The Penderwicks on Gardam Street Read Free Page B

Skye asked, but no one knew. It wasn’t Christmas or a birthday.
    “Is Aunt Claire going crazy?” This was Batty, and no one could answer her, either. If Aunt Claire wasn’t going crazy, she was doing a good job of acting like she was.
    Then she was back, pulling a shiny new red wagon full of interestingly shaped packages and talking very quickly. “The wagon is for Batty, of course. Sorry I couldn’t wrap it, dear, but it’s too big and bulky. The wrapped packages are for the other three girls.”
    “All right, Claire,” said Mr. Penderwick. “What is all this about?”
    “Can’t I bring gifts without a reason?”
    “You never have before,” said Rosalind. Aunt Claire was making her nervous.
    “You’re hiding something, Claire,” said Mr. Penderwick. “You know that never works. Remember my submarine?”
    “What submarine?” asked Skye.
    “Your aunt destroyed my favorite model submarine and blamed it on our dog, Ozzie. But I knew it was her.”
    “It’s nothing like your submarine this time!” cried Aunt Claire.
    “Then what is it?” Rosalind burst out—she couldn’t stand it anymore.
    “Are you sick, Aunt Claire?” asked Jane, looking suddenly pale and sickly herself.
    “No, no, I’m not sick. It’s—I mean, I should have started all this with your father later, in private. Not that it’s anything so terrible. I just—Oh, Martin!”
    Mr. Penderwick took off his glasses and cleaned them on his sleeve. “Girls, give me a few minutes alone with your aunt, will you?”
    “Can’t they open the presents first?” pleaded Aunt Claire. “Or at least take them with them?”
    “They may take them.”
    It was a miserable group that filed into the living room, with Rosalind dragging the red wagon, and Skye dragging Hound, who would have preferred to stay in the vicinity of the pineapple upside-down cake. No one was in the mood for presents.
    “It would be ungrateful not to open them,” said Jane after a few moments of gloomy silence. She still wasn’t in the mood for presents, but she’d noticed that the package with JANE on it was the right size and shape to be books.
    So Rosalind handed out the packages. Jane’s was indeed books, six of them by Eva Ibbotson, one of her favorite authors. Skye got an impressive pair of binoculars, army issue and with night vision. And Rosalind’s gift was two sweaters, one white and one blue.
    “Two!” she said. “Something is definitely wrong.”
    “And my books are all hardbound, and two of them I haven’t read even once yet,” added Jane. “These must be Aunt Claire’s dying gifts.”
    “She said she wasn’t sick. Besides, she looks perfectly healthy.”
    “People often look perfectly healthy right before they die.”
    “Then we could all die.” Batty climbed into her new wagon. Perhaps it was safer in there.
    “Nobody’s going to die,” said Rosalind.
    “Shh,” said Skye, and now everyone noticed that she was lurking near the door.
    “You’re eavesdropping!” said Jane.
    “Eavesdropping isn’t honorable. I just happen to be standing here, that’s all,” said Skye.
    Her reasoning was so logical that her sisters decided to stand with her, and if they were quiet because there was nothing left to say, was that really the same as eavesdropping? Whether it was or not, it didn’t do them any good, for all they heard were bits and pieces. Aunt Claire was talking quickly, and their father said “NO” once loudly, and then they went back and forth, and the girls heard their mother’s name—Elizabeth—several times. Then there was silence, until without warning the door flew open, almost hitting Skye in the nose.
    It was their father, his hair rumpled and his glasses sliding down his nose. He was holding a piece of blue notepaper, holding it gently as though it were delicate and precious. At the sight of it, Rosalind suddenly felt cold inside, so cold she shivered, though none of it made sense—the letter, the cold, or the