The Jewel and the Key (15 page)

Whether the place was haunted.

And—really, the most key—whether she had gone completely and seriously insane.

She hesitated before opening the letterbox.

When exactly had it happened? It must have been when she stopped in the park on the way to the Powells'. She remembered the sudden warming of the air. The open flowers. It had somehow ceased to be this cold, rainy spring;
she had stepped into another spring, a warmer spring from long ago. That was why the statue of the angel was missing, of course. It hadn't existed.

But what had made it happen? She had racked her brain about this. Was it because she was wearing that antique dress from the crate? But she'd been wearing that dress before the earthquake hit. And how ridiculous, anyway—“magical thinking,” Almaz would call it. She wore vintage clothes a lot; it didn't usually suspend the laws of time.

Still, she couldn't help glancing down nervously at the skirt she was wearing today, one of the pieces Mrs. T. had let her keep. It fell just to midcalf in a slim line. She wasn't sure what era it was from. She just knew that it looked good with the cropped velvet jacket she'd found at Value Village.

No. It wasn't the clothes. Was it something to do with the statue? Or the mirror? For the hundredth time, she wondered whether she'd bashed her head and it had all been a vivid hallucination. At least that was rational. Something she could say to Almaz without feeling like a lunatic.
If
she ever mustered the courage to tell her. She ran her hand over her scalp, feeling for bumps and bruises. But just like every other time, she found nothing.

Was it something to do with the earthquake itself? Of all the supernatural explanations, at least
that
felt believable. If the earth could shake a whole city and make it roll on its foundations, why couldn't it shake time out of joint?
The time is out of joint.
Where had she heard that before?

It was a line from
Hamlet,
wasn't it? How did it go?

 

The time is out of joint—O cursed spite,
That ever I was born to set it right!

She wrinkled her brow. Was she supposed to set something right?

There was only one thing she could think of that she really needed to set right, and it didn't involve the past at all.

Guiltily, she reached into her pocket and curled her fingers around a folded sheaf of paper: Whaley's enlistment forms.

She
did
feel bad about stealing them from his desk before school this morning. So bad that she couldn't quite manage to throw them away. But she wasn't going to put them back, either. She had to do something to stop him from ending up in some strange country with a gun in his hand.

Stupid. Because of course he could always download the forms off the Internet again. But she had to try. And she'd have to get rid of the papers before he showed up here to help her.

Sighing, she pulled the key from the letterbox, fitted it in the lock, and opened the door.

The hall seemed even darker and danker than it had the day before.

Her eyes burned, and she rubbed them unhappily.
She'd gotten two hours of sleep last night, total. Then, when she'd finally fallen asleep, she'd dreamed. And that was worse....

Okay. Come on,
she thought.
Pull yourself together.
Whaley was going to show up at any moment. If he saw her looking so worn-out and nervous, he'd know something was going on.

Quickly, she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the silver mirror, hesitating before she raised it to her face. It didn't look very sinister. But it certainly looked magical.
Oh, stop being so ridiculous! Just get some makeup on.
With her free hand, she pulled out a tube of lipstick, applied it, and dropped it back in the bag. Then she took a look in the glass. For a moment, her eyes lost their focus and she felt dizzy. She blinked. Better. She ran her fingers through ringlets and knots in her hair. Now she looked okay. Good enough to be going to a rehearsal, actually. Despite the fear that hadn't quite departed since yesterday's shock, she felt a pinch of disappointment. If only she could have kept that appointment and seen the Powells again. She'd really been looking forward to that. After a final critical glance in the mirror, she shoved it back into her pocket and stepped over the threshold, letting the door close behind her.

She fumbled for the light switch and flicked it.

Lights blazed against honey-colored walls, little glittering bulbs in bright silver sconces.

Well, this was an improvement. Now, instead of the dank smell of the hallway, she breathed in the tang of fresh paint.

How was it possible? So fast! In amazement, she turned about, taking in the transformation.

A thumping piano rag, like the stride Whaley had been playing yesterday, pounded through the ceiling. The smell of furniture polish prickled her nose.

“Whaley?” Could he have fixed this up? It looked incredible! But he couldn't have done it all himself. Maybe he'd gotten some of his friends to help. She smiled to herself, thinking that maybe, with enough determination and enthusiasm, they could help Mrs. Powell bring the place to life.

But as she went along the hallway, passing doors with brass nameplates that read
LADIES' DRESSING ROOM, POWDER ROOM,
her smile faded.

No one could have done this all in one night. Not even Whaley with a bunch of his friends.

A heavy fire door swung open, and Addie nearly collided with a girl carrying an enormous tray.

“Oj-dÃ¥!”
the girl exclaimed and swung neatly away.

“Sorry—my fault,” Addie said. And then she took in the girl's gray calf-length dress and white apron.

It was as if she'd been drenched in icy water.

The shock was so sudden that for a moment she thought she would faint.

“Some tea jumped out of the spout is all. No harm done,” the girl said with a gap-toothedg rin.

No,
Addie thought.
It can't be. No.

“Just push that door open for me, and I'll get a rag from the apartment,” she continued.

“Apartment?” Addie said faintly, holding the door for the girl.

“Funny, in a theater, I know,” the girl said. “But the lady who owns the place likes to have somewhere to stay after a late night. And there's a kitchen, so I bake in there, or even cook a dinner sometimes.”

Blinking, Addie did as the girl said. She followed her into a small, warm kitchen with walls that were papered a pale olive-leaf green. Muslin curtains on the window over the sink blocked out the ugliness of the alley. She could see a small bedroom through a half-opened door.

Stunned, Addie took in the room. The stove against the right wall was an enormous black iron monster with a heavy white door on the oven. The girl lowered the tray onto a table, and Addie saw it was heaped with jam-filled scones. She lifted the teapot and grabbed a towel to mop up the liquid. “Looks like a blizzard hit, don't it?”

The emptiness in Addie's stomach was turning queasy.

She drew in a deep breath. With deliberate calm, she walked over to the flour-covered table. Pastry had been rolled out and cut into tart crusts, and next to them was a bowl loaded with pitted cherries and scented with almond. She looked up at the girl, forcing herself to act normal. “Those smell good.”

It was absurd—making small talk about baked goods when she had just slipped out of her own century. Again.

“Too early for Rainier cherries, but I couldn't wait.” The girl gave Addie a confiding look. “I'm trying to measure up to the legendary Olga. Are you one of the people who tried to bribe her to stay even after her baby was born?”

“Bribe?” Addie felt like she was emerging out of some sort of deep sleep. A coma, maybe. “No,” she murmured. “Who's Olga?”

“Aren't you one of the actresses? I'm sorry. Mrs. Powell only engaged me last week. I don't know everyone yet.”

“
Engaged
you? What do you mean?”

“Hired me, of course.” The girl laughed. “Isn't that right? We speak Swedish at home, and sometimes I confuse things.”

“Are you ... her cook?”

“Cook, maid of all work, wardrobe assistant—well, I iron a lot, anyway. Whatever she needs, I'll do.” She hung the towel on the handle of the oven. “Hot work, though, when that things blazing. I wish she'd get one of those fireless stoves.” She wiped her brow with her sleeve, revealing a puckered yellow-blue wound just below her hairline.

Addie clutched at the nearest hard surface—which proved to be the oven. “Ow!”

“You've burned yourself!”

“No, I'm okay.” Addie stuck her hot fingers in her mouth. A wave of heat boiled the air around her, turning it viscous and slow and distorted. It was all she could do not to turn and run.

She took her fingers out of her mouth and drew in one shaky breath, then another, willing herself to calm down.

This girl, with the smudge of flour on the curve of her cheek, was the half-conscious girl she'd seen at the Powells' house the day of the earthquake. It was Frida. It really was.

“You're the girl that got hit with the brick,” Addie said unsteadily. “One of the—what did he call it? One of the Wobs' kids.”

Frida stiffened. “Who told you that?”

