It was a strange and gloomy sort of birthday celebration.
August, Hydrangea, and Claudette were gathered around Locust Hole’s closet-door dining table, each sporting a paper party hat. A squirming column of smoke rose from a recently extinguished candle, which protruded from a cake of creamy swirls.
Hydrangea served each diner a slice. They ate in silence until the lady laid down her fork and opened her mouth.
“I know!” snapped August before she could speak. “Beauregard betrayed me, as Orchid betrayed you, as every Malveau has betrayed every DuPont since Maxim stole Pierre’s recipe. The world is cruel and full of butterflies and betrayals, and you told me so all along.”
Hydrangea raised her eyes and they were shining. She looked very sad, and August instantly regretted his outburst.
“I was merely going to wish you,” said Hydrangea quietly, “a happy birthday, sugar.”
August apologized, and Hydrangea assured him there was no need, that indeed she understood his feelings all too well. And August knew that she did.
“I hope you like the cream cheese cake, sugar. I sold another crate of hot sauce, so we might celebrate in style. There are only a few boxes remaining, and then…” Her voice trailed off, and she pushed the food around her plate despondently.
Claudette left her seat, went to Hydrangea, and gently patted her unkempt hair. Hydrangea smiled up at her gratefully.
“Don’t worry, Aunt,” said August. “We’ll figure something out.”
“Will we?”
But August was saved from lying by the sound of the doorbell.
Now that he was a more-frequent visitor to the outside world, August had persuaded Hydrangea to unbarricade the front door. The boy had installed an unemployed screen door from the kitchen to prevent the invasion of winged insects.
And so, August was able to greet the visitor at full height—that visitor being, he discovered, Belladonna Malveau.
She was, as usual, quite terrifying, glaring at him through the screen with quiet ferocity. Fearing another ruthless tongue-lashing, August quickly closed the door. But just before it met the frame, August heard the words “I’m sorry!” And they were said with sincerity.
August was so surprised that he instinctively opened the door a little and cautiously observed the visitor through the gap.
“About my brother, I mean,” explained Belladonna. “Beauregard has grown into a vicious snob. I would have warned you. I should have warned you.” She looked contrite. “But he’s so charming, no one ever believes me. At least, not at first.” She sighed sadly. “And to be honest, I didn’t think he would sink so low. His behavior yesterday was disgusting!” She half spat the word.
Disgusting.
August’s head spun. Nothing was as he had thought. He realized that he knew even less than he imagined.
It was at Beauregard that Belladonna’s scorn had been directed, both at the crawfish boil and before that. The eye rolls, the sneers, and the frosty demeanor had never been meant for August. It was her own twin that Belladonna found disgusting.
August opened the door fully.
“When there are twins,” he said thoughtfully, “one of them is always evil.” And at Belladonna’s puzzled look: “Just something someone told me once.”
“Is that your zombie?” Belladonna was peering into the gloom over August’s shoulder. Claudette was lurking protectively in the foyer behind him, growling like a cornered alley cat. Belladonna gave the zombie an unexpected, if reserved, little wave. The snarling ceased.
“You’ve been experimenting with color,” observed August as Belladonna’s bracelet passed close to his face. The jewelry was predictably black, except for a single piece of orecchiette, which was lacquered in a brilliant, glossy scarlet.
Belladonna hesitated. “You’re aware that ours is a house of eternal mourning.” She gazed off to one side, contemplating something or other. “One can grow weary of grieving for things lost. Of broken hearts. Of shuttered windows and covered mirrors.” She turned and looked August in the eye. “Of black.”
She fingered the solitary piece of scarlet pasta.
“I’m reminded,” said August, looking from the bracelet to its maker, “that you deserve congratulations…on your recent sale.”
Belladonna brightened a little.
“The art dealer,” she explained, “was taking a tour of the mansion, and apparently my jewelry caught his eye. He described it as irresistibly depressing.”
“How wonderful!” August’s brow creased in thought. “Do you happen to recall the name of the dealer’s gallery in Croissant City?”
“How funny. Mama asked me that very same question. But I couldn’t remember.” Belladonna pursed her lips, clearly racking her brain. “Something to do with macaroni perhaps. Or macramé?” She shook her head. “Sorry; I’m not sure.”
They fell into an awkward silence. August could not think of anything more to say. Belladonna suddenly produced a letter—which, apparently, she’d had in her possession the entire time—and handed it to August.
“The Malveaus are a queer bunch,” she said, regarding the boy sadly. “You’re likely better off without us. Good luck to you, August.”
And with that, she turned and gingerly made her way down the splintered porch steps. And August opened the envelope to see a familiar gold family crest depicting a chili pepper impaled on a fancy-handled dagger.
Dear August,
The Zombie Stone remains in the possession of someone other than myself. Despite I’m sure the best of intentions, you have failed to uphold your end of our agreement.
I feel certain, then, that you cannot expect me to uphold mine. In short, you will not be attending school in New Madrid with Beauregard and Belladonna next month.
You may take comfort in learning that after yesterday’s grotesque and vulgar incident, I intend, in any case, to save the twins from further embarrassment by enrolling them at an academy far from here, in Croissant City.
Home tutelage at the hands of your aunt Hydrangea, and a generally low profile, perhaps represents the best option for you after all.
Sincerely,
Orchid Malveau
