remote island off the coast of New Zealand.
“Off to Bramblewine,” said Claire happily as the twins sat together on the train the weekend after what they both referred to as Bad News Night. “Grandy will know what to do about old Fluff.” She squeezed her sister’s hand reassuringly. Luna could be a worry wart.
“I just hope it’s okay to go during a middle weekend,” worried Luna. “As long as I can remember, we’ve gone on the first weekend of the month.”
“Grandy said it was fine,” said Claire. “You’re such a worrywart.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not, I was crossing my fingers against what you said.”
“No crossies count, no takebacks,” said Claire quickly.
Luna stuck out her tongue and Claire stuck out hers.
Luna rolled her eyes and so Claire rolled hers back. She knew it annoyed Luna when she copycatted.
“Maaaaay-rose!” called the conductor, stepping into the car as the train heaved to a stop in front of the flagstone station that marked Mayrose. Claire stared out the window and counted as a dozen people got out. Five minutes later, the conductor shouted, “Silvertoad!” and six more people stepped off the train.
Now there were two stops left before Bramblewine; Langham and Dillweed. Claire counted as three more people detrained in Langham. That left the usual last person, an elderly man wearing a felt hat and a pea coat on the train bound for Bramblewine. He was sound asleep as always.
And just as the train creaked around a narrow bend, the man woke up with a start. Just as he always did.
“Diiiiill-weed!” hollered the conductor as the train rolled to a stop. Claire watched as the man touched his hat, collected his newspaper, and departed.
Poor man. He always looked sad to get off the train, Claire thought. Sad, and a little confused.
And now (as always) she and Luna were left all alone.
After Dillweed, the countryside changed. The trees became taller and twistier, the grass grew wild and curled like seaweed. Birds seemed to know things; their eyes watched roundly down from high, bare branches. Even the train itself seemed to feel the extra effort to get to Bramblewine. Its wheels ground heavily on its tracks; it squeaked and hissed a final weighty sigh as it pulled into Bramblewine station, which was just an unmarked tin shed and a wooden bench.
As was his habit, the conductor did not even step into their car for this last stop. His voice floated vaguely from somewhere up front.
“Braaamble-wiiine …”
“I see Grandy!” Luna picked up her overnight bag and jumped down the aisle and out the door. Claire knew that her sister was a scaredy-cat as well as a worry-wart and was always nervous to be alone on the train. Claire, who wasn’t frightened at all, followed casually behind.
Grandy was waiting in her Lincoln Continental. Her Maine coon cat, Wilbur, was curled up in the back seat. Grandy herself was dressed up in a tasteful dark suit and silver star earrings. She looked businesslike and slightly preoccupied as she gave each twin a birdlike peck on the cheek.
“Be extra sweet to Wilbur. Yesterday, he ate a quarter pound of dryer lint, thinking that it was a mouse, and he hasn’t been himself since,” she told them.
Wilbur opened one glossy green eye, yawned, and then settled back into sleep. He was sixty-eight human years old and could eat anything, and he was almost never awake. Secretly, Claire hoped that when the time came to get her one-star-witch kitten, it would be a whole lot cuter than fat, bored Wilbur.
“Grayer than gray makes a beautiful day” sang Claire as they sped along one of the hundred long, snaking country roads that led to Grandy’s house. In Bramblewine, none of the roads was marked, but all of them could lead you to where you needed to go if you concentrated hard enough.
“Claire, please put on your seat belt,” ordered Grandy.
“You’re not angry?” asked Luna. “That we came in the middle of the month?”
“Of
“Off to Bramblewine,” said Claire happily as the twins sat together on the train the weekend after what they both referred to as Bad News Night. “Grandy will know what to do about old Fluff.” She squeezed her sister’s hand reassuringly. Luna could be a worry wart.
“I just hope it’s okay to go during a middle weekend,” worried Luna. “As long as I can remember, we’ve gone on the first weekend of the month.”
“Grandy said it was fine,” said Claire. “You’re such a worrywart.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am not, I was crossing my fingers against what you said.”
“No crossies count, no takebacks,” said Claire quickly.
Luna stuck out her tongue and Claire stuck out hers.
Luna rolled her eyes and so Claire rolled hers back. She knew it annoyed Luna when she copycatted.
“Maaaaay-rose!” called the conductor, stepping into the car as the train heaved to a stop in front of the flagstone station that marked Mayrose. Claire stared out the window and counted as a dozen people got out. Five minutes later, the conductor shouted, “Silvertoad!” and six more people stepped off the train.
Now there were two stops left before Bramblewine; Langham and Dillweed. Claire counted as three more people detrained in Langham. That left the usual last person, an elderly man wearing a felt hat and a pea coat on the train bound for Bramblewine. He was sound asleep as always.
And just as the train creaked around a narrow bend, the man woke up with a start. Just as he always did.
“Diiiiill-weed!” hollered the conductor as the train rolled to a stop. Claire watched as the man touched his hat, collected his newspaper, and departed.
Poor man. He always looked sad to get off the train, Claire thought. Sad, and a little confused.
And now (as always) she and Luna were left all alone.
After Dillweed, the countryside changed. The trees became taller and twistier, the grass grew wild and curled like seaweed. Birds seemed to know things; their eyes watched roundly down from high, bare branches. Even the train itself seemed to feel the extra effort to get to Bramblewine. Its wheels ground heavily on its tracks; it squeaked and hissed a final weighty sigh as it pulled into Bramblewine station, which was just an unmarked tin shed and a wooden bench.
As was his habit, the conductor did not even step into their car for this last stop. His voice floated vaguely from somewhere up front.
“Braaamble-wiiine …”
“I see Grandy!” Luna picked up her overnight bag and jumped down the aisle and out the door. Claire knew that her sister was a scaredy-cat as well as a worry-wart and was always nervous to be alone on the train. Claire, who wasn’t frightened at all, followed casually behind.
Grandy was waiting in her Lincoln Continental. Her Maine coon cat, Wilbur, was curled up in the back seat. Grandy herself was dressed up in a tasteful dark suit and silver star earrings. She looked businesslike and slightly preoccupied as she gave each twin a birdlike peck on the cheek.
“Be extra sweet to Wilbur. Yesterday, he ate a quarter pound of dryer lint, thinking that it was a mouse, and he hasn’t been himself since,” she told them.
Wilbur opened one glossy green eye, yawned, and then settled back into sleep. He was sixty-eight human years old and could eat anything, and he was almost never awake. Secretly, Claire hoped that when the time came to get her one-star-witch kitten, it would be a whole lot cuter than fat, bored Wilbur.
“Grayer than gray makes a beautiful day” sang Claire as they sped along one of the hundred long, snaking country roads that led to Grandy’s house. In Bramblewine, none of the roads was marked, but all of them could lead you to where you needed to go if you concentrated hard enough.
“Claire, please put on your seat belt,” ordered Grandy.
“You’re not angry?” asked Luna. “That we came in the middle of the month?”
“Of
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