Small Persons With Wings (25 page)

It was dark when I woke up, starving and with an ice cube on my shoulder. Icy hands tugged at my earlobe. “Turpina! Wake up, Turpina!”

It was Durindana. Her tone of voice woke me as if she'd fired off a cannon.

“What's the matter?” I sat up and she took to the air, bobbing distractedly up and down. She was wringing her hands, Rinaldo-fashion.

“I do not understand what Fidius is saying to them. Why is he saying such things to the parents of Melissa Angelica Turpin?”

I fumbled for my sneakers. “What? What is he saying?”

“He has told them that you, their daughter, Melissa Angelica Turpin, face danger alone while they are in their beds.”
Wring-wring-wring
. “He is talking and talking, never allowing them to sleep, saying this bad thing and that. And now . . .” She buried her face in her hands, bobbing up and down.

“What? What now?”

“Now the Turpini are on the roof!” she wailed.

I didn't tie my shoelaces, just booked it up the stairs. A clock on the fourth floor said quarter past nine—eleven minutes before moonrise.

The roof was cool and breezy, the sky dark overhead, a line of gold to the west where the sun had set, a wash of silver where the moon would rise in the east. Facing the moonrise, my parents stood hand in hand. My dad had one foot up on the parapet around the edge of the roof.

“No!” I ran to them, covered their clasped hands with both of mine. “It's not true, it's not true. Whatever Fidius said to you, he was wrong, wrong, wrong.”

“He was telling the truth, Mellie.”
Dad's so calm, how can he be so calm?
“Let us go.”

“I won't,” I said like an angry four-year-old. “If you jump I'm not letting go. We'll all go down together.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Mom slid her hand from Dad's grasp and mine. I got hold of their T-shirts, pulled as hard as I could. They stumbled backward. Dad's foot came off the parapet. Progress.

I flung myself between them and the edge, arms out wide like a crossing guard. “You're not doing this.”
Come on, moon. Rise. What must it be now, five minutes? Four?

I heard a car turn the corner from Oak Street. “Help!” I shrieked. “Somebody, help me!”

The stairwell door slammed open and Grand-père staggered out, wild-eyed. “No,” he panted. “No. Stop.” He stumbled to us, clasped Dad's arm, bent over, catching his breath.

Dad shook him off, no longer calm, his face contorted like some Halloween mask. “Get away from me, old man. What do you care, anyway?”

“Is this to punish me? Idiot boy, as if I am not already punished.”

Dad wheeled to face him. “IT'S. NOT. ABOUT. YOU.” I didn't recognize him, this bellowing, spitting person. “It isn't always about you! Can't you see anything through that haze of selfishness you live in? This is about me, about us—other people. NOT. YOU.”

“Roland, I cannot argue with you. I know what I am. But you must not do this. Please. . . .” Dad turned back to the parapet, grim-faced. Grand-père took my mother's hand. “Veronique. You have some sense. You cannot leave your child.”

Mom let him hold her hand, but otherwise she ignored him. “Mellie, it's cruel to prevent us. You'll be better off without us. Fidius says you've been doing all sorts of dangerous things while we've been lying there. You don't need us anymore.”

“But I do need you, I really do. Not that much happened to me, and I had Timmo and Durindana with me. They did a lot of it. And everything is much, much better, much, much safer with you here. Who will I live with? Who will take care of me?”

“You can live here with the old man,” Dad said. “The Parvi will take care of you.”

“Are you
nuts
?” Okay, maybe that wasn't the smartest thing to say.

“Roland,” Grand-père began. Dad faked to my right, I matched him, he veered back to the left and seized Mom's hand from Grand-père. The two of them stepped up on the parapet.

They leaped out into nothing but air.

“Roland, nooooo!” Grand-père grabbed at Dad but he missed.

“NO!” How could I live after this? I lunged for the parapet, because I had to jump too. Grand-père wrapped his arms around me, held on, tight. I clawed at him. “Let me go, let me go!”

“No,” he gasped. I knew he was too weak to hold on to me for long.
I'll wait for him to let go, that's all.
But he was stronger than he looked.

