Maud wrote BED and passed it back.
Muffet moved around the room. She drew the chair, the table, the washstand. After each sketch, she passed the paper to Maud, who wrote CHAIR. TABLE. WASHSTAND. WINDOW. CURTAIN. COMB. BOOK.
Muffet copied each word. When there were a dozen words on the sheet of paper, she folded it and slipped it under the bib of her apron. Then she tapped her fingers against Maud’s supper tray. Maud understood the gesture. She was being told to eat her supper while it was still hot.
On the day when Hyacinth was due to return, Maud waited on the third floor, eyes glued to the hole in the shutter.
She saw the hired carriage approach. Hyacinth descended, and the cabby lifted her trunks from the back of the carriage. Hyacinth’s face was hidden by the brim of her hat. Maud wanted to rush headlong down the stairs and fling herself into Hyacinth’s arms. Instead she waited, listening in vain for voices two floors below.
A bell jangled. The bells in the Hawthorne house, once used to summon the servants, had fallen into disuse when Muffet became the hired girl. Now the sisters rang to summon Maud.
Maud dashed from the room and clattered down the back steps. She flew to the parlor and hurled herself at Hyacinth, who put out her hands to catch her, holding her at arm’s length.
“Maudy!” Hyacinth’s face was so radiant that Maud scarcely felt the sting of the lost embrace. “My darling girl! Let me look at you!”
Maud lifted her chin, holding herself so straight that she quivered.
“I’ve brought you presents!” Hyacinth gestured toward the trunk and valises on the floor. “A string of green beads — Venetian glass, such trumpery, but so pretty! And a box of White Rose soap and a whole pound of saltwater taffy — there’s another box for Judith and Victoria, so you don’t have to share.”
Maud beamed. Once again, Hyacinth had understood. At the Asylum, every treat that fell to an orphan’s lot had to be shared. A box of peppermints or a bucket of ice cream was divided into microscopic parts and served with a reminder to be grateful. Maud always felt that her portion was particularly small. She was sick of sharing.
Victoria warned her sister, “You’re encouraging her to be selfish,” but Hyacinth only laughed.
“Oh hush, Victoria, you don’t want Maud’s saltwater taffy. Last time I brought it home, you complained it made your jaw sore.” Hyacinth cupped her fingers around Maud’s chin. “Your hair is much better cropped, do you know that? Not so ramshackle. Really, you are quite respectable.” She turned to her sisters. “Shall we tell her?” she asked gaily. “Shall we tell her?”
Maud felt her fears dissolve. All at once, she knew that the secret that Hyacinth was going to tell was a delightful thing. She had been foolish to feel anxious about it, and still more foolish to try to puzzle it out for herself.
“Perhaps later,” Judith answered. “Let the child settle. She’s off her head with excitement.”
“She missed you.” Victoria’s voice was reproachful. Maud understood that Victoria was speaking on her behalf, but she disapproved. She felt that she would have died before reproaching Hyacinth. “Let her get used to you being home —”
“Burckhardt is coming next week,” Hyacinth pointed out.
“Very well,” conceded Judith. “Tonight. After supper.”
It was a glorious day. Maud helped Hyacinth unpack her trunk, putting away clean garments and relaying soiled ones downstairs to Muffet. To Maud’s dismay, Muffet tried to waylay her whenever she appeared in the kitchen, brandishing a pencil and paper. Maud knew what she wanted; Muffet had developed a passion for nouns. Since the day of Maud’s punishment, she had learned over a hundred, committing to memory the exact shape and order of Maud’s letters. Maud was impressed by her quickness, but she had no time to waste. Hyacinth needed her. She dodged the hired woman, dropped Hyacinth’s laundry in the basket beside the sink, and galloped upstairs to Hyacinth’s bedroom.
In her absence, Hyacinth had unearthed more presents: a child-sized fan painted with poppies, a handful of hair ribbons, and a rock-candy goldfish too pretty to eat. Maud crowed over these and accepted the invitation to try on Hyacinth’s new hat.
“It’s ess-quisite,” breathed Maud as the crown came down over her eyebrows, robbing her of half her vision.
“It’s stylish, isn’t it?” agreed Hyacinth. “Judith does croak so — and over the tiniest sums of money! — but it’s only economical to buy a good hat. You get so much more wear out of them when they’re becoming. How are you doing with Little Lord Fauntleroy?”
Maud looked blank.
“I mean,” explained Hyacinth, “do you know it well? Did you really read it?”
“I read it twice,” Maud said pertly. “Didn’t you read my letter?”
Hyacinth clapped her hands together. “Go and get it,” she ordered, “and we’ll read it together. Like a play. You can be Lord Fauntleroy and I’ll be all the other characters.”
Maud stopped halfway to the door. “Shouldn’t you be Lord Fauntleroy?” she said anxiously. “He’s the best part.”
“No, you must be Fauntleroy,” Hyacinth assured her. “I want to hear you be him.”
Maud gave her a look of shining admiration. Not only was Hyacinth willing to play, but Maud was to have the starring role.
“Don’t stand there mooning,” Hyacinth said merrily. “Run and get it. Don’t keep me waiting a second longer, you tiresome girl!”
Maud charged up the stairs.
After so heady and joyful an afternoon, supper was curiously subdued. Victoria and Judith had little to say. As the meal progressed and the evening wore on, the sisters spoke less and less.
Maud was also silent — not because she had nothing to say, but because she had resumed being perfectly good. In fact, she was showing off. Judith had told her that children should not speak at the table unless a grown-up spoke to them. Maud felt that this was as unjust as it was idiotic, but for one night only, she was willing to obey. From time to time, she stole a sideways glance at Hyacinth, checking to see if her good manners were making the proper impression. Hyacinth rewarded her with a smile that made her glow with happiness.
Maud was altogether blissful. For the first time, she was wearing the white muslin dress that was her best, and she was drunk with the glory of so much lace. Hyacinth had tied the bow of her sash and encouraged her to adorn herself with her new glass beads. Maud felt almost too fine to breathe. She sat dagger straight, cut her food into minuscule portions, and ate with impeccable daintiness.
Dessert was blancmange. Maud remembered not to suck her spoon, or even to turn it upside down against her tongue, though this was a very pleasant thing to do and only the most evil-minded adult would consider it rude. She didn’t scrape the bowl; when most of the pudding was gone, she folded her napkin and cupped her hands in her lap. After Muffet had cleared the plates away, Judith turned to Hyacinth. “You wanted to be the one to tell her.”
“Yes,” agreed Hyacinth. She looked at Maud, who gave a little bounce of excitement.
But it seemed that Hyacinth was not quite sure where to begin. Victoria rose and began to draw the curtains. Maud turned to watch. Afterward, it was that moment her eye remembered: the gathering dark outside the glass, the windows reflecting the candle flames and the four females in the room: Hyacinth in silver, Judith in gray, Victoria in dull green, herself in white. The clock in the hall struck seven.
“Maud,” Hyacinth said softly, “what do you think happens when people die?”
This was not what Maud had been expecting, but she answered readily enough. “They go to heaven,” she said primly. “Or they don’t.”