Deadly Pink (16 page)

The flying was no more pleasant on this leg of the journey, and Emily tired out after a much shorter time. She wanted to stop again (“Just for a little bit, Grace”), but I begged and cajoled, and finally we were flying over the part of the forest I'd seen already, and that gave her the extra impetus she needed.

By then, Emily was trembling with exhaustion, and her scales had lost much of their luster. We landed in the maze, not a graceful touchdown at all this time, and we flattened a whole wall of bushes. The dragon transformed back to Emily before I could make sense of what I was seeing. I slid down off her back as she swayed unsteadily. Then, from my sitting position, I could see the fountain.

Water no longer ran out of the mouth of the marble fish. In fact, the whole thing looked dried and cracked and overgrown with ivy, as though the place had been abandoned last summer. Someone had strung yellow police tape around the fountain, nailed boards across the bowl, and hung a sign around the fish. The sign said:

CLOSED FOR BUSINESS
NYAH-NYAH
(
THAT MEANS YOU, EMILY AND GRACE PIZZELLI
)

Chapter 16

Dear Someone...

I
'M TOO TIRED
to think,” Emily said. “You tell me what to do.”

I could see she wasn't exaggerating: She sank down to sitting, quickly, as though her legs had given out.

I didn't dare leave her for fear something in this world would get her, for fear she might weaken so much that if she fell asleep, I wouldn't be able to wake her up again. Not that I had any plan of action if I saw that start to happen.

“Rest a few minutes,” I suggested. “Then we'll go in the house and get something to eat.”

“Could you bring something for me?” she asked so plaintively I was tempted—except I didn't dare.

I grabbed her arm to keep her from lying down. “You'll be more comfortable indoors,” I said, not wanting to share my fears—because I could only
hope
that strengthening her virtual self would give her real self more time. “Come on. Get up.” I tugged at her. “Walking is easier than flying.” I managed to haul her to her feet. “What's the route out of this maze?”

As though I needed evidence that she was muddled, Emily made several wrong turns.

“I can't think,” she protested. “Just let me rest.”

“No. Concentrate. The more you complain, the longer it will be till we get out of here.”

Eventually, we made it—not only out of the maze, but across the lawn, up the porch stairs, and into the house. By then, Emily was leaning heavily on me, just as in one of those war paintings with titles like
Helping Her Wounded Comrade.

I left Emily sitting in the library, for fear she'd fall right out of one of the kitchen chairs. “Stay awake,” I told her, but I think she was asleep before I made it out of the room.

I was assuming I'd fetch the fastest-to-prepare meal I could find—maybe cereal, just to take the edge off our hunger before I took the time for something more substantial.

But when I opened one of the kitchen cupboards, it was filled with what appeared to be gift boxes, the kind with a bow on top for easy opening. It took a few moments for me to register that on their fronts were pictures of food. One shelf did indeed have boxes picturing cereal: Fruit Loops, Emily's favorite; but the boxes felt so light, I opened one up before even checking to see where the bowls were stored, just to make sure it wasn't empty. On the contrary, it held a bowl filled with Fruit Loops. There was even milk on the cereal already, and a spoon, as well as a linen napkin—the very picture that was on the front of the box. Talk about truth in advertising.

Still,
How long has this been sitting here?
I wondered. But when I took a spoonful, it was crunchy and fresh, as though the cold and frothy milk had been poured the moment I lifted the cover.

Interesting.

If that was the way things were...

I went to a different shelf and picked a box that had an image of a steaming slice of pepperoni pizza on it. And that—right down to the bubbling cheese—was what I found.

And the French toast box had thick slices of warm battered bread with the flower-shaped pats of butter just beginning to melt and syrup that hadn't even thought of congealing yet. And the hot fudge sundae box had ice cream that was cold and firm, with the chocolate syrup warm and drippy, all looking as though it had been packed, like, one second before I opened the box. Each item came with its own appropriate dish and silverware, and a cloth napkin—in a variety of different colors and styles.

