The Glass Town Game, Page 30

  Uncle Leon, whose surname was, of course, Bonaparte, poured his own tea. He dropped in a lump of sugar, then reached for the lemons. He smiled knowingly and turned them in his hands so that Anne and Branwell could clearly read, in graceful green ink on the yellow peels:

  Glass Town Royal Express Main Line

  South Angrian Loop

  One (1) Both-Ways Ticket

  Entitles the Bearer to Passage,

  Stashage, Gnashage, and Splashage

  Does Not Entitle Bearer to an

  On-Time Arrival, a Smooth Arrival,

  Any Arrival at All, or Pleasant

  Conversation With Staff

  Luggage Rights Strictly Observed

  The Emperor of Gondal and Lefthand Verdopolis pried both lemons apart with the bayonets on his rifle-arms. As Bran and Anne watched in speechless horror, Old Boney slowly squeezed each half into his tea. He squeezed and squeezed until all the juice was gone and the fruit was nothing more than four husks to be tossed out the window into the river with the rest of the rubbish.

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he said, and slurped his tea down with a sigh of satisfaction. “There is nothing in this world or any other like a good cup of tea, non?”

  Anne burst into tears.

  “I knew you were bad,” she sobbed. “Bran said you were good but I knew he was only being contrary and you’re still ghastly old Napoleon!”

  “No, he’s Uncle Leon! He brings me dolls and paper and ink! That’s goodness! It is!” Victoria cried.

  “Is it?” Anne whirled on her. “Because I’m nearly certain that your Uncle Leon kidnapped you when you were a baby and brought you here on a giant fly and never let you out for years and years and never even fed you enough while he had you! He doesn’t love you, Victoria! You’re the Crown Princess of Glass Town! You’re his enemy!”

  Victoria burst out laughing. Miss Agnes frowned a stony frown. “I’m the Crown Princess of England, Anne, and that’s all I’ll ever be Princess of! A funny country inside my own head! And Uncle Leon has been good to me! He let me hug him once!”

  “He is good!” Branwell shouted. He was shaking all over. The lemons are gone, the lemons, our lemons! “Whenever we play Wellington and Bonaparte I am always Bonaparte because he is good, he is splendid, he’s dark and small and proud and good like me, and you don’t know anything. You side with Charlotte because you like her better, not because you know anything about what counts in a man—”

  “Napoleon is Napoleon wherever you go. A tyrant is a tyrant wherever you go! Just like gruel,” Anne hissed.

  “Stop it,” Bonaparte said, still smiling. “You’re hurting my feelings, ma petite fille. Victoria, what has Miss Agnes taught you about hurting people’s feelings?”

  Victoria sighed. “ ‘Though it may seem quite appealing to stomp upon the tender feelings of one who hurt you first, remember, it’s a kind of stealing. For when you stomp upon their feelings, you burgle their self-worth.’ ”

  “I do love poetry!” exclaimed Bonaparte.

  “How are we to get home now, you beast?” Anne screamed.

  “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.

  “Are you sure you got that from our world?” Anne said dubiously. “We haven’t got anything like that, even a little like that. It hardly seems fair.”

  Napoleon shrugged. “In your world I am a dumb, crude doll. Here I am Emperor. There, the Voltaic Pyle is a dumb, crude lump. Here, it is everything. And is grog fair? Is war ever fair?”

  “Uncle Leon is crying,” Victoria marveled. “He’s crying and he’s sniffling and he’s scrubby.”

  “You said you’d take us home,” Branwell said. “But I know you. When we play Wellington and Bonaparte, I am always Bonaparte. You won’t do it for nothing.”

  Bonaparte looked up cannily from his unhappiness. Bone gleamed behind bayonet. “Tell me their plans. I know that you know. You must know. Wellington has some trickery brewing. They are your toys, too. Tell me everything, to the last detail. I will spare your sisters, you have my word. And when I have ended Glass Town, I will show you the way back to Haworth and you will swear never to return.”

  “Bran, don’t you dare,” breathed Anne. “It’s not a game. This is a real place. This is a real war. They can die. We can die here. Did we ever invent Port Ruby? Or Brunty? Or Victoria? Did we ever imagine them made of bookends and ball gowns and bones? We’ve no control. It’s got away from us.”

  Miss Agnes cleared her slate throat.

  “May I suggest,” she said gently, “that no child of God stays a child forever. They grow, and change, and get away from their parents. They do other than they are expected. They run off and misbehave and look nothing in their old age like they did when they were born. Perhaps worlds, the kind you speak of, the kind of world that is also a story, or a game are much the same way.” She cleared her throat. “As the tree becomes the violin, so nothing ends how it begins. There,” she finished with a smile, wiping her hands on her stone apron. “Now it’s true.”

  Perhaps it was not the worst thing, to be a governess, Anne thought as Agnes kissed Victoria’s hair. Though it was certainly not the best thing, either, her heart hurried to add.

  “We cannot,” Branwell sighed.

  “Then rot here, my maker,” snarled Napoleon. “I never needed you before and I don’t need you now!”

