The Colors of Madeleine 01: Corner of White (2 page)

T
en feet of snow had fallen overnight.

It was enough to bury the Dudleys’ cows.

It was enough to crack the branches of the silver maple tree that had stood for more than a thousand years in the grounds of the Bonfire Grade School.

It toppled the pyramid of pumpkins. And the Bonfire Pumpkin Committee had been building that for over a month.

Now in the bright mid-morning, the Town Square was overrun with pumpkins. Townsfolk were kicking pumpkins around like soccer balls. Or lining them up around the fountain’s edge, to take potshots at them with air rifles.

(Or quietly gathering them into their coats to take home to their kitchens for soup.)

Elliot Baranski was sitting at a table outside the Bakery Café.

A pumpkin thudded up against his boot. Without looking down, he shifted his foot, and the pumpkin rolled slowly away.

Elliot was holding up a library book. His mother, Petra, sat opposite him. She leaned in to read the book’s title:

“Can’t be done,” said Petra, and sipped her coffee.

“If I leave today I can be at the Lake of Spells by Thursday,” Elliot said. “I’ll catch a Locator Spell.”

“Can’t be done,” Petra repeated. “You can’t choose what Spell you get at the Lake. Can’t even guarantee you’ll
catch
a Spell. You know that.”

“This book says I can. It’s got science and statistics and — see …” Elliot flicked through. He pointed. “Footnotes. It’s got footnotes.”

“Uh-huh,” said his mother, but she gazed at him.

There was a fading bruise on Elliot’s left cheek. His right eye was swollen shut. A scar the shape of a closed umbrella ran down the side of his neck.

“Elliot,” she said. “Take a break.”

He shook his head dismissively.

“Every time you come home you’ve got more injuries,” Petra said. “It’s like you’re out collecting scars. You just got back last night and already you’re heading off again? You need time to recover.”

“This trip to the Lake of Spells will be a break. It’ll take a few days to get there for a start. There won’t be any danger up north, and by the time I catch the Locator Spell I’ll be ready to go where it takes me.”

His mother laughed. “Oh, yeah, no danger at
all
in the Magical North. Just that colony of werewolves. Just dragons out of control, gangs of Wandering Hostiles, and a serious risk of frostbite. It’ll be a regular holiday. A right cup of tea.”

“Ah.” Elliot shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re fifteen years old. You’ve missed too much school already. Your buddies miss you. Your
town
misses you!”

Elliot looked around. He breathed in the square’s smells of snow, wet dirt, fresh bread, beer, and crushed pumpkin. Across the way, Clover Mackie (town seamstress) caught his eye and grinned, waving from the porch of her spearmint green house. Closer by, Isabella Tamborlaine (high-school physics teacher) climbed onto a small stack of pumpkins and performed an arabesque. Jimmy Hawthorn (Deputy Sheriff) applauded the arabesque, then shouted to a waiter at Le Petit Restaurant to fetch him out a knife so he could carve a jack-o’-lantern.

“Town seems fine,” Elliot said. “Although —” he paused. “What’s with the pumpkins?”

“Ah, you’ve been away too long. You know at least that the Princess Sisters are touring the Kingdom at the moment?”

“Heard something about that.”

“Well, the Sheriff applied for our town to be included in the tour. He got a bunch of people to help him build a pyramid of pumpkins. It’s supposed to be like a drawcard. A reason for the Princesses to visit. The Selectors are coming through today, though, so not much chance of getting chosen now.”

Elliot raised his eyebrows. “Can’t they rebuild it?”

“Not by this afternoon.” Petra rubbed her nose. “You’re getting me off the topic. All right, Elliot, if the town doesn’t need you, your ball team does. Even with all the games you’ve missed, you’re still their best player. You’re the reason they’ve made it this far. Why not stay a couple of weeks until the finals?”

Elliot put the library book into his backpack.

“Gotta get going,” he said. He tightened the straps and looked at his mother hard. “I’m not staying here for a ball game.”

“Well, what about the farm? I was going to get you to fix the wiring in the greenhouse before you went. And there’s all sorts of other things.”

He laughed a little, and stood, backpack over his shoulder. “You could rewire this entire town faster than —” He clicked his thumb and finger with a crack. “Don’t start telling me you can’t run the farm without me.”

Petra shrugged. Then she studied him.

“Elliot,” she said. “I’ve rented out Dad’s shop.”

The slam of a car door shot through the commotion in the square.

They both turned. Across the square, Hector Samuels (County Sheriff) was standing by his car. He gazed at the chaos of pumpkins, and a sigh lifted his shoulders.

Elliot and Petra turned back and faced each other again.

“Did you hear me?” Petra said. “I’ve rented out the shop.”

Elliot gripped the straps of his backpack.

“But when I find Dad,” he said, “and bring him back —”

His mother nodded firmly. “When you find Dad,” she said, “and bring him back, we’ll deal with the new tenants then. For now we need the cash. Shop’s been empty a year.”

Elliot let go of the straps. His palms were indented with parallel white lines. He watched these fade.

“A family called the Twicklehams are taking it,” Petra continued. “They’re from Olde Quainte. Not exactly the province for electronics repair, I guess, but they swear to me they’re on top of it. They’ll be here in a month.”

Elliot looked up at the clock tower. “I’ll head home now and do my laundry,” he said. “Get some provisions. Take the 3:30 northbound train —”

He stopped. His mother was twisting her mouth in that way that always clicked her jaw.

Her jaw clicked. As usual, this surprised her.

Then she spoke again, only now her voice had changed. It had gentled and softened. He had to bend to hear her.

“Elliot,” she said. “The fact is, it’s tough starting my days without your blueberry muffins.” She closed her eyes. “You make the best muffins in the province.”

“Ah, nonsense,” he said, but then she opened her eyes and she let him see, for just a moment, how things really were for her.

How they’d been since his dad went missing, since he himself had gone off searching for much of this last year. The broken pieces of her.

He turned away.

Frowns ran across his face. They settled, fled, returned. Little
v
’s of frowns, like birds in children’s drawings.

His bruises seemed to darken.

He stood and watched the square.

Now a different expression, impatient, caught his forehead. Abruptly, he dropped his backpack onto the chair and strode away.

His mother watched him.

Elliot stopped in the center of the square and scratched the back of his neck. He traced a line in the snow with his boot. The line turned a corner, then another, until it formed a square. A square in the square. Children rolled pumpkins past him.

He looked up. His gaze found a pickup truck parked across the way. It was loaded with empty crates.

He walked to the truck, grabbed a few crates, returned, and lined the crates along his snow tracing.

The playing children stopped and stared. He picked up a couple of pumpkins and put them in a crate.

Now adults watched too. He ignored them and kept working, heading back to the truck for more crates.

One or two people figured out what he was doing and joined him.

Within moments, several more were helping. The pace picked up. Crates ran toward the center of the square, and armfuls of pumpkins ran toward the crates. They were taken and positioned, two pumpkins to a crate. Crates lined up on top of crates, pumpkins neat inside them. Slowly, the base of a pyramid formed.

The Sheriff watched, bewildered. Eventually, he threw off his coat and ran to help too.

Assembly lines passed pumpkins hand to hand like a high-speed dance. Someone dragged a ladder from the back of the Pennybank Store.

Elliot took a step back.

At least twenty people were working on the pyramid now.

He swiveled on his heel, left them to it, and returned to the Bakery Café.

His mother squinted up at him, proud.

“That was a sweet thing to do,” she said.

“Half the pumpkins must be gone or smashed,” he shrugged. “So I used crates. It’ll make a smaller pyramid, I guess, but it should look okay.”

“It’s going to be really elegant,” his mother agreed.

Elliot grabbed his backpack again.

“Okay,” he said.

Petra tilted her head, questioning.

“Okay,” he repeated. “I’ll stay another couple of weeks.”

She reached out to touch his sleeve. It seemed like she might cry.

“I’ll stay until the finals. But the day after the game,” he warned, “I’m gone again. To the Lake of Spells. I’ll use the book. I’ll catch a Locator Spell. I’ll find Dad.”

She nodded.

“I’ll go see about the wiring in the greenhouse now,” he said.

