Small Persons With Wings (13 page)

“
Zut!
” Lady Noctua said. “Some ladies were warriors—Bradamante, for example, she of the white plume and shield. But Mademoiselle Durindana is named for the
sword
of the mighty Roland. Your names, Turpina, honor Melissa, priestess of Merlin the enchanter, and Angelica, a princess of Cathay beloved of Roland. Generations of Turpini have named their daughters in this way.” Rinaldo bowed to her for talking, and to me for having the same name as a princess of Cathay.

The Parvi had been busy. Durindana's chandelier now hung from the inside of a dome painted with cherubs floating around on clouds and making goo-goo eyes at one another. They weren't wearing much and they were embarrassing to look at, especially with a freckled kid you hardly knew sitting right next to you.

Every single surface in the pub now was foofed up except for the dusty, spidery liquor bottles behind the bar. They looked even worse compared to the gilt and marble everywhere else.

Rinaldo saw me looking at them. “We are leaving the bottles in tribute to Ogier. They were dear to Ogier.”

“I bet.”

“Some are very old and Ogier took pleasure in drinking of them because they too are of some lineage.”

I could almost hear Dad saying, “Ogier. Sheesh.”

“When I would visit Ogier he would make his joke. He would say, ‘Time for art appreciation, Rinaldo.' And we would admire the bottle and he would drink of it. Sometimes I would drink of it too, although this nectar makes one fly crooked.”

I scanned the rows of bottles. Some of the labels were plain, but the ones on the top shelf were gorgeous. They really were works of art, with portraits of pirates and monks and farmers and barmaids, landscapes, even a horse or two.

One of the portraits was of a guy wearing a tall whitish cap with a cloth hanging down to cover his neck. You could just see a desert scene behind him. The name on the bottle was “The Legionnaire.” I remembered that Grand-père had been in the French Foreign Legion.

“Can I get a closer look at that one?” I said, getting off my stool.

“We shall fetch it, Melissa Angelica.” Rinaldo gave a screeching cry and a bunch of gentlemen and ladies joined him on the bar. They gabbled at one another in Latin, pointing and waving their arms, then fluttered over to fetch the bottle in a mass of tiny bodies.

Very cool, that dusty bottle wobbling toward us on flapping iridescent wings. Timmo thought so too, because he groaned in admiration. Unless it was nausea.

The portrait was even better close up. The legionnaire had this snotty expression on his face, as if his mustache smelled of old soup. His head was turned haughtily, probably so he could watch an insurance adjustor inspect his camel.

He looked like a young Grand-père. At the end of his nose, there was a square bump under the label.

Exactly as if someone had shoved a note under there.

“APPRECIATE ART,” DAD SAID when he got home. “Ogier. Sheesh.”

The bottle of Legionnaire stood in the middle of the kitchen table. All of us, Timmo included, sat and stared at it. Timmo knew as much as we did now. I didn't think that was a good idea, but my parents figured since he'd seen the Parvi he needed to hear about everything.

“He needs to know enough to stay away from us if things get weird,” Mom said.

“Stay away?” Timmo said. “Are you nuts? This is like the world's greatest video game, except less realistic.” His skin was normal color and he'd been breathing easy ever since my parents came home. Before that, he told us, he'd been afraid he was going to get turned into something.

“People don't get turned into things,” I said, making it clear who was the knowledgeable one. “That's so Brothers Grimm. But you better not tell anyone about this.”

“I won't,” Timmo said. “I swear. Really.” I didn't believe him.

“Well,” Dad said. “Let's get this note.” He slid his pen-knife in between the label and the bottle to loosen the glue, then pried the note out with a pair of tweezers.

“We'll see what the old man thinks of us now.” He unfolded the note and read out, “
My Worthless Descendants.”

“You're worth ten of him, Roly,” Mom said.

“He put it in the coffee,” I explained to Timmo, in case he didn't get it.

“Gubernator Rinaldo has approached me about returning the Gemmaluna. They have to ask nicely, you see—when the ancient
magi
transferred their magic into the moonstone, they added spells that protect the Gemma from theft. It is ours now, and will work for another only if given directly by us, its true owners. The Parvi may take it back only at midnight of the full moon.

“For a more permanent insight, or if more than one person needs to see the truth, you may drop the moonstone into a cup of water, say
‘cupio videre,'
and drink the elixir.”

“‘Cupio videre,'
” Mom said. “I think that means ‘I wish to see.' ”

“That makes sense,” Dad said.
“But be warned, Roland: One must not drink the elixir lightly, for its effect on humans is intense and difficult to control. Some illusions are beneficial and you will regret their loss. I drank it and survived, but I am strong. My own père was the last before me to drink the elixir, with disastrous results. He was weak. You are too—of this I am depressingly certain.

“Moo,” Timmo said. Mom patted him on the back.

“For once, try to live up to your heritage. Ogier.”
Dad handed Mom the note. “Yeah, thanks, old man. Some heritage.” I could tell he was bummed by more than Ogier.

“How'd it go at Town Hall?” Mom said, doing her mind-reading trick.

“Not good.” Dad dug his fingers into his forehead, hunting a killer headache. “They know this place pretty well. There's a whole list of stuff we have to do to sell it for any decent price. Replacing the foundation sill, that's probably the worst. Means somehow keeping a four-story building from falling down on us while we do it.”

