The Glas s Town Game

She kicked his shin for that. “You’re big, so what excuse have you got?”

“Fine, we’ll do it together.”

“Fine. But don’t call me little.”

“Then don’t call me scared.”

“Very well, then, Mr. B.”

“Very well, then, Miss A.”

They sat staring angrily at each other for a while, until they started to feel a bit silly. Out of danger for a few hours and shins had already been kicked.

“I won’t tell Charlotte you were scared,” Anne sighed.

“Well, I wasn’t, so good.”

“But I’m still telling Em.”

Suddenly, all the color drained from Anne’s face.

“Oh, Bran, you don’t suppose they’re . . . they’re not all right, do you? They will come and find us, won’t they? They’re on their way right now, right this second. They’ve been on their way this whole time and they’ll turn up any minute. Right?”

Bran’s chest went cold. His stomach clenched. All at once, he felt younger than Anne, and very far away from home. He’d told Charlotte every day since he learned to talk that her being older didn’t matter the littlest bit because he was just as tall and clever and a boy besides. And he meant it every time. But it had simply never occurred to him that he could have gotten into any sort of trouble that his sisters couldn’t fix. Of course they were all right. The world would just fall off its axle if Charlotte and Emily ever took one step off all right. But not so deep down, Branwell knew very well that two sisters could so easily vanish if you let them out of your sight for so much as one beat of their hearts.

He couldn’t say that to Anne. Not now. He was the oldest. He was the man of the house. If he failed now, he’d never deserve another try.

“Of course they are,” he said confidently. And praised himself a bit for how strong and even he sounded when he felt no bigger or stronger than one of those dolls. “They’d be perfectly fine in a hellfire hurricane, so long as Em had something to worry about and Charlotte had something to boss about.”

“But what if they got hurt or lost or they can’t find us?”

“Buck up,” Branwell said softly. His voice did tremble then. He never got to start the Bees.

“Be brave,” Anne told herself.

But it was no good. Bad enough to go from six to four when Lizzie and Maria died. The Bees couldn’t stand to lose two more. There’d be nothing left if they weren’t careful.

Anne jutted out her chin and let Branwell help her up from the dark hallway floor. The girl at the writing desk still didn’t look up or take any notice of them at all, even when they knocked at the green glass door. The orange blossoms in her lacy hair smelled sharper and more alive than anything else in this place. All Anne wanted in all the world was to throw herself onto Victoria and hug her forever. But, as agreed, on the count of three, Branwell and Anne said in unison:

“Hullo!”

The strange little girl gave a strangled cry and leapt out of her chair. She clutched her chest and shut her eyes. Then she started laughing.

“Oh, I’m so terribly sorry! I thought you two were still asleep! You do sleep quite a bit, you know. And you make such savage noises while you’re doing it! I listened for hours. I say, you are made out of funny stuff, aren’t you? What a strange color you both are! I snuck out to watch you sleep. Was I being wicked? I’m often wicked; everyone says so. But it was so awfully interesting! One can never tell what one sounds like when oneself is sleeping. But I don’t think I sound like an angry tiger riding a runaway steam train. I suppose I could. It’s just impossible to know! Wouldn’t it be nice to know everything it’s impossible ever to know? If I were in charge of the universe, I would know every impossible thing, even the ones that don’t seem in the least important, like what I sound like when I’m sleeping and how old the moon is to the minute and what it feels like to have enough to eat. And I’d let everyone else know their own private impossibles, too. Well, nearly everyone else. Everyone who’s up to snuff. Everyone who was kind to me and didn’t yell. I think if you yell a lot, you shouldn’t get anything ni

ce.”

The girl clapped a threadbare satin hand over her mouth.

“Oh, I’m so loud! You must think I’m the worst sort of scrubby old starling CAWing and CAWing and CAWing even though everyone’s just praying they’ll stop. But I’m not a starling and I’m not altogether old and I shouldn’t like to think I’m scrubby, but it’s the people who have to look at you who decide whether or not you’re scrubby. Anybody could slump about being scrubby as a brush, but if everyone he knew said he looked a treat, he’d never suspect he was actually the scrubbiest. But Mr. Brunty’s never said I am, and neither has Miss Agnes or Uncle Leon said I am, so I don’t think I am, but they might not tell me if I was, because it’s not polite and Agnes says we must all raise up the manners banners along the walls of our soul’s castle, which I’m reasonably sure isn’t a real saying and she only made it up because it rhymes and she thinks I won’t remember if it doesn’t rhyme. But I do. I remember everything. Agnes is my governess. I think everyone ought to have a governess, not just children. But the trouble is, I never have anyone to talk to, banners up or banners down, except sometimes Agnes and some fewer times Uncle Leon, and my dolls and darling, sweet, funny old Mr. Brunty. I haven’t seen Brunty in ever so long. Oh! I do miss him dreadfully! What I mean to say is that I am alone almost all the time, and that’s why all this nonsense comes out the moment I’m not alone anymore, and it is. It’s just nonsense. Listen to me go on! Oh, I am scrubby, I am! Only scrubby folk can’t stop CAWing and CAWing and CAWing even though you’re probably praying right this instant for me to stop and I shall, I shall stop. I am going to stop right now, I am, I will stop talking.” The girl began to shake and tremble and rub her arms with her hands as though she was terribly cold. “I will stop, I must stop. I’m sorry, I’m stopping, stop now, stop it! Good little starling, I’m a good starling, I’m a good girl, everyone says what a good girl I am. See there, I’ve stopped. I’ve done it. It’s over. But in a moment, you’ll say something. Then I’ll have to say something back and it’ll all come gushing out again and we’ll talk and talk and talk and I’ll have to think of things to say every time, not just things, but new things, and if we’re not careful there’ll be no end to it.”

Bran just stood there in his blue and red pajamas, dumbfounded.

“Um . . . yes . . . well . . . erm. My name’s Branwell. This is my sister Anne. How do you . . . do?”

Anne waved shyly.

“I don’t think you’re scrubby,” she said. “I don’t think you’re scrubby at all.”