The Interrupted Tale Read Free Page A

the morning! The whole long, partyless, presentless, friendless, cardless birthday loomed before her. Was it possible that time had actually stopped? She knew the Latin phrase “tempus fugit,” which means “time flies,” like a bird—but there were flightless birds, after all: ostriches and emus and dodos and so on. Could some days be made of flightless time?
    Her thoughts were interrupted by a dreadful scuffling noise from the back nursery, followed by a cry.
    â€œLumawoo, come quickly! Beowulf’s leg is worse.” It was Alexander, calling in a highly dramatic voice. “Alas, it is much worse, woe is he!”
    Penelope hurried to look. Beowulf writhed on the bed while his brother and sister stood by. “Leg awoooo !” he howled in pain.
    â€œHow about a peg leg instead?” Alexander suggested, offering a wooden pointer that seemed about the right length. “Will be good for playing pirates.” But Beowulf only whimpered and moaned.
    â€œPoor Beowoo.” Cassiopeia took Alexander’s hand. “He was nice. But at least we will still have each other.”
    Penelope did her best to examine the miserable child, but he would not stop thrashing. “Beowulf, I can see nothing wrong with your leg. Why are you making such a fuss?”
    Bang!
    Bang bang!
    Bang bang bang!
    Someone was pounding on the nursery door, which was odd, as Penelope could not recall locking it. “Who is there?” she cried, at her wit’s end. “Margaret, is that you?”
    â€œOpen the door, Miss Lumley. It’s Mrs. Clarke! I’ve fetched the doctor.”
    â€œThe doctor, thank goodness!” Penelope ran to the door and flung it open. “You are not a moment too soon. Beowulf is worse, and I cannot tell why . . . what?”
    Just outside the door was a serving cart, upon which rested a large covered tray. Behind the cart stood Mrs. Clarke, Margaret, and nearly a dozen other members of the household staff.
    â€œSurprise!” they yelled as one.
    â€œSurprise?” Penelope did not know where to look.
    Mrs. Clarke lifted the cover off the tray to reveal a decorated cake, edged with marzipan flowers and iced with the words Happy 16th Birthday Miss P. Lumley .
    â€œSurpris ahwoooooo !” the three perfectly healthy children cried as they raced to their governess and threw their arms around her.
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    A ND A SURPRISE IT SURELY was. It took Penelope a full minute to recover the power of speech, and when she did, all she could blurt was, “How did you know?”
    â€œIt was the cards that tipped us off. ‘Something must be up with Miss Lumley,’ I said to Cook, ‘to get so many cards all at the same time.’ So we did a bit of investigating.” Mrs. Clarke rubbed her hands together and laughed. “Oh, I do love a good mystery!”
    Cook shrugged apologetically (doubtless she had a name, but everyone called her Cook, and therefore so shall we). “I tried, but I couldn’t fit ‘Penelope’ on the cake. Sorry ’bout that!”
    Under normal circumstances, Penelope might have offered some educational remarks on the topic of abbreviations (for an abbreviation is what Cook had made by putting “P.” instead of “Penelope”), but the birthday girl was still reeling from the shock of her unexpected party. “The cards?” she repeated in a daze. “What cards?”
    â€œThe birthday cards! We hid them as part of the surprise.” Margaret held out a thick packet of correspondence, tied in a ribbon. There was a card from Miss Mortimer right on top, and another from Cecily in Witherslack. At least two dozen cards had a return address of the Swanburne Academy for Poor Bright Females in Heathcote—but Penelope had no time to look further, for her party guests had already lit the candles. Now they sang.
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    â€œFor she’s a credit to Ashton Place,
    For she’s a credit