“How did Ogier run an inn without fixing this stuff?” Mom asked.

“The inn's been closed for years,” Timmo said.

“Three years, to be exact,” Dad said. “There are plumbing issues too. And mold.”

“No kidding,” Mom said. She gave his hand a squeeze.

“Why don't we give back the moonstone and let the Parvi fix it for us?” I said.

Dad chewed his lip. “I dunno, hon. They say they can use this old magic, but I bet they haven't tried for thirteen hundred years. They could bring the place down around our ears. Plus . . .”

“Plus, you've never had a magic moonstone,” said Mom the mind reader. “And you're not ready to give it up until you've had a chance to try it out.”

“Hey, I can go out anytime and get someone to lie to me.” Dad blew out his cheeks, kissed Mom's hand, and stood up. “Maybe we'll try using it at the bank—find out what they're willing to do for us. If we can't get a loan we can sell the inn as is, although we won't get much.” He avoided looking at me, which was fine. I was not forking over my college money.

“For the moment,” he continued, “what we're doing is cooking Roland's Big-Time Teriyaki Chicken. Timmo, can you stay and eat?”

“Why'd you do that?” I whispered to Dad while Timmo phoned his mom out at the reception desk.

“You need to make some friends before school starts,” Mom whispered.

“Maybe I don't want friends.” But then Timmo came back and we had to act normal.

Yeah, like that's possible.

While dinner was cooking, Mom made me get out the ring to show Timmo. I put it on and tried to walk through a wall, in case Ogier hadn't told us everything. It didn't work.

“Have you tried flying?” Timmo asked.

“Melliedon'tyoudare,” Mom said.

Timmo cracked up. “Mom, like I would,” I said.

“What happens when somebody lies to you?” Timmo asked.

“Let's try,” I said. “What's your name?”

“Neil Armstrong, first man on the moon.”

I shuddered, breaking out in goose bumps. “Brrr. That's cold.”

“Awesome,” Timmo said. “So it works.”

I looked him straight in the galaxy eyes. “Are you going to tell anyone about all this?”

The smile left his face. “No. I told you. No.”

Warmth flooded over me. “I guess that's the truth,” I said.

“I don't lie,” Timmo said stiffly.

I kept the ring on while we ate the utterly awesome teriyaki chicken. I kept holding the moonstone up to the light to watch it go translucent. “I can see why they named it after the moon.”

“The first moon mission discovered a whole new mineral, so they named it after Neil Armstrong, Buzz Aldrin, and Michael Collins,” Timmo said. “It's called armalcolite.”

“The Dutch artist Vincent van Gogh had a sunflower named after him,” I said. “It's called
Helianthus annuus van Gogh
.” Take that, neighbor boy.

Mom wasn't paying attention. “Did you ever find that lawyer's name?” she asked Dad.

“Yeah, it's Kramer. Something Kramer. Ever heard of her, Timmo?”

Timmo shook his head, his mouth full of basmati rice.

“Kramer?” I said. “That's the name of that real estate lady. You know, Dad, the card you had in your pocket.”

Dad gave me a blank look and shook his head. “Sorry. Don't remember. Oh well, I'll look in the yellow pages. I'd better talk to her soon, I guess. Get the police off my butt—sorry, Timmo—and find out what other surprises the old man stored up for us.”

“Ogier isn't your average dead guy,” Mom said to Timmo. “In fact, he wasn't your average any kind of guy.”

“Yeah,” Timmo said. “He was a scary dude. We used to dare each other to sneak up the stairs and ring the bell on the reception desk. Old Man . . . uh, Mr. Turpin caught Jacky Wallace once and Jacky let out a scream you could hear at the beach.”

Timmo smiled down at his chicken, remembering the good times.

“Who's ‘we'?” I said.

“My friends and me. Hanging out in the summer, you know.” He gave me a curious look, and my face heated up. He probably could tell that I'd never hung out with anyone.

“Grand-père threw whiskey bottles at us.” At least I had better Grand-père stories.

But Timmo wasn't finished. “Is it true Old Mr. Turpin killed his own father?” he said in an off-hand tone, like he was asking who got the D- in Earth Science.

I snorted. But then Mom patted Dad's knee under the table. Dad's face was white as rice.

Is it ... true? How come this kid knows about it and I don't?
Timmo was as still as a marble faun. I guess he could tell he'd said something ugly.

“Dad?” I said.

“That's not exactly what happened, Timmo,” Dad said, fake-jaunty. He picked up his fork, then figured out we were waiting to hear more. “Oh, listen, Ogier never talked about it. Never. I only heard about it when I was a teenager, when I met my aunt for the first time. That was in Gloucester, where she and Ogier grew up.” Gloucester is a couple of towns up the coast from Baker's Village.

He speared a piece of chicken.

“Yeah?” I said. “And . . . ?”

Dad gave his fork an accusing look and put it down, as if he couldn't talk and hold silverware at the same time. “And she told me about when their father took the elixir. Ogier was fifteen, was supposed to be the one watching his dad while their mother was out. But his father went to sleep and Ogier figured it was okay to go call some girl he liked. Next thing he knew his father was gone and his mother was going crazy looking for him. And his father jumped off a bridge and drowned.”

“Oh, man,” Timmo whispered.