Annaliese stashed the golden crocodile suitcase under her bed. Then she left her bedroom briefly, returning with a large flat box. She slid the box, with curved silver letters drawn on its cover, next to the suitcase.
She gripped Throckmorton in one hand and the ring of keys in the other and rushed down to the kitchen. When Mrs. Wiggins asked if they’d found the missing sock monkeys, Annaliese answered, “We’re still looking,” like a loyal soldier.
She reported to Evan’s bedroom, armed with a secret of her own. She placed Throckmorton next to Captain Eugene on the leather seat of a rolling desk chair.
Dismal, water-stained wallpaper—a pattern of ferns, dark green and drooping—covered Evan’s bedroom walls. Heavy drapes blocked the rare rays of winter sun. His collection of miniature lead soldiers covered the shelves and surfaces of every piece of furniture.
Throckmorton sighed. How unhappy the tiny warriors’ painted faces appeared . . . how hard their minuscule hearts must be . . .
Evan and Teddy lay on the floor with their arms beneath their heads, waiting to open the violin and mandolin cases. Bailey was stretched out next to Teddy, straining to keep one eye open. Annaliese dropped to her knees and joined the circle.
Her brothers sat up at the same time. Evan claimed the violin case, which had three latches. Teddy’s fingers hovered above the two latches on the mandolin case.
“Ready . . . Set . . . Go!” said Evan, followed by a series of rapid snaps.
Despair tore at Throckmorton’s heart as he viewed the bodies of his cousins lying lifeless before him. He’d heard the horror stories before, of course. But never had he witnessed firsthand what happens to sock monkeys who’ve been unloved for a long, long time.
The symptoms of long-term abandonment were unmistakable.
Sir Rudyard’s glass eyes didn’t focus. His ears sagged. The woven threads of his sock face had lost their elasticity.
Miss Beatrice was balled up inside the mandolin case’s oval, velvet-lined interior. She wore an ivory satin dress. A tulle veil, attached to a broken crown of dried flowers, covered her squashed, lumpy face. Her eyelashes were like Throckmorton’s: slashes of black embroidery thread. Her jingle-bell eyes registered not even a sliver of sight.
Throckmorton and Captain Eugene exchanged worried glances, flicks of movement imperceptible to the human eye.
Why had their cousins been sentenced to such a loveless existence? Would they ever—could they ever—recover?
Evan sat up, eased Sir Rudyard into a standing position, and met his sock monkey eye to eye. Evan’s face, usually stony and pale, softened. “Why don’t I remember you?” he asked.
Throckmorton crossed his imaginary fingers, hoping that by the magic of his keeper’s touch, Sir Rudyard would emit even a tiny spark of sock monkey soul.
“I think that you owe Sir Rudyard an apology,” Annaliese told Evan. “Tell him that you’re sorry you forgot about him. That’s what I did, and Throckmorton’s completely forgiven me.”
And indeed, Throckmorton had. (Red-heeled sock monkeys, sewn by hand and stitched with love, find it almost impossible to carry a grudge.)
“Wait a minute . . . ,” said Teddy, who’d lifted homely Miss Beatrice out of the mandolin case. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” asked Annaliese.
Teddy reached into the bottom of the case. He fished out a thin gold-link chain and dangled it from his fingers. “A necklace, I guess, with a pendant.”
Holy moley!
It wasn’t just any old necklace—it was Olivia’s locket!
Teddy handed the locket to Evan, who let Sir Rudyard collapse.
From a desk drawer Evan removed a magnifying glass worthy of Sherlock Holmes. He positioned it above the jeweled face of a small gold sphere.
“Diamonds, I think, and a ruby.” He pinched open the halves of the ornamental case and squinted. “With two tiny portraits inside.”
After several seconds of silence, Evan passed the magnifying glass and locket back to Teddy. “Here, take a look.”
Teddy peered at the miniature portraits. His face whitened.