  Marengo crowed like the dawn had come.

  Miss Agnes allowed them to spend the night in Victoria’s room. New beds were brought in, three suppers were served, three lullabies sung by a Lady made of stone. As they rearranged the furniture along the walls, Victoria’s papers blew here and there. They chased; they caught. A thin white moon came up. The candles were put out.

  Anne turned onto her side in her new bed. She could hardly breathe for excitement.

  “Victoria?” she whispered.

  “Yes?”

  And Anne talked to Victoria before bed, just as she always did. In whispers, in soft laughs, in a voice just a little too soft to hear. Victoria listened, rapt, just as Anne always dreamed she would. When she could think of nothing more to tell her friend, Anne rolled onto her back again. A crinkly, rustly sound echoed in the dark.

  “Victoria!”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s this?”

  Anne held up a scrap of paper with a sketch on it. The moonlight turned it blue.

  “Oh! That is the Pastille of course! From the outside. I copied it from a history book. It is so hard to think of the outside of a place when you are stuck inside it just the way a soul is stuck inside a body!”

  Anne shook her head. She smiled, then choked on her own smile. “This isn’t the Pastille. Or the Bastille. This is the Parsonage.” A brilliant, gigantic, diamond-encrusted version of the parsonage where they all lived with Papa and Aunt Elizabeth and Tabitha and Snowflake and Diamond and Jasper and Rainbow. She’d forgotten they put their house in Verdopolis, but of course they had. But once you move in the Great Wall of China, it is easy to forget the first building ever raised in the city. The most sacred building of all. “Bran! Bran, look! We’re home.”

  But Bran did not move on his cot. He was a black shape in the black night.

  When the girls were long asleep, Branwell crept silently out into the long black halls of the Bastille. He walked like a ghost. All that talk of worlds and doors and wars mattered not at all. All Branwell could think was: A doll is better than me. I count for less than a doll. He retraced his steps, carefully, carefully, all the way to the great strategy room, still full of candles and torches. I will protect them. Even if I am less than a doll. Even if I am nothing. I will protect them somehow.

  Bonaparte sat on a rich, high chair in the long, polished hall. Almost a throne.

  “I knew it. You could not have made me if you were not like me,” the tyrant of Gondal chuckled.

  “Look,” Bran said gruffly. He stared at the floor. “I’m a man now, so I know if you want something, you’ve got to pay for it. Nobody does anything nice for no reason.” Tears started hotly in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He bent down and dug in his sock for something. “Here!” He shoved it at Napoleon. Aunt Elizabeth’s shilling and sixpence. It had seemed so powerful when she gave it to him. It was still powerful. It had to be. Just like the buttons that had paid their way here in the first place. “That’s a fortune where I come from. A hundred million pounds. It’s everything I have. You take it and you swear to spare Charlotte and Emily and me and Anne, too. You said you would. I want to buy your word on it. Fair and square.”

  “Of course,” Old Boney shrugged. The way the Emperor shrugged looked so much like Branwell’s father, he could hardly bear it. “It is nothing to me. Easy.”

  Bran took a deep breath. It would be a glorious battle. Everyone who mattered would live. And he would see it all from safety. And perhaps . . . perhaps afterward they did not have to go home right away. Perhaps they could stay and Boney would give them thrones and titles of their own. And when it did come time to leave, the Emperor would give them caskets of grog as a reward, bottle after bottle of the stuff, so t
hat no School or winter or fever would ever touch them or anyone they loved. Charlotte and Emily and Anne could never be angry if he made them Duchesses. If he made them immortal. They would be grateful. They would be overjoyed. No more School for them at all, no more cold and sickness and fear and grim futures as stone governesses. And all thanks to him.

  “When we play Wellington and Bonaparte, I am always Bonaparte,” Branwell said at last.

  He reached into the pocket of his pajamas and pulled out the ghost’s letter. “They attack at dawn.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The Storming of the Bastille

  Emily took off her shoes and squelched her toes in the cool sand of the beach. It was early morning. The sunrise tinged the cakey sand and tiny shells pink. Back home in Haworth, Ascension Island was the bed in the playroom at the top of the stairs. They’d invented it and filled it with people and destroyed it and salted the sheets and built it all over again a hundred times.

  She’d never imagined the wind there would smell like warm, milky tea. Or that the palm trees dotting the strand would be the lumpy, misshapen, lopsided ones Branwell always drew on his maps, with coconuts that were really far too large for the poor things dragging on the ground. Or that the ruins of the several dozen civilizations the four of them had played at on their clean white sheets would cover the island like too much pepper sprinkled on a pie. There were exploded pyramids in the distance, and the shadows of the Mountains of the Moon towering above her, the crumbled pillars of the great cannibal city of Acroofcroomb, a word so silly Anne loved to say it, over and over, until she was sick from laughing. And Verdopolis, her spires already visible far up on the high plain of the island.

  But they would not be touring the ruins today. Emily wondered if they ever would. If they could ever just wander in the world of their dreams without being chased or chasing.