The hour that followed was blissful. Maud jumped in rhythm with the cresting waves; she tried to outrun the foam as it breathed upon the shore. She hopped on one foot and kicked the ocean into spray. She screamed with joy as the water splashed upward and wetted her thighs. For once Hyacinth was forgotten. Maud was drunk with salt water. She felt that she could go on playing by the ocean for the rest of her life and never have enough of it.
Suddenly it was dark. The water was no longer greenish brown, but ink-colored; the white foam no longer glittered, but shone in the dimness. She was alone on the shore, and the crowds on the boardwalk had thinned. Reluctantly, Maud turned her back on the glory of the ocean. Every adult she had ever met, save Hyacinth, agreed that danger lay in wait for children who were out past bedtime. She turned back toward the boardwalk.
Once under the streetlamps, her wanderlust returned. It seemed a pity to return to the house after only an hour. Other people were still enjoying themselves; why shouldn’t she? Maud brushed the sand off her legs and surveyed the passersby. She eyed a crowd of older girls, who were sharing a bag of taffy. They were noisy and merry, and Maud found them attractive. She tagged after them.
Her instincts were good. The girls led her up the boardwalk, to lights even brighter than the streetlamps. Two white fences flanked an entrance with a sign shaped like a rainbow. The sign read ODYSSEY AMUSEMENT PARK. The girls strolled in.
Maud’s heart beat fast. They hadn’t stopped at the entrance. They hadn’t reached into their purses for money. Perhaps it was free; perhaps anyone could go inside. Maud flicked her fingers through her hair and straightened her wet skirt. Then nonchalantly, without looking right or left, she passed under the rainbow and into the park.
Once inside, her senses reeled. There were strings of electric lights between the trees, and their brilliance was dazzling. She could smell frankfurters and cotton candy and popcorn. Ahead of her were booths and pavilions with gaudily painted signs. And there was music — a hooting, languishing oom-pah-pah that made Maud want to dip and sway. Straight ahead of her — making the music — was the merry-go-round. Maud flew to it like a phoenix toward the sun.
It was as spectacular as the ocean. Maud knew that a merry-go-round was a circle of wooden horses, but she had not dreamed of horses like these: spirited, glossy creatures with manes that soared upward like tongues of fire. Nor were the horses all; they were partnered with creatures that Maud knew only through the rumors of geography. She saw a tiger, brazenly orange and baring his teeth; the haughtiest of camels; a bear with a dotingly friendly smile. The animals were richly caparisoned, and their saddles were adorned with sphinxes and gargoyles and jewels. There was a painted backdrop with mountains and castles; there were mirrors and lights and stars and rosettes. Maud was struck dumb. She did not even envy the children who rode. She was content to stand and watch.
The music was slowing. A coal-black horse passed her. Then a pig with the garland of flowers around his neck. An ostrich, a stag, a hare. The children slid off their mounts, and others came forward to ride.
Maud did not intend to steal a ride. She was simply unable to help herself. Before she knew it, she had ducked under the striped canopy and clambered up the side of the merry-go-round. She was weaving her way between the horses, choosing a mount, when a large man caught her by the shoulders. “Whoa, there!”
Maud looked up. She had known very few men in her life, and she was a little afraid of them. This man was peculiar-looking. He was red-bearded, and he had an enormous belly, which he followed as if it were a dog he was taking for a walk. His hands were huge, and she could smell his sweat, but he held her away from him respectfully. “You need a ticket,” he told her. “Do you have a ticket?”
“A ticket?” echoed Maud.
“You need a ticket,” the man said patiently. He pointed to a red-painted booth beside the carousel. “It costs a nickel. You stand in line and get a ticket.”
Maud looked down at her toes. They were still caked with sand — she had wanted to stop on the boardwalk and pick between them, but she was afraid this action would brand her as a vulgar child. “I haven’t got a nickel.”
“Well, then, you can’t ride.” The man spun her around and steered her off the carousel platform. “It’s crowded tonight, duckling. I need every horse for the customers.” He closed one eye. “When it’s rainy, now, that’s different. I can sometimes give away a ride on a rainy night.”
It took Maud a moment or two to take in the fact that he had made her a promise. By the time she had puzzled it out, he was gone. She took her place among the spectators and watched as the carousel began to spin. A waltz began, oom-pah-pah. If she had been alone, she would have held out her skirts and danced to it.
It was some time before Maud realized that her mood had changed. She kept her eyes on the carousel, but her enchantment was marred by the sense that there was something she ought to notice, something she didn’t especially want to see. Against her will, her attention shifted from the carousel to the face of a woman.
She was a tall and slender woman, dressed in half-mourning and the sort of hat that Maud instinctively classified as “good.” Under her hat, her hair was fair and windblown. Her face was freckled, and there was something wrong with her expression. Unlike the other spectators, she didn’t smile or wave; there was a fearful hunger in her face as she watched the carousel. All at once, and without a shadow of a doubt, Maud knew who she was.
Instinctively, Maud turned to hide, dodging behind a fat woman in a sailor hat. Once out of sight, she reasoned with herself. There was no chance that Mrs. Lambert would recognize her. Mrs. Lambert didn’t know she existed, let alone that Maud had impersonated her daughter during the séance. Maud risked a second glance. The woman’s gaze was fixed on one of the carousel animals, a jade-green creature with the foreparts of a lion and the tail of a fish. That must be Caroline’s sea monster, thought Maud. A little boy was riding it, lashing it monotonously with the reins.
Maud studied Mrs. Lambert. The rich woman had taken off one glove and was twisting it between her fingers. Her shirtwaist was untucked and a long strand of flaxen hair had fallen to her shoulder. Maud pursed her lips disapprovingly. Grown-ups ought to be able to pull themselves together.
The carousel was slowing. Maud decided to go. At the same instant, Mrs. Lambert turned from the merry-go-round. For a split second, their eyes met. Mrs. Lambert fumbled at the handle of her purse.
Maud retreated, almost colliding with the fat lady. As the crowd changed shape, she made her escape. Once on the boardwalk, she broke into a run. She knew she would come again, in spite of Mrs. Lambert. Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow, and every night when Hyacinth was away, she would steal from the house. She would see the ocean and the carousel again.
The day that followed was hot and overcast. Maud scanned the mournful sky with mounting hope. The red-haired man in charge of the merry-go-round had hinted that children sometimes rode free, if the weather was bad and the horses lacked riders. If the Hawthorne sisters went out and it rained — not too much, but a drizzle — Maud might ride the carousel. Maud realized that she was listening for the sound of Hyacinth’s leaving as eagerly as she had once awaited her return.
But the Hawthorne sisters stayed home. Evening came and supper was served. Hyacinth and Judith dined upstairs, in the dining room that overlooked the street. Maud ate in the kitchen with Muffet. She seethed through the meal and cleared the table with bad grace. As she stacked the plates from the dining room, a roll of thunder announced the arrival of a storm.