But when Maisie got to school, she didn’t go inside. Instead, she leaned against the brick building, trying to collect herself. Was it worse, she wondered, to have the smallest, most insignificant part in the play? Or to not be in the play at all and have to endure two months of Felix and everybody else going to rehearsals and cast parties and talking about nothing but the stupid Crucible? Maisie finally had a friend in Hadley Ziff, and maybe even Rayne but they, too, would be swept up in the play, leaving Maisie once again on the outside, alone.
No, Maisie decided, she had to do it. She had to put on a dumb bonnet and stand in the background as Mercy Lewis while Bitsy Beal stole the show. Her mother used to say, “There are no small parts, just small actors,” whenever she didn’t get a big role, which was almost always. And Maisie’s father would add, “There are no small parts, just small paychecks,” and then they would both laugh ruefully because usually her mother got no paycheck at all for her acting.
From the corner of her eye, Maisie saw Felix and Jim Duncan arrive and go inside. She sighed. Okay, Mercy Lewis, Maisie thought, go on in.
The first thing Maisie saw when she stepped into the school’s lobby was a crowd gathered around the cast list Miss Percy had posted.
“I’m going to class,” Maisie muttered.
But before she could walk away, Bitsy Beal angrily barreled right into her.
“Excuse me,” Maisie said sarcastically.
Bitsy’s eyes were red and her cheeks were wet with tears. But her face looked mad enough to knock Maisie over.
“You!” Bitsy said. “You . . . nothing! You no-talent, no-friend, scene-stealer!”
“What?” Maisie said, bewildered.
Bitsy stormed off, and slowly Maisie became aware that every single person was staring at her.
“What?” she said again.
From the crowd, Jim Duncan emerged with a big, silly grin on his face.
“John Proctor,” he said, holding his hand out to Maisie. “Pleased to meet you, Abigail Williams.”
“What?” Maisie said for a third time.
“You got the part!” Felix shrieked. “You’re Abigail!”
The next thing she knew, Felix and Jim Duncan and the Ziff twins and almost everybody else were hugging Maisie.
They were congratulating her and gushing about her audition, their faces all happy and excited.
But all Maisie could do was think: I got the part, I got the part, I got the part while she tried not to throw up.
CHAPTER 2
AMY PICKWORTH
Once Great-Uncle Thorne discovered that the Ziff twins were descendants of Amy Pickworth, he started to change his mind about some things. First, he changed his mind about Maisie and Felix and their mother moving back upstairs to the servants’ quarters. Pickworths belong in Elm Medona! he announced, and they all unpacked everything they had just packed up and settled back into their old rooms. Then he changed his mind about The Treasure Chest. He unsealed it and kept it unsealed. Pickworths have a gift, a responsibility, a calling! he decided. Then he changed his mind about the Ziff twins. Pickworths need to stick together!
Added to his excitement about finding new Pickworths was the excitement about his upcoming wedding to Penelope Merriweather. And, of course, