Angel of the Battlefield Read Free Page B

guys,” their father said softly. “But once you get your computers going, we’ll set up Skype and—”
    â€œWe can’t get Internet here,” Maisie said. “Something about the walls.”
    â€œOh,” he said, disappointed. “Well, I’ll be back at Christmas, and that’s practically around the corner.”
    Felix and Maisie knew Christmas was far off, but they both mumbled, “Sure.”
    â€œI love you, guys,” their father said.
    He had his hanging-up voice on now, and Felix wanted to shout for him not to.
    â€œLove you, too,” Felix said.
    Then came the sound of hanging up and the eerie silence of disconnection.
    The clock on the stove said 9:24. Maisie tried not to think about what she would be doing on Bethune Street right now.
    â€œYou know,” she said, “adults always tell us we can have anything we want if we just work hard and try our best. But all I want is to turn that clock back to . . . to . . . 9:24 AM last year or . . . or . . . any year really that was happier than this one. And that’s the one thing I can’t have.”
    Felix couldn’t remember exactly what he had been doing a year ago, but he agreed with Maisie. Whatever it was, he had certainly been happier then.
    â€œI guess they just mean we can become doctors or astronauts or something,” he said. “Possible things.”
    â€œWell, I don’t care,” Maisie said. “I want an impossible thing.”
    As if this were all his fault, she stomped out of the kitchen, dropping crumbs behind her.
    â€œHey!” Felix called. “What’s that? A trail to find your way back?”
    â€œHa-ha,” Maisie said and slammed her bedroom door shut.

    At precisely noon, a lady wearing pink—lipstick, scarf, nail polish, too tight sweater—met them outside at the main entrance to Elm Medona for what she called a Grand-VIP-Private-Behind-the-Scenes Tour. She twittered like a bird with excitement about Elm Medona. People came from miles away just to examine its marble and wallpaper, she told them.
    â€œWhat lucky children you are,” the Woman in Pink chirped, “to live in a piece of history like Elm Medona.”
    â€œSo we’ve been told,” Maisie muttered.
    The Woman in Pink cleared her throat. “Well,” she said. “I believe that by the end of this tour you will agree with the general consensus.”
    The thunder that had stayed off in the distance suddenly grew nearer. A loud clap burst through the sky, and the wind picked up, whistling eerily and shaking the branches of the large oak trees that lined the driveway leading to where they stood.
    All three of them glanced heavenward. The wind grew stronger. The Woman in Pink had to raise her voice to be heard above it.
    â€œWell, shall we begin? I’ve been a docent for the preservation society since 1998—”
    â€œA what?” Maisie said.
    â€œA
docent
. A tour guide of sorts. For museums and the like. Now, as you may know—”
    â€œDocent,” Maisie said under her breath. “
D
 . . .
o
 . . .
s
—”
    â€œ
C
,” the Woman in Pink said impatiently. “
D-o-c-e-n-t
. Now where was I?”
    â€œYou’ve been a docent since 1998,” Felix reminded her.
    The Woman in Pink closed her eyes briefly as if to collect her thoughts. When she opened them, she said in a measured voice, “As you may know, Phinneas Pickworth built Elm Medona in 1909 as a summer cottage for his wife, Ariane. Ariane Pickworth was from French royalty, and, in fact, Phinneas met her in Paris . . .”
    Maisie got bored immediately. But Felix didn’t. Phinneas Pickworth sounded like someone out of an adventure story. Felix was thrilled at the thought that he shared Phinneas’s DNA. Truth be told, Felix was a worrywart, a bit shy, and—as Maisie liked to