asked.
So very far so very soon,
he thought with a shiver. She was going to be gone a long time again. He could feel it. “I suppose all roads lead to Rome, huh? How about a stowaway? I promise to be helpful and courteous,” he said. “You can just stuff me in an extra sack. How hard could that be?”

Ariana Canto-Sagas smiled, kissed her son, and shook her head. “It’s not that it’s hard, darling,” she said in her softest, smoothest voice, the voice she always used to let him down easy. “It’s just the time. When will I have the time? I’ll be here and there and everywhere. It really is impossible, you see. Now, no sad faces on my funny man. There, there. You’ll understand, my sweet. I know you will.”

Of course, Noah always understood. He understood he would not be going with her.

“Don’t worry, my sweet. I will write.”

Noah knew this was true. She always wrote. Noah had a collection of hundreds of postcards from all over the world. The postcards would say how she went fox-hunting with the Windsors or saw the bulls run in Spain, and Noah would treasure every word, imagining her voice telling him all about it. He could always pick out his mother’s postcards in a pile of letters on the front table. She would tell him about the mad adventures she was having or the magnificent performances she gave for whatever kings and queens were attending. It had never been more than a week before a card came for Noah.

“Looks like you don’t have to take care of your mother anymore,” Noah’s father said with a smile as Noah helped his
mother pack. When Noah couldn’t bring himself to smile back, his father said, “Hey, want to help me rework that experiment? You’re my number one assistant.”

Noah and his father often performed experiments together. Noah was dubbed his father’s “number one assistant” right after his third birthday. “Father tells me you are his number one assistant,” his mother had written. “Today I had tea with the prince of Denmark...”

T
HE
B
IG
B
LACK
B
ARRIER

OR

HOW THE CHILDREN FOUND THE FENCE

I
n the morning of the second day at Sole Manner Farm, there was a bit of misty confusion when the children tried to remember why they found themselves in unfamiliar beds. The boys woke first, each coaxing the other out of sleep, and they were the first to remember where they were. It didn’t take long to fall back into snoozing, the comfort of the bed winning over enthusiasm for what was to come.

The girls, however, entwined and in dreams, remained sound asleep nearly an hour longer. Lucy had dreamt she was held in the arms of a large creature that was half horse and half rabbit. It sang to her about pigs and the market and told her that her toes were nimble and soon she would need a candlestick. But she wasn’t afraid, she thought to herself. She was safe, here in his arms.

Faye’s dreams were less vivid—more a feeling of warmth and safety. Until they woke, both girls clung to one another.

“Get off me!” Faye cried as Lucy pulled herself closer.

“I’m only cuddling,” said Lucy, trying to get warm again, moving back out of the cold part of the bed where Faye had sent
her.

“Well, it’s time to get up, anyway,” said Faye, climbing down from the bed. “And put your slippers on, or you’ll get splinters.”

Miss Brett had been up since the rooster crowed. She had lit the stove and pumped and fetched the water. She had collected the eggs and milked the cow, and then gone about mixing the eggs, milk, and flour batter for the pancakes. She added a heaping spoonful of sugar and a pinch of vanilla she shaved from the bean pods in the pantry. She also added some cinnamon, which she’d also found there.

Hearing voices that before had been snores, she put the first pancake on the buttered griddle and thought,
Funny how nothing will call to children like the smell of breakfast cooking.

Lucy ran to Miss Brett, hugging her around the middle.

“And good morning to you, Lucy,” Miss Brett said.

“Good morning, Miss Brett,” the other children said, wrapped in various stages of sleepiness and yawns. Within minutes of the first pancake hitting the griddle, all the children were sitting at the table.

“Are you all going to eat off the wood, or are you going to put some plates on the table?” said Miss Brett. “Come now, I know you’re tired, but we are starting a new day. Lucy, get the cups. They’re on the lower shelf next to the pantry door. Noah, get the plates. They’re higher up. Wallace, the napkins, in the hamper by the plates. Faye, you and Jasper get the milk. It’s in those jugs by the sink.”

Soon, they were all eating pancakes smothered in sweet butter and sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. They munched on raisins and dried apricots, too.

“We eat these with golden syrup or treacle back home,” Jasper said, taking a third helping of pancakes. “Hortensia makes them for us on weekends. These are better, though, aren’t they, Lucy?”

“They jolly well are,” she said, taking another bite. “They’re lovely, Miss Brett. Mummy said she always had crepes when she was small, back in France. They’re not fluffy at all. The ones Hortensia makes are a bit fluffy but mostly chewy. Yours are much fluffier than the ones back in England.”

“Must you eat like a horse?” Faye said to Noah, who was shoveling in what looked to be two bites at a time. “You, too,” she scolded Jasper, who stopped mid-bite and swallowed an uncomfortably large piece, slicing his next very small.

Faye took an elegant bite. “In India, we have
pooda.
And...” She looked at Lucy. “These are much fluffier than ours, as well.”

“It must be Miss Brett’s secret ingredients,” said Lucy, beaming at Miss Brett. “Miss Brett makes everything so deliciously that she must have a secret ingredient for everything. It’s the secret ingredient that makes it work. Isn’t that right, Miss Brett?”

Miss Brett smiled at Lucy. “It’s always the secret ingredient that makes a thing work best.”

Later, as they worked together cleaning up after breakfast, Miss Brett headed for the henhouse. Today’s lesson would cover a little nature.

“It’s hatching!” cried Lucy, halfway through a discussion on caring for chickens. Sure enough, the egg Miss Brett had brought in from the henhouse was cracking open. That morning, Miss
Brett had noticed the crack on the one egg she had left the day before, but supposed it still had some time to go. Now, they all gathered around the warming tray upon which the little egg, nestled in a soft cloth, was perched.