Which was a good thing. Because if they'd had to catch me too, the Parvi couldn't have saved my parents.

Which is exactly what they did.

It was the weirdest sight I'd ever seen—and you'll admit, that's saying something. It must have been every single one of the Small Persons, their wings beating like mad, clutching a pink blanket with my parents writhing around in the middle of it. Slowly, painfully, the Parvi hauled their burden up to the roof. They lowered my parents to the asphalt and collapsed around them with a tinny group moan.

Grand-père slumped onto the parapet, wheezing. I wasn't in much better shape, standing there hiccupping because I'd forgotten how to sob. I wanted to fling myself on my parents but (a) I couldn't move and (b) I didn't want to step on any Parvi. I can't remember what (c) was.

Durindana wobbled over to me and sank onto my shoulder. Fidius hovered nearby, keeping his distance.

“We have saved the Turpini,” Durindana panted. “Ogier told us what to do.”

“Thank you,” I whispered. But I was looking at Fidius.

His wings were beautiful, glimmering. “I am sorry, Turpina. This is not what I intended.”

“Intended?” I said. “
Intended
?” There was so much to say, but I couldn't sort it out.

He didn't wait for me to sort out anything. He swept me a bow, flitted over the parapet and away.

“The moon is rising,” Durindana said. I turned to look and there it was—a sliver of salvation, just showing over the horizon.

My parents hadn't moved. But then Dad reached over and took Mom's hand. She covered her eyes with her other hand and said something I couldn't hear. Dad stroked her cheek.

One by unsteady one, the Parvi were rising into the air. Durindana got airborne too. “We must prepare for the Gemma's return.” She bobbed in front of me, eyeing my clothes with disapproval. “The Turpini also must dress for the occasion.”

“Sure.” My voice barely worked. “Panoply, coming up.”

She flitted away with the other Parvi. My parents, Grand-père, and I were alone on the roof.

“I'm going downstairs,” Grand-père said. “Give me the Gemma. I want to say good-bye.”

I pulled the ring off, watched him turn into a clock. Before I could get my nip bottle out of my pocket a strong, physical memory stabbed itself into my mind: Grand-père's scrawny old arms clinging to me, keeping me from jumping after my parents.

The clock faded and the old man appeared, studying the moonstone ring on his pinky.

Mom sat up, held out her arms to me, frog face and all. I hustled over to her. She took me in her arms and held me. It was awesome.

“Sheesh.” Dad was still lying there. “That was the pits.”

“Still is, in a way,” Mom said.

I sat up. “What do you mean, still is? You're supposed to be back to normal.”

Mom gave me a squeeze. “I feel much better, lovey. I'm sure Dad does too. But I don't have amnesia—I do remember how I felt an hour ago. It's hard to explain. I know what I thought about my paintings and about you and how you didn't respect me. To some extent, it's all still true. It just doesn't stab me to the heart the way it did before.”

“I respect you. And your paintings are amazing.”

“They're as good as they could be when I've spent most of my time doing other things. And you respect me as much as you could, considering what I'm like and what you're like.” She stroked my froggy face. “And the fact that you're growing cheekbones.”

“You're a great kid, Mellie,” Dad said, his eyes shut. “I'm very proud of you.”

The door to the stairs creaked open. Grand-père was leaving. Dad sat bolt upright, seeing Grand-père for the first time without the elixir. “Huh. A floating clock.”

“Welcome to my world,” I said.

“
Mon père
,” Dad called to Grand-père, “I am deeply in your debt.”

Grand-père halted in the doorway. “I will not lose my father
and
my son to this blasted elixir.” He gave me a lizard's thin smile. “Thinking only of myself, as usual.” He left.

“What did he say?” Dad asked. “All I heard was bonging.”

I told him.

“Ogier,” Mom said. “Sheesh.”

Dad shook his head, pondering the moon. “Hey. Aren't we returning the moonstone tonight? What time is it?”

“It must be ten o'clock,” Mom said.

“We have to put on the panoply of our state,” I said. “Find a pillow for the moonstone.”

