Maud flailed. Salt burned her throat; she could not breathe; she was choking to death. Instinctively she worked her arms and kicked, but the force of the wave had disoriented her. With increasing desperation, she pawed and thrashed, forcing herself deeper into the water. Her mouth opened for air. Her mind shrieked that she could not be drowning: nothing so disastrous could happen so fast. But her toes had lost bottom, and the water was dark; no matter how frantically she punched and kicked, she could not get free of it. At last her muscles went limp. She stopped propelling herself sideways. In that moment, a wave bore her up, and her face touched the air.
She was saved. Her toes scrabbled, seeking the touch of sand and finding it. Coughing, spluttering, sobbing, she stumbled back to the shore and collapsed. The salt in her sinuses was agony, and she thought she was going to be sick. She snorted and spat, rubbing her eyes with fists of sandpaper.
Little by little, the salty anguish subsided. “I almost drowned,” Maud said to the darkening sky. She had always heard that it was possible to drown in a small amount of water. Now she knew it was true. For the first time, the horror of Caroline Lambert’s death struck home. She had imagined it wrong. Whenever she thought about it, she had pictured Caroline floating on her back and falling asleep, while the water slid over her face like a blanket. Now she knew better. Caroline had died fighting, her body battered by a power too fierce to resist. The words of Hyacinth’s singsong came back to Maud:
They row’d her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea.
Maud shivered. She thought of the figure in her dreams — the ghost-child Caroline. It frightened her that she, who was impersonating Caroline, had nearly shared her fate. She wanted Caroline to leave her alone — she wanted to stop thinking about her — she wanted the dead girl to get out of her dreams.
Maud leaped to her feet. She would leave the ocean and the solitude of the shore. She wanted lights, people, noise, Hyacinth — or Muffet. . . . But Hyacinth was not at home and Muffet mustn’t see her all sandy and wet. She couldn’t risk either of them knowing what had happened that night.
The Amusement Park. Maud broke into a run. Even if she couldn’t ride the carousel, she would be among people. There would be crowds, laughter, the smell of good things to eat. Caroline’s ghost would not haunt her there.
She felt better the moment she passed under the brightly lit arch. As she had guessed, the park was crowded, and the crowds seemed particularly merry. Maud eavesdropped and lollygagged, wending her way toward the merry-go-round.
By the time she reached it, the sky was black and the stars were coming out. Maud wormed her way to the front of the crowd and drank in the music of the calliope. Lips parted, she gazed at the animals: which would she ride, if she had a nickel?
She had daydreamed through four rides when the red-haired man beckoned. He was holding up a fragment of cardboard. Maud plunged forward, agog with hope.
“What’s that?” demanded Maud, though she knew.
“That’s your ticket,” answered the man. “A nice lady saw you watching and bought you a ticket.”
A nice lady. Maud’s heart sank. She had forgotten all about Mrs. Lambert. Her eyes raked the crowd, catching sight of a fashionably wide-brimmed hat. Yes, Mrs. Lambert was there. It would be Mrs. Lambert. She was watching expectantly, waiting for Maud to betray some sign of pleasure. Maud imagined what Hyacinth would say if she knew that her partner in crime was in the company of their chosen victim. She thrust the thought aside. This might be her only chance to ride the carousel.
“All right,” she said tersely. She nipped the ticket out of the man’s fingers and turned her back on Mrs. Lambert, heading for the tiger. There was only one tiger, and she meant to ride him — but a long-legged boy was already astride him. All around her, children swarmed, claiming their mounts. Parents lifted the smallest children to the horses’ backs. Maud was terrified that all the most beautiful animals would be chosen and her ride would be wasted on an animal she didn’t like. She didn’t want to ride the pig or the leaping frog, and the zebra in front of her was baring his teeth in an uncouth fashion. She heard the first notes of music and scrambled into the saddle of the nearest horse.
He was a beautiful horse. Maud let out her breath. He was as white as sugar, and his mane swirled and peaked like icing. He had glass jewels on his harness: rubies and sapphires and emeralds. If she leaned sideways, she could admire the curving arch of his neck and the sweet expression on his face. He was serene, magnificent. As the music grew louder, he leaped into the air and eased downward. Maud floated. She was weightless, soaring, splendid. She squinted a little so that the electric lights wavered and swelled.
For several blissful minutes, she circled and flew. All too soon, the music slowed. At last the white horse halted, halfway up his pole. Children slid off their mounts and parents surged forward, calling their names.
Maud pressed her palms on either side of the horse’s neck. “I’ll always ride you,” she promised rashly. “I’ll always like you best, and I’ll name you —” She hesitated. She knew if she chose the right name, he would be hers forever. “I’ll call you Angel.”
It was the right name. He was white and benevolent, and he flew. Maud slid off and looked at him from the side. There was a sculpted hollow at the edge of his lips, which made him look as if he were smiling. Maud caressed it, smiling back tenderly. She was still smiling as she walked to the platform’s edge.
“Just a moment.” The red-haired man caught her as she stepped off. “Wait a minute, duckling. Aren’t you forgetting something?”
During the ride, Maud had forgotten everything. Now her eyes grew wide with dismay.
“I’m talking about ‘thank you,’” said the red-haired man. “Don’t you want to say ‘thank you’ to the nice lady who bought you the ticket?”
Maud’s mouth fell open. No, she wanted to say, but the red-haired man was steering her straight for Mrs. Lambert. His hands on her shoulders were strong and purposeful. She had an idea that she could drag her feet or squirm but it wouldn’t make any difference.
“Rory, don’t force her!” Mrs. Lambert’s voice was disagreeably familiar. “I don’t need her to thank me. Leave her alone — you’ll frighten her.”
Maud risked a glance at Mrs. Lambert. The rich woman appeared flustered, and Maud felt a surge of irritation. A grown-up, especially a rich grown-up, should have more self-confidence.
“She ought to say ‘thank you,’” insisted the red-haired man. He leaned down, addressing Maud. “Somebody does something nice for you, you say ‘thank you.’ Didn’t your mother teach you that?”
“My mother’s dead,” flashed back Maud.
She saw Mrs. Lambert wince. “Rory, let her go.”
The heavy hands remained in place. “If she don’t know any better, she ought to be taught.”
If she don’t know any better. Maud took in the critical words and saw Mrs. Lambert’s pitying glance. All at once, she understood: they thought she was poor. Mrs. Lambert had paid for her as if she were a beggar. Rory was trying to teach her manners as if she were only half-civilized. Maud felt a stab of shame that changed swiftly to outrage. She was conscious that she was barefoot, that her dress was tawdry, that she was wearing the absolute minimum of underclothing. Nevertheless, she was respectable — she was not a street child. She flung back her head, cheeks scarlet.
“Thank you, ma’am.” She spoke with the exquisite crispness that Hyacinth required of an angel child. She borrowed a leaf from Lord Fauntleroy’s book and quoted, “I’m ever so much obliged to you.”