Addie shut her eyes as adrenaline surged through her.
The time is out of joint....
She swallowed and opened her eyes, half expecting to find no one there. But Frida was standing not two feet away, looking at her with open suspicion.

Addie patted her pocket. She could feel the mirror. Irrationally, she was comforted to know it was there—the key, in some way she didn't understand, that unlocked the door between Frida's world and her own.

“I was at the Powells' house,” Addie managed, feeling somewhat more confident, “the day you got hurt. Don't you remember?”

“No, I don't.” Frida picked up the tray.

“You don't remember me?”

“Get hit with a brick and see what you remember,” she said shortly and headed to the door.

“You've left the teapot!” There, Addie thought. She was acting nearly normal. She could feel herself shifting, fitting into this new reality, however insane it was.

“Pick it up, then.” Frida kicked the door open.

Addie did and followed her into the hallway. “I'm glad you're better now.” She could tell she'd offended her in some way, though she wasn't sure how.

Frida slowed her pace halfway up the corridor, allowing her to catch up. “Thanks,” she said curtly. But then, seeming to sense that Addie meant well, she added, “I don't know what would have happened to me if it hadn't been for the Powells. Aren't they wonderful?”

Addie nodded, the sick feeling in her stomach starting to subside. A spark of anticipation lit inside her. After all, if Frida was here, might Reg be, too? And Emma Mae?

“What else can I do?”

“Help me get this food handed around to the cast. They'll be raising holy heck if they don't eat soon.”

Addie followed Frida through the door and up a back staircase she hadn't noticed before. They reached the top, and suddenly she was backstage in the midst of a chaos of noise and people. Shock slapped into her again. One person she could handle, but here was a whole world—men in flat caps and suspenders were painting backdrops. Stage carpenters were sawing boards and hammering scenery together. Two boys about Zack's age were racing around, climbing over half-built sets. Addie's head spun. She stuck close to Frida, who swerved expertly around chairs and mirrors and painted panels as she made her way to a gap in a floor-length velvet curtain of deep, deep crimson.

Addie followed her out onto the stage and froze as she found herself gazing into the auditorium exactly as she had the day before. But this time her eyes traveled over a sea of green velvet seats rising in a gentle slope all the way to the exits. It was Becky Powell's theater, not dead anymore, not a ghost of what it had once been, but living and breathing and making a racket.

The stage swarmed with people, and Addie could see a long wooden table set up in the center. Six or seven chairs had been arranged around it, and two thrones were placed at one end. Actors perched on the arms of the chairs, laughing and chatting. The women were wearing dresses with fitted bodices and high-waisted skirts, hemmed just below midcalf, and the men wore white button-down shirts, pressed trousers, and suspenders. In the orchestra pit, a few musicians were putting away their instruments.

She made her way forward to the edge of the stage, craning her neck to see the proscenium rising above her. It was painted in glowing emerald green highlighted with gold and crowned with brightly painted sculptures. At the top of the arch stood an Egyptian Pharaoh, a brilliant ruby glowing in the head of the snake that rose from his crown. Attendants on either side of him carried food and drink and platters heaped with jewels.

Addie's gaze traveled up to where box seats protruded from walls gorgeous with carvings. Ibises, ankhs, and eyes were everywhere. Horus and Osiris and Isis and all the other Egyptian gods floated in barges down the Nile. Up above, rafts of electric lights were affixed to grids. A chandelier sparkled with cut crystal, like a cascade of diamonds. And to her amazement, it hung not from the ornate ceiling but from the center of a gorgeous dome, which was split into sections like an orange and painted with greens and reds and golds. Her eyes were drawn down again by regal crimson draperies that hid the entrances and exits.

“Wow,” she murmured.

The rapid ragtime morphed into a waltz as she turned her attention back to the stage. Two couples who had been dancing frenetically drew closer and slowed their steps, and Addie was suddenly reminded of the dream she'd had the night she found that old photo. Down in the orchestra, she saw a man with his sleeves rolled up at the upright piano, fingers flying over the keys.