The Glas s Town Game

“Oh, the lemons, you mean? Couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. I’m just a bear without my tea! It’s got to be made just right, you know! And just right at Chez Bonaparte means bitter and sharp and sour as Papa’s disappointment. And it is Bonaparte, Victoria, you cloud-brained little milk calf. Maybe Agnes can think up a rhyme so you don’t forget it.” Napoleon leaned forward. He rested his chin on both rifle-barrels. “But I am good! I am, really. The goodest. That’s the whole point! I’m so good that it was best for everyone if I was Emperor, and once I was Emperor, I just felt so sorry for all the people I wasn’t Emperor of, so I went out with my armies to show them how good I was, as well. It’s not my fault they’re too stupid to see it. In fact, mes amis, I’m so tremendously, stupendously, horrendously good that I, Napoleon Bonaparte, will take you home to Haworth myself, to make up for the whole misunderstanding with the lemons. Isn’t that lovely of me? I think so!”

Branwell cheered and spun round. “See? See? I told you!”

“How do you know we’re from Haworth?” Anne said slowly. “How do you even know about Haworth at all? It’s not any place for an Emperor to know about.”

“Ah, but I do know about it. I know all about it. And Keighley and Yorkshire and England, too. After all, I sent my best spy to Keighley to fetch me a bat-tree quite recently. He did say it was a bit of a mud puddle, but it’s very hard to impress my boy. He’s seen so much.”

“England?” Victoria said softly.

“The Voltaic Pyle,” breathed Anne.

“Brunty,” Branwell whispered. “But he said he got the . . . the bat-tree from Mr. Volta in Switzerland. That’s nowhere near Keighley.”

Bonaparte stood up and raised his rifle in the air. “I will tell you a story. A story about a good man! A man so good that when he conquers a city, he immediately begins fixing up the place so it looks pretty. This man is so good, he does all the work himself so that all his friends can relax and drink cocktails by the river!”

Miss Agnes frowned. She whispered in Victoria’s pale lacy ear: “What do we say about telling fibs to puff ourselves up?”

“Puffed up is stuffed up,” Victoria whispered back with a little grin. Old Boney paid them no mind.

“This good man, myself—you will have guessed—rolled up his sleeves and got to work renovating one enormous fortress in particular—this one, you will have guessed—and what did he find when he dug the mess out of the corners of this fortress with his honest, hardworking hands? Four ancient statues! Three granite girls and a granite boy. And when this good man busted up all those dirty old statues cluttering up the neat, tidy cellar? Why, a door! An iron door hidden by a curtain of white silk. A totally unlocked door! Anyone might have been using it, going in and out for centuries, just as they pleased! This door, in its turn, opened on a long dark passage, dimly lit by a single, lonely lamp, and a flight of rickety, entirely unsafe, steps leading . . . who knows where? I know where, mon chers! To a completely unremarkable moor in a completely unremarkable country with a completely unremarkable sun barely shining at all on it. This is a place I have never seen. It does not smell like home. It does not feel like home. The people there are old and made out of nothing good. This good man does not like this bad place. But he needs it. Because all roads to Switzerland must begin somewhere, mustn’t they? It seems that in our case, all roads that lead from Verdopolis to Switzerland must pass through an odd little circle of dreary brush with Keighley at one edge of it, and us on the other, and a funny old place called Haworth right in the middle.”

“It’s not dreary. You’re dreary,” Anne mumbled.

“What a coincidence that four little breather children from Haworth popped into existence in Glass Town just as our Brunty was captured! Incroyable! But I think it is not, my sweethearts. My best spy is best for a reason, no? He tells me that when you and your little wolf pack thought you were quite alone, you said the strangest things about making Glass Town happen. About your toys coming to life. So this good man asks a question.” Bonaparte bent down and stared into Branwell’s dark eyes with his eyes of bone. “Am I your toy, child?”

“No,” Bran choked out. But you are, you are, his brain crowed. And you’re amazing and you’re real!

Bonaparte’s boney lip trembled. He searched Bran’s eyes. Then he sat down on the floor and began to weep.

“I am. I am. You can’t lie to me with those cow eyes. I knew it was true. When I found the door, I knew I would not like the other side of it. When our Brunty told me what he heard, I knew I would not like the other side of that, either. How can this be? Am I not the Emperor? Am I not my father’s son? Do I rule Gondal? Have I not taken half of Glass Town by the force of my own will? No! I am nothing. I am a child’s toy. A boy’s favorite doll.” Napoleon sniffled. “I am your favorite, yes?”

“Yes,” Bran breathed.

“At least there

is that!”

Marengo roosted down next to his master. He crooned comfortingly. He glared at Anne and Branwell with malevolent eyes.

“If I am your doll,” Old Boney moaned, “why did you make me like this? What else could I ever be but a tyrant with these?” He held up his rifle-arms. “I never toddled about giggling or made mud-pies or hugged my Papa. I invaded my nursery! I took the house room by room! And my father was proud of that. Your rude sister is right—I invaded Glass Town, I started the war. I was hungry for a whole world and it looked so good, just waiting on the table . . . ”

“You could just stop, you know,” said Anne haughtily.

“I won’t, though. I am what I am. Toys can’t change the game.” He gestured at Bran. “It’s his fault, not mine. Don’t look at me. And yes, yes, Agnes, I know. ‘He who seeks to shirk the blame plainly doth his fault proclaim.’ You’re a toy as well! So I don’t have to listen to you and neither does anyone!”

Anne stared pitilessly at the tyrant. “I was born a girl in a world of Branwells, but I shall be more than I am meant.”

“Who cares what you will be! No one is who! We’re talking about me! I, who lead the army. I, who command the power of the Voltaic Pyle! I would believe you are a toy. But I sent my man to another world to fetch the greatest magic it possessed! I balanced the scales of life that Glass Town leaned its dumb mitts on! I don’t have to stop. The bat-trees will power my victory!”

“What does it do?” Branwell asked. He’d been dying to know for so long.

“It powers you. Keeps you alive no matter what. Charges you up with new strength. We hardly need guns when one bat-tree-man can burn our enemies with acid or lightning, whichever takes his fancy.”

“Well, you only have one.” Branwell shrugged.

“Oh, I have twelve. Not as many as I’ll have in a month or two, but that’s a jolly enough squad. My man Rogue got to work as soon as Brunty smuggled it across. I believe you know my Rogue, don’t you?”

“Poor Captain Bravey,” Bran whispered.