The Secret of Goldenrod Page 8

  That was it.

  Goldenrod wanted her attention.

  Goldenrod was trying to tell her something.

  But what would a house want her to know?

  Chapter Seven

  Ci-tree-een! Ci-tree-een! Trina was dreaming she was running through a sunny field of yellow flowers. Petals were tickling her face and someone was calling her name. She opened her eyes to a dreary morning, squeezed them shut, and rolled over.

  A flower tickled her face again.

  “Good morning, Citrine,” a little voice said.

  Trina’s eyes flew open. She recognized that tiny voice. Augustine was standing on the edge of her pillow, brushing her cheek.

  “It’s you!” Trina felt a rush of gratitude that the little doll was alive again, if “alive” was even the right word.

  Augustine extended her delicate hand and brushed Trina’s bangs from her eyes. “I have already had the greatest adventure in your world, Citrine. I climbed this mountain to look for you and here you are.”

  Without another word, the little doll threw her arms in the air and slid down a wrinkle in Trina’s bedsheet all the way to the floor. Awake now, Trina watched the doll skip into her house and up her steps to her own bedroom. “Thank you,” she said, pointing at her dress hanging from her bedpost. “You have washed my dress for me.” Augustine turned around, fought to pull her nightgown over her head, and finally succeeded. “Do not look,” she said. Trina closed her eyes dutifully, giving in to sleep, only to be startled a few seconds later by tiny thumps. Augustine was hopping around on one leg, trying to pull the sleeve of her dress over her foot.

  “Do you want some help?” Trina asked.

  “No,” the doll said. “I assure you, I can do it by myself.”

  Trying to hide the grin on her face, Trina watched Augustine hop some more. “That part goes over your arm,” Trina finally said. Augustine looked confused. When Trina got off her mattress and reached into Augustine’s bedroom to help, Augustine ducked behind the broken blue chair.

  “No, Citrine. If I am to live in your world and have many adventures, then I must learn to do this task myself.” Augustine righted her dress, figured out how to put her arms through the sleeves, and finally poked her head through the collar. She struggled with her buttons, smoothed her skirt, and turned to Trina expectantly. “Now, what adventures have you planned for us today?”

  Trina stretched out on the floor with her hands under her head. “I haven’t planned any adventures. I have planned relaxation and recreation because I don’t have to go to school.”

  “Ah, School.” Now Augustine was sitting on the edge of her little bed, swinging her legs and brushing her hair. “I have heard of School. It is a land far, far away.”

  “It’s more of a building,” Trina corrected her. “It’s full of teachers and books. Children go there to learn.”

  “Oh, yes, now I remember. The children go there for many, many hours and read books. I love books. They are full of stories. The Land of School must be wonderful!”

  Trina sat up to be eye-level with Augustine. “No, it isn’t wonderful. And I don’t want to go back. Ever. The children there are mean. One of them is really mean.”

  “Is he an ogre?”

  “It’s a she, and she’s more of a witch. I told them my name is Citrine . . .” Augustine smiled, nodding her approval. “But the witch made fun of it.”

  Augustine dropped her brush in her lap and clasped her hands over her ears. “Oh, Citrine, tell me it is not so. Not your beautiful name. You must avenge this indignity.”

  “She says she’ll beat me up if—”

  Augustine waved her hands wildly. “Stop! I have heard enough. There is only one thing you can do with a witch who wants to eat you up. You must push her into the oven.”

  Trina leaned her head toward Augustine’s bedroom. “Did you say eat you up?”

  “Yes, but you are awfully skinny. You would not make much of a meal for anyone. Not even for the wolf in the wood.”

  “The wolf in the wood?” Trina said. Now it all made sense: the witch and the oven, the wolf in the wood, the prince, the names Gretel and Beauty. “Wait a minute.” Trina went into the turret room and came back with the old copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. “Do you know this book?” Trina asked. But before she could hold it up for Augustine to see, the little doll was already hurrying down her stairs.

  “Book? Did you say book?”

  Trina nodded and set it on the floor. “It’s called Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Do you remember it?”