He didn’t look back until he reached the clock tower, then he stopped and watched a moment while they finished off the pyramid. A girl nearly fell from a ladder, her hands slick with sweat. A crate began to teeter near the top, and somebody shouted and caught it. There was applause and hollering, cursing and cheering.

The Sheriff glanced back, saw Elliot, and gave a mighty salute of gratitude.

Elliot relented, raised a hand and a half smile.

Then, with the faintest tremble of a shrug, he turned around and headed toward home.

1.

H
e was watching through the window for Madeleine.

His hands were on his head.

His name was Giacomo Cagnetti, but he went by Jack. He was an Aries, and fifteen years old, and the hair under his hands felt bristly. This was even though, when he turned to the side to catch his reflection in the glass, well, his hair appeared to him soft and smooth.

Behind him, also watching through the window, but in a distant, transfixed way, was Annabelle Pettifields (but she went by Belle). She was a Libra, and the same age as Jack. For as long as he’d known her, and they’d met when they were five or six, the first thing that came into Jack’s head when he saw her was
daft
.

The word
daft
.

Imagine if Belle knew that. Sometimes a fingertip of fear would press a spot just behind Jack’s ear, at the idea that he might accidentally tell her. He could be drunk or high. Or the sun could be shining on the Cam, and they could be sitting side by side on its banks, watching ducks and punters and tourists, and he could just come out and say it: “Whenever I see you, I think
daft
.”

You couldn’t forgive that, could you.

Especially as they were best friends.

Right now, though, what was bothering Jack was his hair. He kept touching it, hoping to find it soft after all, or at least to find a region of softness. It used to be as silky as a BBC announcer or a violin concerto, didn’t it, his hair, was the thing. Back when he was a kid? But it
must have turned coarse when he was thinking something else, the roughness slipping in strand by strand, and today was the first time he had noticed this.

He took his hands down from his head and examined them instead. The new wart was still there. He’d been hoping it might have cured itself, but no, there it was, on the side of the middle finger. He was prone to warts.

Now, how could you have a nice simple fantasy about reaching for a girl’s hand if you always had to be adjusting the fantasy to make sure you were reaching with your non-warty hand?

Also: How could you imagine a girl running her fingers through your hair if you kept hitting the point where the girl pulled away and said, “Whoa, coarse hair, eh?”

These were very basic fantasies — holding a girl’s hand, letting her gently touch your hair — and not so much to ask.

Belle murmured, “There she is,” and Jack looked, and there she was, turning the corner from Sidney Street onto St. John’s.

Madeleine Tully, fourteen years old and a Pisces — her birthday had been just the other day.

She was wearing her red wellingtons and black leggings, her green skirt and her powder blue coat, that wide black-and-white chequered headband she liked — it was pulling her (soft, soft) dark hair away from her forehead — and she was carrying a tangerine umbrella.

She was walking through crowds of scowling people dressed in grey.

Here come the colours of Madeleine
, thought Jack, and the colours went right through his bloodstream now, sailing on tiny boats — spinnakers fixed with little toothpicks.

My hair is like wolf’s fur
, he thought suddenly.
It appears to be soft — wolf’s fur — but it’s probably quite rough to the touch.

That made him feel better. Thinking of himself as a wolf.

Jack, Belle, and Madeleine were home schooled together, although not always at home.

On Mondays, it was Federico Cagnetti. He was Jack’s grandfather, and he taught them History.

On Tuesdays, it was Darshana Charan. She was a former microbiologist, currently a bedder (which is what they call a cleaner at Cambridge), and she taught them Science and Mathematics in exchange for free babysitting of her two little girls.

On Wednesdays, it was Olivia Pettifields — Belle’s mother — and her role was French and Citizenship.

On Thursdays, it was the computer guy who lived downstairs from Madeleine. He did ICT (Information and Communication Technology) and Geography, and he didn’t get anything in return. It was just, he’d been at the party when they agreed to do home schooling, and was halfway through his fourth pint.

And on Fridays, it was Holly Tully — Madeleine’s mother — and she did English Language, English Literature, and Art. (She also did general knowledge in the sense that she got them to help her practise questions for her quiz show.)

Today was Monday, so it was Federico’s day.

Federico Cagnetti was tufty.

