The Glas s Town Game

Bran and Anne exchanged glances, and Anne spoke. “You’re made of cake.”

“And alive,” Branwell added.

“And Napoleon’s maid,” Anne put in.

“But of course. And who else have you invented?”

Bran blew air out of his cheeks. “Well, just . . . everyone, really! Crashey and Bravey and Gravey and Napoleon and Wellington and Rogue and—oh! You said Douro! The Marquis of Douro? He’s one of ours! And Mr. Bud and Mr. Tree and Tracky and Boaster . . .”

“Not Brunty, though,” Anne said softly. “Not Bestminster. Not lots of them, when you think about it.”

Marie Antoinette sparkled at Bran. She put her frosting-face in her delicate hands and smiled. “Did you do all that by yourself? What a talent you must be!”

“Well, Charlotte did Douro mostly. And Wellington. And Gravey and Crashey and Zenobia. But I did Dr. Home. His backstory, anyway; she ran off with him a bit over the winter. . . . And Emily did Ross and Parry and a jolly lot of ladies I can’t remember the names of because she won’t let me hold them hostage in my castles. . . . Rogue is mine, though! And Napoleon!”

Marie leaned closer. He could smell the warm baking pastry of her heart. “Fascinating! Tell me more! Who else?”

Branwell warmed under the sun of Marie’s interest. He wracked his mind. “Oh! Anne has some sad little dolly called Victoria, but we haven’t met her yet. She’s Anne’s secret.”

“Bran! You . . . you worm!”

“She talks to her doll all night long. There’s a million stories and she won’t tell us one,” Branwell confided in his new friend. Anne went white with rage.

Marie patted Anne’s hand. She smelled like warm, rich chocolate and cool lemon cake. “Do not be upset at your brother, mon fille! It is not beautiful on you. Why would you keep secrets from him? He seems very nice! You should never keep secrets from your family.”

“He wouldn’t understand,” pleaded Anne, her eyes full of tears. “He’ll be angry. He gets very angry, miss.”

“Don’t we all, petite Anne? Ah, but you see, there is no proof! How can I believe such a thing?”

Branwell went red. “You don’t know anything! I can prove it!”

“Can you?” The former Queen of France said curiously.

“Can you?” said Anne. “How?”

He would turn that mocking expression into admiration. He would.

“I know all about Glass Town. And Gondal, too. I know every plan Wellington’s ever had, every siege, every defense. I can tell you—”

Marie leaned forward eagerly. “Yes, mon amour? What can you tell me?”

Anne pinched him more viciously than he had ever been pinched in his life. Branwell went slack with horror. In another moment, he would have told that perfect icing-girl everything he could think of, just so that she would believe him and think he was important enough to meet Napoleon and smile. Just for her smile.

“No,” he croaked. “Nothing. I am mad. Mad as mittens. You can’t invent a person. You can’t invent a world. It’s preposterous. Like you said.”

Marie clapped her coconut-cream hands and giggled. “Oh, do you know I am so good at interrogating! Brunty is always telling me fingernails, fingernails, and if that doesn’t work, why not try cutting off a toe? But is only me to tidy up all that drippety-slop. Why bother with any of that when you can wink and flutter and gasp at a boy who is so dreadfully afraid that he is not so good as anyone else? A sad little sour-faced baby punching his sisters because he knows he’s the least of them? Is easy as eating cake.”

“You knew we were telling the truth?” Anne asked miserably.

“Brunty always knows. Is the fourth rule of spying. When Someone Tells You Something Impossible, Listen.”

“But I didn’t,” Bran rasped. Oh, he was wretched. He was just what they all said. He was small and vicious and useless. “I didn’t give them up. And I won’t. I won’t ever. I am a locked chest buried in a well in the ground.”

Marie Antoinette shrugged. She rubbed her finger round the rim of one of the empty bowls of brown soup and tasted it. “C’est la vie! It would be much better for you if you did. There are worse things than me in this place. And if you don’t spill your delicate English innards, then we’ll bury all of you in a chest in a well in the ground, trouble-stirring sisters and all. Brunty is home, and the world is about to change. Soon grog won’t matter any more than madness. Maybe you should be on the better side of that world, non? We have the most delicious cake here.”

With that, Marie Antoinette swept out of the room and shut the door fast. A long, horrible quiet fell onto Branwell and Anne. He could not bear to look at her. She could not bear to speak to him. Finally, when the sun began to get low and golden outside their windows, Anne sighed and said:

“Don’t listen to her. Didn’t you hear the frogs in the courtyard?”