  Augustine’s face glowed like a dewdrop. She climbed onto the cover of the book, hurried to the title, and twirled in a circle on the big, gold capital G. “I do remember, I do! I do! The mother read this book to my little girl as she lay in bed. The mother sat next to her in a big chair and the room was very, very still. Only that lamp glowed.” Augustine pointed to the brass sconce above Trina’s mattress.

  “It must have been wonderful for the girl to have her mother read to her,” Trina said. She couldn’t remember if her own mother had ever read to her.

  “Oh, yes, it was,” Augustine said. “The mother read from many books, but this one—” Augustine knelt down and placed her hand in the dot of the i. “—was my favorite. Sometimes I listened from the parlor, and sometimes while sitting on my pony. But the best place to hear the stories was in bed with the quilt pulled up to my chin, just like my little girl.”

  Augustine stared into the empty, dark fireplace for a long time. Trina could sense her sadness. “Augustine, what is it?”

  “I have longed for stories, Citrine. Do you think you might read one to me now?” Augustine climbed down from the book, sat on the floor, and carefully covered her knobby little knees with her dress. “Please?”

  Trina felt honored to be asked to read. Augustine was looking up to her, which made Trina feel like a big sister. But she also felt like Augustine’s new little girl. Like they belonged together. Happily she opened Grimm’s Fairy Tales and ran her finger down the table of contents, past “The Frog Prince,” “Hansel and Gretel,” and “Snow White.” “Here’s one just for you,” she whispered excitedly, turning to page fifty-seven of the ancient book, to the story of “Briar Rose.”

  “Once upon a time,” Trina began, “there lived in a distant kingdom a very lonesome king and queen. ‘If only we had a child,’ they wished, but for many years they remained alone.”

  Heavy clouds rolled across the morning sky and thunder rumbled in the distance as Trina read aloud the story of the young princess who, at the fate of a wicked spell, pricked her finger on a spindle and fell into a deep sleep for a hundred years. Trina held up the page with the picture of Briar Rose in her long blue gown and pointed cap and showed it to Augustine, and then, feeling as if someone was looking over her shoulder, hanging on her every word, and expecting to see the pictures too, she held the book up in the air.

  “What are you doing?” asked Augustine, puzzled and indignant.

  Maybe Poppo was right. Maybe the real Trina had been captured by aliens. What else could explain her reading a story to a talking doll and showing pictures to the walls of her room? Still she felt compelled to continue reading in a loud voice about how the princess was finally awakened by a kiss from a handsome prince. “Then the marriage of the prince and Briar Rose was celebrated with extreme grandness and they lived happily ever after. The end.”

  Augustine put her hands to her mouth and looked as if she might cry. “What a wonderful story. It is exactly how I remember it. You must read it again. Please.”

  “Again?”

  “Of course, again. Good stories are meant to be read over and over and over—”

  “Okay, okay, Augustine. I’ll read it again.” Trina didn’t really mind reading it again. She loved the part where the prince kissed the sleeping beauty and the kingdom woke up and the fire crackled in the hearth, and even the flies began to buzz again, and everybody danced with joy. “The end,” she said finally as the
storm rolled off to the horizon and a ray of sun pierced the thinning clouds.

  Augustine leaped to her feet. “I know what we shall do today. But it shall remain a surprise until you get dressed,” she said. “You are still in your bedclothes.”

  Trina pulled off her pajama bottoms and green T-shirt and pulled on her denim shorts and a light blue T-shirt. She grabbed her Brewers cap because it matched her shirt. “Ready,” Trina said.

  “We shall look for my prince. I have awakened twice and still he is not here. Perhaps he is lost. We must search hill and dale for him.”

  “Now?” Trina asked.

  “Of course now. What else do you have to do with your many hours if you are never returning to the Land of School?” Augustine ran into her little house and looked at herself in the hallway mirror. She turned this way and that, tucked a few strands of her yellow hair behind her porcelain ear, and batted her pale eyelashes at herself.

  “But your prince . . .” Trina slipped her feet into her flip-flops.