Okay, well, that was easier than hunting and gathering.

I loaded a bunch of boxes—including soda and hot cocoa with whipped cream—on a tray and brought it in to Emily.

She was asleep. I was grateful to hear her snoring, which sounded like such an everyday normal thing. Surely the first step to fading isn't snoring.

But she did take some waking up. It was waving the pizza under her nose that finally got her to a sitting position.

She ate more than just a couple of mouthfuls, another reassurance.

I ate, too, a cheeseburger and fries. They were as yummy as could be, especially the fries, which were just the right balance of crunchy on the outside and squishy on the inside.

But now, all that done—Emily gotten back to the house, both of us fed a bit, rested a bit—now there was no putting off that it was time to come up with a plan.

And I didn't have one.

Why doesn't this stupid game come with a user’s manual like the old-fashioned computer games?
I thought. You know, the kind of thing to tell you: If the system crashes or freezes, press this button to turn the miserable piece-of-junk equipment off and reboot.

And that's when it suddenly hit me—Rasmussem games
do
come with a user's manual of sorts: the Finding Rasmussem Factor. Of course, with this game, which seemed designed mostly to encourage preteen girls to be shopaholic princesses, I didn't know if there even was the usual safety valve.

“Emily,” I asked, “is there a Rasmussem to go to here?”

“What?” she asked groggily.

I shook her awake—or at least somewhat more awake—and repeated the question. I thought I was going to have to do it a third time, but apparently she'd been thinking.

“I don't know,” she said. “That wasn't the area I was working on.”

She seemed content to leave it at that, which I put down to her being one step removed from a stupor.

I asked, “How do I find the locals?”—which in this context meant a game character. There had, of course, been the gondolier, but even if he'd still been alive, any directions he might have rattled off would have been in Italian.

I fervently hoped sprites weren't the ones manning the help desk.

Emily said, “Write an invitation.”

Was she getting delirious?

“What?” I asked.

“Go to the library...” Then she must have remembered we already were there. “Go to the roll-top desk,” she amended. “Write a note inviting someone to come. Drop the envelope in the mail slot.” She closed her eyes.

Invite someone. Never mind that I didn't know anyone's name. Let's see ... there was hammock-swinging guy. Luteplaying guy. Throw-your-sister-out-of-your-party-then-toss-the-gondolier-to-his-death guy...

Except, of course, that Emily's guys were all foreign or mute.

Invite someone.

To something or other.

I went to the desk and found parchment and envelopes in the top drawer. There was one of those ostrich-feather pens and a bottle of ink, so I sat down and considered. I didn't want a whole mob of people, like there'd been at Emily's fancy ball. Nor did I want just one, in case that person turned out to be uncooperative. Once again the sprites came to mind, rising unwanted and unpleasant, like a burp after garlic mashed potatoes. The grandfather clock in the foyer obligingly chimed at that moment to remind me of its existence. From the doorway, I could see its face: three forty-five.

I picked up the plume, dipped it in the ink, and wrote:

To the first 5 young ladies of the land to receive this— You are invited to Emilys house for English high tea at 4 p.m. today.

This pen made my handwriting impeccable: both fancier and more legible than my usual, which my teachers certainly would have appreciated. My language could have been more formal, to go along with the graceful penmanship, so I made a little caret and added
cordially
to the
you are invited
line. The words shifted to make room.

To the first 5 young ladies of the land to receive this—Y ou are cordially invited to Emil'ys house for English high tea at 4 p.m. today.

Please come.
Sincerely,
Grace Pizzelli

I folded the parchment in half, then stuck it in the envelope and looked around for the mail slot.

“Emily,” I called. “Where does this go?”

But she was asleep.

I circled the room twice, and the grandfather clock was just going into its full on-the-hour routine before I noticed the cubbyhole in the desk itself that was labeled MAIL.