“You remember her, don’t you?” Evan asked him.
Teddy nodded solemnly.
“Her?” asked Annaliese.
“Our mother,” Evan answered.
“Our mother?” she shrieked. “Our mother?”
“For gosh sakes, Annaliese,” said Teddy, “lower your voice.”
Teddy pressed the locket and magnifying glass into her outstretched hands. “See for yourself.”
“Who else would it be?” Evan said. “That’s Father without his mustache; there, on the left.”
“She looks so young,” said Annaliese.
“Eighteen when Father married her,” Evan replied.
“I didn’t know that,” said Annaliese.
Teddy dropped his chin. He bit on his lower lip and ran his hand up and down Bailey’s back.
Tension rippled across Throckmorton’s chest. If he’d had breath to hold, he would’ve held it.
Annaliese’s lips quivered. “She’s—she’s—she’s just like I imagined her to be . . . like I know her,” she said. “Like I’ve always known her.”
“Know her, schmow her,” Evan snarled, snatching the locket out of her hand. “She may as well be dead for all she cares about us.”
“She must care about us!” Annaliese insisted.
“No. She doesn’t.” Evan snapped the locket shut. “Never has. Never will.”
Throckmorton now watched with horror as Teddy’s hands formed into fists. His lips moved back and forth, contorting his cheeks.
Ptew! A mouthful of Teddy’s spit grazed Evan’s face.
Stunned and caught off guard, Evan’s head sprung back. The locket skidded out of his hand. An instant later, he lunged forward and dug his fingers deep into Teddy’s neck.
“Stop it! Stop it!” Annaliese screamed.
Teddy elbowed Evan’s chest and twisted out of his clutches.
The bedroom door flung open and the judge thundered into Evan’s room. “What the devil’s going on in here?”
With a sleight of hand, Evan whisked the locket under his leg.
The judge’s stormy gray eyes shifted back and forth between the open instrument cases and the sock monkeys lying on the rug. “The three of you have some explaining to do.”
Annaliese offered Miss Beatrice up to the judge. “Look, Father, we found your sock monkey.”
The judge grabbed Miss Beatrice by the head, crushing the veil’s flowered crown in his grip.
At that very moment, Miss Pine dashed into the room.
The judge wheeled round upon her. “Miss Pine,” he growled, “I told you once and I’m not telling you again.” His voice rose to a roar. “Take care of this monkey business!”
“Meaning, sir?”
“Meaning, remove Miss Beatrice’s ridiculous dress, it’s not hers. And, keep her under wraps until I return.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Our future depends on it!”
The judge stomped out of the room. Miss Pine stood as if frozen for a few seconds. Then she darted after him, plaintively calling, “Judge Easterling! Please, may I have a word?”
Evan, Teddy, and Annaliese re-formed their circle. Teddy and Annaliese’s faces were crestfallen; Evan looked close to tears.
Although their mother’s portrait was no bigger than a thumbprint, the locket was a vivid, bitter reminder that Olivia was a living, breathing human being—real enough to have once lived in this unhappy house—real enough to have packed up and left.
Throckmorton felt all spongy and unsettled inside. He realized anew how difficult the children’s lives had been.
Waiting and wondering, wondering and waiting . . . all traces of their mother’s existence swept out of sight.
Evan moved his leg, revealing the locket.
“May I have it?” Annaliese asked with a tremor in her voice. “Please?”
Evan wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “No.”
“I’ll give you all the money in my piggy bank—there’s lots—and my marbles, and my desserts for a month, and . . .” She pounded her thighs with her fists. “Pleeease . . .”
“Come on, Evan,” Teddy pleaded. “Be a sport.”
Evan planted the locket in his breast pocket. “No.”
Throckmorton knew that years from now, he would remember the moment when Olivia’s locket was opened by the children.
Yes, years from now, Throckmorton would remember thinking: Now that the locket’s been opened, it can never be closed.