  “Yes?”

  Augustine looked at Trina so earnestly, Trina didn’t know how to tell her that waking up and finding a prince waiting to marry you only happened in fairy tales. Still, Augustine deserved to know the truth. She sat down on the floor and held Augustine’s little hand between her thumb and her forefinger. “I’m afraid your prince isn’t coming,” she said.

  Augustine clutched at Trina’s finger, her eyes fluttering as if she might faint. Trina now wished she hadn’t said anything. True friends didn’t trick you, but they didn’t steal all your hope away either. “I mean . . . yet,” Trina said quickly. “He isn’t here yet. He could be outside. Maybe he’s trapped in the briar.”

  “Trapped in the briar?” Augustine’s eyes flashed with distress. “We must go to him at once.”

  “We’ll do our best to find him,” Trina said, but then she had the awful thought that when they left her room, they might run into her dad. What if Augustine spoke to him? What would happen then? “Augustine, you must promise me that if we see my father, you won’t move or say a word.”

  “Will he be frightened of me?”

  Trina shook her head. “No, it will be worse than that. If word gets out about you, you’ll be famous. And then they’ll put you on, I mean in, the Land of TV. Your life will never be the same.”

  Augustine’s brow furrowed with great concern. “You must tell me of this Land of TV. It does not sound like a pleasant kingdom.”

  “The Land of TV is like a prison. They would never let you out.”

  Augustine looked horrified. “Is it worse than being trapped in a tower forever and ever?”

  “Much worse than a tower, Augustine. It’s would be like being trapped in a cage. People would watch you and—”

  Augustine held up her hand to stop Trina. “You need speak no more of this horrible land, Citrine, for I understand its grave danger. Still, we must set forth to find my prince. Sometimes we must take great risks for those we love. Should we encounter another person, I will say not a word and move not a finger.” Then she climbed into Trina’s hand, ready to be carried off on their first adventure together.

  With all the rain it was too wet for her dad to work outside, so Trina expected him to be working inside the house somewhere. But the house was quiet—there was no whine of a saw or thunk of a nail gun anywhere.

  They walked through the foyer and parlor, Augustine gazing about with her mouth in a little O, and into the dining room. Despite four beat-up metal folding chairs, the dining room looked regal. Trina set Augustine on the gleaming table next to a bowl of oatmeal sitting on a paper plate and read a note her dad had left for her:

  T. C. I’m out walking the grounds, trying to plan the new septic system. I left you some oatmeal. —P

  The oatmeal was covered with cinnamon sugar, just the way she liked it, and the bowl was warm so Trina knew her dad hadn’t been gone long. She sat down and picked up her spoon. “I’ll hurry and eat my oatmeal,” she said to Augustine. She knew dolls didn’t eat real food, but even so, she felt strange eating in front of Augustine.

  Augustine grasped the rim of Trina’s bowl, stood on her tiptoes, and peered at Trina’s breakfast. “Tell me, what is oatmeal?”

  Trina tilted her bowl to give Augustine a better view. “I think you would call it porridge.”

  “Ah, yes, porridge,” Augustine said seriously. “I have heard of porridge. Is it too hot or too cold?”

  Trina shook her head with her mouth full. It was hard to eat when she was trying not to laugh.

  “Then it is just right,” Augustine said with certainty.

  Trina swallowed her last bite of oatmeal, gently curled her fingers around Augustine, and opened the French doors to the muggy morning air. As soon as she stepped onto the massive stone stoop, Augustine clutched Trina’s thumb with both hands. “Oh, Citrine, what land is this?”

  Trina racked her brain. Goldenrod sat on land that belonged to the Roy family, but the Land of Roy sounded silly. “This is the Land of Goldenrod,” she finally said.

  “I remember this land,” Augustine said in a shaky little voice. “I was here once with my father. Please, hold me tight or I will become lost to you.”

  Trina closed her fingers more tightly around Augustine, making sure Augustine’s head still peeked above her thumb and forefinger. “I’ll hold you tight, but you have to keep your eyes open for toads.”