Somewhere between the music and the actual bonging of the hour, I flung the envelope into the cubbyhole.
Too late,
I thought. I'd cut the time too close. What I needed was to invite someone over for dinner at six—or even the next day.
If
that worked at all. Which it probably wouldn't.

But as soon as the clock finished its fourth bong, a doorbell rang.

A butler, complete with suit, white gloves, and a snooty expression, made it to the front door before me. Where'd he come from?

No matter; he opened the door and let in five young ladies, dressed as though they'd just stepped out of a Jane Austen novel. It couldn't have been coincidence that they conveniently ranged from my age to Emily's.

“How kind of you to invite us,” they said. And “My! What a charming house you and your sister have.” And “That is such a beautiful dress you're wearing.”

Well, all right, so they lost all credibility there, considering how dirty, sooty, and sweaty I was. I wondered how polite they'd be once they realized they had been invited under false pretenses, that there wasn't any tea prepared for them—high or otherwise.

They dropped their calling cards onto the little silver platter the butler presented for that purpose.

Was I supposed to read them, or were we pretending I actually knew who these girls were? Luckily, I didn't have to decide because a maid—a maid? Suddenly, we had servants coming out of the woodwork—held the library door open and curtsied and said, “This way, please, young misses.”

In the fifteen or so seconds since I'd left the library, someone had brought in even more comfy chairs and arranged them—as well as the one in which Emily was still asleep—into a circle. And a coffee table had been set up—or rather, a tea table. There was a big silver pot, china cups and saucers, and trays that held small sandwiches, scones, and dessert-type goodies such as bite-sized fruit tarts, mini éclairs, cookies, and petits-fours. There were also more napkins, these monogrammed with a fancy
E,
since this was, after all, Emily's house.

“How lovely!” the girls cooed. And “Perfect!” and other such complimentary things.

“I'm glad you like everything,” I said. “Please sit and enjoy. Meanwhile, I need to find out from you how to get to Rasmussem.”

The girls, though still looking at me, though still—apparently—addressing me, somehow seemed to be ignoring me. They continued to stand, and they continued to murmur appreciatively about how fine everything looked.

Well, if we need Emily to ask before they'll answer,
I thought,
we’re out of luck.
I tried nudging my sister, but she just made grumpy sounds and shifted position. My visitors commented on how her dress suited her complexion.

The third time the maid cleared her throat, it finally occurred to me that maybe she didn't have a medical condition but was trying to tell me something. Once I glanced her way, I saw her shifting her eyes from me to one of the chairs. I
could
have assumed she had developed a twitch, but I'm a
bit
quicker than that. I sat, and that evidently was the girls' signal that they, too, could be seated.

“Will that be all, miss?” the maid asked me.

I don’t know,
I thought.
Is there anything else I need you to explain to me?
So I suggested, “Why don't you stay and join us.”

The girls looked shocked, and the maid laughed as though I were the funniest person in the world. “Oh, Miss Grace. You are such a jokester.”

Yeah, that's me.

But this explanation seemed to relieve my guests—that I simply had an odd sense of humor, which could be excused, rather than that I was scandalously common or insane. Invite a servant to sit with us! Evidently, that was Something That Is Not Done.

Okay. I nodded to the maid, and she curtsied and left.

“So,” I tried with the girls again. “Rasmussem?”

But I guess I
did
still need the maid, for my guests didn't answer me, but instead declared how fine the weather was today, just as—it turned out—it had been fine yesterday, and—I learned—was due to be fine again tomorrow. Wow! Thrilling! Imagine that!

Nobody commented on Emily, still snoozing away.

And as yet nobody had touched the tea or goodies. I gathered that, just as good teatime manners must dictate that no one sit until the hostess does, perhaps they were waiting for me to get started. Maybe they would answer me once they were fed.

I seemed to be on the right track, because they all smiled and sat up a little straighter when I picked up the teapot. However, once I'd finished pouring a cup for myself and looked up, I could see little frowns on their faces, and the chatter about such scintillating subjects as how the blossoms on the trees seemed especially vibrant today—all that seemed to be faltering.