“Most of the panoply in my wardrobe has paint on it,” Dad said. “But it'll have to do.”

We got up, folded the blanket, and clattered down the stairs to the fourth floor. We didn't notice that anything was wrong until we opened the door at the foot of the stairs.

And saw the flames.

LIKE IDIOTS, WE STOOD THERE in the stairwell door, gaping at the inferno that used to be the fourth-floor corridor. It was a tunnel of swirling flames, the roar deafening. Where was Grand-père?

Dad shoved Mom and me back into the stairwell and slammed the door shut. “Back up to the roof,” he shouted over the tumult.

We were halfway up to the roof door when the molding around it burst into flame.

“We may have to get through that door,” Dad yelled. “Let me think.”

“Think about what?” Mom glared at him. “We don't have time—we'll lose the air. We have to get out on the roof and yell like crazy!”

I was shaking so hard I couldn't talk. The human body is weird, you know? There I was, crammed into a stairwell with my parents, fire everywhere. You wouldn't think I'd be freezing cold, but I was.

The roar filled my brain, leaving no room for rational thought.

“Roly,” Mom shouted. “Move. Now.”

“Okay, okay,” Dad said. “Let's get out there.”

The entire door to the roof exploded in flame. The downstairs door too was a sheet of fire. We were stuck on the stairs.

My mom lost it. “Oh my god we'll never get out now! OhgodMellie'sonlythirteen, ohgodohgodohgod.”

Something didn't make sense. I tried to block out the noise, tried to think. The door to the roof crackled like a log on a fire.

Wait a minute.

I shouted in Dad's ear. “Isn't that door made of metal?”

He frowned, nodded.

“Does metal burn like that?” I shouted.

He shook his head.

“This is no time for materials analysis!” my mom shrieked. “What are we—” She shut up, stared at us. “No. It doesn't, does it?”

Huh
.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath of the chilly air, looked for that one thing I needed, that one clue. “Anybody smell anything?” I yelled, opening my eyes.

“
Smell
anything?” Mom shouted. “Mellie, we don't have time for guessing games.”

“Mom, tell me what you smell. Dad, you too.”

We all sniffed the air. I smelled mildew, as usual. But not a whiff of smoke.

“I don't think we'll ever get rid of this mildew,” my mom shouted.

I concentrated on mildew, thought about the nasty fourth-floor carpet, how it looked when it wasn't on fire.

Mildew.
I sneezed. The thunder of the fire receded, almost died completely.

For me, anyway. My parents were hollering as if they could barely hear their own voices.

“How come we're not hot?” That was Dad. “We should be hot, with fire everywhere.”

“I'm freezing,” Mom shouted.

“That's because there's no fire,” I yelled, sounding ridiculous to myself in the now-quiet stairwell. “It's an illusion.”

Dad squeezed past me, heading down. “Nick, wrap yourself and Mellie in that blanket. I'm going to see what's really happening.”

“Oh, Roly.” Mom gripped his arm. “I don't know.”

“It's fine, Mom,” I said. “Really.”

Mom wrapped us both in the blanket. Dad stopped at the bottom of the stairs and blew her a kiss. He hesitated, getting his courage up, and I knew that for him the fire still roared. But he straightened his shoulders and opened the downstairs door.

My daddy, protecting me.

Reality hadn't returned to me completely—I didn't hear the fire anymore, but I saw it. It was scary watching Dad walk out into this madly flickering hallway, closing the door behind him.

Mom and I huddled on the stairs, shaking with cold and nerves.

After a long, long minute, my dad opened the door. “You can walk right through these flames. It's pretty weird, but you don't feel a thing.”

It
was
weird. We walked across the hallway to the stairs with flames towering over us and licking up from the carpet. They acted like real fire—when you stomped on them they sparked and went out, then came back when you moved on. But they didn't even tickle, let alone burn us.

The stairs to the third floor were a dragon's throat, flames swirling around and around and around, crackling and roaring. I had to shut my eyes to force myself into the stairwell, even though it was freezing cold. When we got to the bottom the third floor was normal. We looked where we'd been and that was normal too.