  “Toads?” Augustine yelped.

  “Yes, toads. Your prince. Maybe he’s under a wicked spell and has been turned into a toad.”

  Augustine shuddered in Trina’s hand. “Citrine, toads are often quite ugly. If my prince is going to be under a spell, I would much prefer a frog.”

  Trina rolled her eyes. “Okay, we’ll look for frogs.”

  A haze covered the Land of Goldenrod between the house and the grove of trees in the distance. And new wooden stakes dotted the field. Trina pushed through the long, tangled stems of goldenrod, making sure to hold Augustine high above the weeds. She didn’t notice any toads or frogs hopping in puddles, but she did find daisies and chrysanthemums and some flowers she didn’t recognize growing among the goldenrod. She also discovered a long section of wrought iron fence lying on its side and figured it must have marked the boundary of an ancient garden.

  “Look,” she said, holding Augustine’s face close to a yellow chrysanthemum. “The old flowers are still coming up. Isn’t that amazing? I think we should pick some flowers for the dining room table.”

  Trina felt Augustine nod her head, but she could also tell the doll had curled up in her hand, frightened. “Don’t worry, Augustine, I’ve got you.”

  Across the field, Trina saw her dad coming from the grove of trees. “Poppo,” she called, plucking daisies by the handful as she ran toward him, eager to show him her discovery. Then her flip-flop caught on something hard. Her arms shot straight out and she soared through the air before belly-flopping into the deep weeds. Her Brewers cap and her bouquet of daisies flew sky-high—along with Augustine.

  “Trina!” her dad hollered and came running.

  Trina tried to get up, but pain stabbed her rib cage and all she could do was roll over and sink back into the weeds.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, leaning over her.

  Trina nodded, but she was dizzy with worry. Knowing his next step could shatter Augustine, she tried to say, Don’t move, but no words came out.

  “Lie still,” he said, fanning her with her baseball cap. “You had the wind knocked out of you.” He reached down and raised her arms above her head. “Take shallow breaths.”

  Trina followed her dad’s instructions, breathing so lightly her chest barely moved.

  He put her baseball cap in her hand and pointed toward the trees. “There’s an apple orchard on the edge of the property. A few more weeks and we should have a nice crop of apples.”

  Trina knew he was trying to distract her from the pain and it worked. She managed a deeper breath, got up on her hands
and knees, and began to feel the ground around her. Augustine had warned her to be careful, and now the little doll was lost somewhere in the vast yellow field. When her dad bent down to help her up, she cried, “Don’t move, Poppo! She’s very fragile.”

  “Who’s very fragile?”

  “Augustine!” Trina snapped, angry with herself, not her dad.

  “Who on earth is Augustine?”

  “The doll from the dollhouse, Poppo. I dropped her, so you have to be careful where you step or you’ll break her.”

  “What’s she doing out here?”

  “She . . . We . . .” There was no way Trina could tell him that she and Augustine were on their first adventure together, a hunt for enchanted frogs. “It’s a girl thing, Poppo. But you have to help me find her. Just be really careful.”

  Her dad looked at her for a moment, head tilted, then he nodded. He crouched down and started moving slowly away from Trina. Trina continued her search, crawling through the soggy weeds inch by inch, pushing aside stems and stalks, looking for a bit of white against the greens, browns, and yellows of the old garden. Just as her hand grazed a big chunk of rock that must have been what tripped her in the first place, her dad shouted, “Now that’s what I call luck. Here she is.”

  Trina scrambled to her feet and ran to her dad as he lifted Augustine from the petals of a giant bowing chrysanthemum. “It’s like the flower caught her in midair and lowered her to the ground.” He pinched Augustine between his giant thumb and his forefinger and held her out to Trina.

  Augustine’s eyes were closed, her dress was askew, and her hair was flying every which way, but she was clean and whole. “She’s okay,” Trina said with huge relief, at which Augustine opened her eyes and winked.

  “Don’t do that,” Trina said without thinking.

  “What did I do?” her dad said. “I just found your doll!”