There were tufty white eyebrows, tufts of hair on both sides of his otherwise bald head, and more tufts growing out of his ears and on his knuckles. He was tall but he was angled at about seventy-five degrees — his body stood up at a slope. Most of the time he scowled, even when his words were mild or friendly.

“The daffodils are tasting of the sun,” he might say in his Italian accent, “and I will tell you only this, that they are supreme above all others in their beauty!” and as he spoke, ferocious lines would deepen on his forehead. He only smiled when he was angry, nervous, or sad.

He was a porter at Trinity College — one of Cambridge’s more famous colleges — and on Mondays, they met him in the small office directly above the porter’s lodge. Nobody was sure if he had permission to use this office, and actually he smiled slightly whenever footsteps passed the door — or even at the faintest rustling from the hallway — so maybe he did not.

Now, however, they were sitting in the office, and Federico was blowing his nose into a large white handkerchief.

He folded the handkerchief and pressed it into his trouser pocket, frowning deeply as he did so, as if the handkerchief had failed him in some way. Then he bent forward so that his chin was pressed against his chest. He always started off this way: without looking at them.

“So many people,” he said to his chest. “So many extraordinary people have come to this university! They might not be here
now
, but does that matter? Does it matter? Because are they not still here in their own way?” His voice, which had begun as a mumble, rose into a roar and he lifted his chin with his words and looked around at them furiously: “And what are we doing? Are we sitting here? Are we sitting here?!”

“Yes,” agreed Belle complacently.

Jack and Madeleine nodded too, and then Federico’s ferocity relaxed into a pleased sort of frown, and he reached back and poured himself a coffee.

There was comfortable quiet for a while. The rain fell outside and students’ voices rose up from the Great Court. “It’s not
today
, is it?” a girl’s voice was saying, and two boys were laughing and not answering her. “It’s not
today
?” she said again.

“Here we sit in Trinity College, which is an honour and a privilege, and why is that?” Federico’s chin was back on his chest. “Why is it an honour to be here?”

“Because you’re letting us,” said Belle. “And teaching us and that.”

“Why else?” said Federico irritably.

“It’s so old and that, and so historic, and they’ve got, like, so much money.”

“How old?”

“King Henry VIII started it, didn’t he?” said Belle. “And that was around about 1546, and what he did was, he got together two other colleges that were even older, from the time of the medievals, wasn’t it?”

“Everything very good,” Federico told her, “except for the bits where you say ‘didn’t he?’ and ‘around about,’ and all your other uncertainties. Who taught you this? I did. These uncertainties, they are an affront to my knowledge!”

“All right, then,” agreed Belle.

Jack was watching Belle’s face as she chatted with his grandfather, and he was thinking that she was actually quite bright. She just had a slow way about her at times.

When Belle gave aura readings she was whip-crack fast. But if you asked her a general question, even a basic one like, “All right?” she thought about the answer for too long. Sometimes it was because she was trying to make up her mind — she could be indecisive, being a Libra — but often she just forgot the question altogether.

More than that, though, were Belle’s features. Her eyes were big and wide, and she forgot about blinking for long periods of time. Other people blinked at regular intervals, but not Belle. Now and then her eyes would go into a flying panic where she’d blink and blink to catch up.

She had one of those sweet faces, the kind that people call soft, or baby-faced, with the top lip raised slightly, as if she was meant to have buck teeth but didn’t get them.

Finally, she actually believed in auras.

Whereas she mocked Jack for his interest in horoscopes.

With all that, it wasn’t surprising that Jack had got into the habit of seeing his friend Belle and thinking:
daft.

“Here, then,” Federico was saying, and Jack looked away from Belle and saw that his grandfather was gesturing towards a black
bowler hat. It was sitting face-up on the table, next to his coffee pot. “Here then, inside my hat, I have hidden the names of famous people who were once here at Cambridge! You will pick a name from the hat, and then what will you do? You will read about them! And then, do you know what you have to do?”

“What?” asked Belle.

“
Become
them. You will become them! Because that is why you are honoured! You can walk the streets they walked, see the sky they saw, climb the trees they climbed, read the books they read, eat the food they ate, and so it carries on.”