here,” Hattie said. “Some of them came thousands of miles for this party.”
Peter laughed. “Some people will do anything for a free drink.”
“Who are the—” I started to ask, but the walls were shaking. Eric was kicking. Even through the din of the music, the kitchen, and the guests’ conversation, we could hear him crying.
“Gracious,” Hattie said, exasperated. “I was hoping he would stay asleep. I’ll have to bring him down here now. Mercy!” She shook her head. “You two go. Hurry, before the food gets cold.” She sent us on our way and took off in the other direction, upstairs.
In the dining room, Mr. Haversall waved to me as I passed. He had changed into a tuxedo. Dingo wore a bandana with a skull-and-crossbones motif. There were people of all ages there, from small children to ancient crones towing oxygen tanks. It was like a big wedding, where everybody knows everybody else. There were even some kids from school who were there with their families. They all made a point of joking and talking with Peter. Naturally, none of them spoke to me.
Most of the guests were in costume, some of them very elaborate. There were Elizabethans in ruffs and codpieces, Victorians wearing heavy jewelry over their velvet gowns, a number of medieval Guineveres and Merlins, and a few that were pure fantasy. Verity Lloyd was made up to look like Pippi Longstocking. That wasn’t much of a stretch. Cheswick was tricked out in a velvet smoking jacket. I think he was trying for Edward Cullen, although with Cheswick’s finger-in-a-light-socket hair, I don’t think he quite pulled it off.
When I got back to the kitchen, Hattie was carrying Eric in her arms.
“Kaaaay . . .” He rubbed his eyes and looked as if he were about to burst into tears again.
“Hey, guy,” I said, going over to him.
“Don’t,” Hattie said.
It seemed that Hattie had finally come around to Peter’s thinking. “Fine,” I said and went back to loading my tray.We all understood why I couldn’t be trusted with Eric, but he didn’t, and started wailing.
“Take him into the dining room,” Hattie told Peter. “The activity will distract him.”
Peter looked nervous. “Are you sure?” he asked. He glanced over at me. “I mean, he’s sick.”
“It’ll be all right. He’s coming out of it,” Hattie said. “He’ll sleep.”
While Peter was gone, Hattie and I filled his tray. Her hands worked with tremendous speed and ease, arranging each dish so that it looked as good as it tasted, all the while chatting or singing along with the band’s music.
“So this is a family party?” I asked, remembering what she’d said earlier. There was no point in being sullen, and small talk didn’t hurt anyone.
“That’s right. Everyone in the dining room is a descendent of one of the twenty-seven families who originally settled here,” she said while arranging a platter of
brie en croute
with fresh figs. “They were . . . special people. Most of those descendents still live in Old Town.”
“Special?”
“Like your mother. Like me.”
My skin prickled, as if a cold wind had suddenly blown through the room.
“Like you, Katy,” she added.
I swallowed. I think Hattie knew there were a thousand questions I wanted to ask, because she held a finger to my lips.
“Plenty of time for that,” she said. “Anyway, those people”—she nodded toward the doors leading to the diningroom—“are the only ones who can get into the Meadow in the fog, when it comes. Everyone else is cowen.”
“That’s the word Mr. Haversall used. He said he was guiding them out of the Meadow.”
“That’s one of his jobs.”
“But why aren’t they welcome? The . . . the cowen?”
“What?” Hattie looked irritated. “What a question. Cowen can’t stay because they’re . . .” She exhaled, searching for the word.
“Not special,” I offered.
She smiled. “Just so.”
“But what about the school lunch? Wasn’t everyone
Peter laughed. “Some people will do anything for a free drink.”
“Who are the—” I started to ask, but the walls were shaking. Eric was kicking. Even through the din of the music, the kitchen, and the guests’ conversation, we could hear him crying.
“Gracious,” Hattie said, exasperated. “I was hoping he would stay asleep. I’ll have to bring him down here now. Mercy!” She shook her head. “You two go. Hurry, before the food gets cold.” She sent us on our way and took off in the other direction, upstairs.
In the dining room, Mr. Haversall waved to me as I passed. He had changed into a tuxedo. Dingo wore a bandana with a skull-and-crossbones motif. There were people of all ages there, from small children to ancient crones towing oxygen tanks. It was like a big wedding, where everybody knows everybody else. There were even some kids from school who were there with their families. They all made a point of joking and talking with Peter. Naturally, none of them spoke to me.
Most of the guests were in costume, some of them very elaborate. There were Elizabethans in ruffs and codpieces, Victorians wearing heavy jewelry over their velvet gowns, a number of medieval Guineveres and Merlins, and a few that were pure fantasy. Verity Lloyd was made up to look like Pippi Longstocking. That wasn’t much of a stretch. Cheswick was tricked out in a velvet smoking jacket. I think he was trying for Edward Cullen, although with Cheswick’s finger-in-a-light-socket hair, I don’t think he quite pulled it off.
When I got back to the kitchen, Hattie was carrying Eric in her arms.
“Kaaaay . . .” He rubbed his eyes and looked as if he were about to burst into tears again.
“Hey, guy,” I said, going over to him.
“Don’t,” Hattie said.
It seemed that Hattie had finally come around to Peter’s thinking. “Fine,” I said and went back to loading my tray.We all understood why I couldn’t be trusted with Eric, but he didn’t, and started wailing.
“Take him into the dining room,” Hattie told Peter. “The activity will distract him.”
Peter looked nervous. “Are you sure?” he asked. He glanced over at me. “I mean, he’s sick.”
“It’ll be all right. He’s coming out of it,” Hattie said. “He’ll sleep.”
While Peter was gone, Hattie and I filled his tray. Her hands worked with tremendous speed and ease, arranging each dish so that it looked as good as it tasted, all the while chatting or singing along with the band’s music.
“So this is a family party?” I asked, remembering what she’d said earlier. There was no point in being sullen, and small talk didn’t hurt anyone.
“That’s right. Everyone in the dining room is a descendent of one of the twenty-seven families who originally settled here,” she said while arranging a platter of
brie en croute
with fresh figs. “They were . . . special people. Most of those descendents still live in Old Town.”
“Special?”
“Like your mother. Like me.”
My skin prickled, as if a cold wind had suddenly blown through the room.
“Like you, Katy,” she added.
I swallowed. I think Hattie knew there were a thousand questions I wanted to ask, because she held a finger to my lips.
“Plenty of time for that,” she said. “Anyway, those people”—she nodded toward the doors leading to the diningroom—“are the only ones who can get into the Meadow in the fog, when it comes. Everyone else is cowen.”
“That’s the word Mr. Haversall used. He said he was guiding them out of the Meadow.”
“That’s one of his jobs.”
“But why aren’t they welcome? The . . . the cowen?”
“What?” Hattie looked irritated. “What a question. Cowen can’t stay because they’re . . .” She exhaled, searching for the word.
“Not special,” I offered.
She smiled. “Just so.”
“But what about the school lunch? Wasn’t everyone
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