five

Once the water jugs were in the pantry and covered with tea towels, Clara put some wood in the oven to get it hot.

“Normally I’d let Goldie mix the batter,” said Clara, “as she’s the third oldest. But she must be out looking for sea glass again.”

“I’ll do it,” said Sylva.

“All right,” said Clara, “you can do it. If you pay attention and follow the recipe.”

“I’m not looking for sea glass,” called Goldie from upstairs. “I’m trying on my gown for the Fairy Ball.”

“The Fairy Ball?” cried Sylva. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Queen Mab hasn’t even set a date for the ball yet, Sylva.” Clara shook her head. “Goldie just likes any excuse to try on her ball gowns.”

“I heard that!” said Goldie. She came to the top of the stairs in a tiered chiffon skirt and a blouse with matching ruffles. She’d topped the whole outfit with a flowing tartan coat.

“I don’t know how you do it, Goldie,” said Clara. “On anyone else that would look ridiculous.”

“Rosy says you have flair,” said Sylva.

“I know! I do!” said Goldie.

Clara heaved a long sigh. “It gets so chilly at night, Goldie. You won’t be wearing that flimsy gown if the ball is held in late summer.”

“I’ve heard it won’t be,” sang Goldie, and she flew off to put together another creation.

“I’m definitely going this year,” said Sylva. “I’ll be eight years old in one little week! Queen Mab will have to let me in.”

“If you are eight years old at the time of the ball, then of course you will go,” said Clara. “But not a moment before.”

Sylva sifted the flour into a fragile pile.

“I love this part,” she said.

“Look—you’ve gotten it all over the table,” said Clara, as she creamed the butter and sugar. “Sweep that up, please.”

Sylva swept it up, though most of it got on the floor.

“Now for the eggs, Sylva,” she said. “Just give me a minute to butter the pan. I really should have done that before we started.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “Then I’ll watch as you crack.”

If Clara had thought about it, she would have known that it’s pretty hard to ask someone to wait to crack an egg, especially if that someone is Sylva. Clara might have mentioned, too, that Sylva should have checked the recipe before she took the next step. Or asked someone to help.

But Goldie was busy upstairs.

And Rosy was still out with Squeak.

And Clara didn’t remind Sylva to follow the directions.

And Sylva didn’t follow the directions.

Crack.

Crack.

If you think Sylva smashed the eggs against the bowl and filled the batter with shells . . . you are only partially right. What she also didn’t remember was—

“Not like that!” cried Clara.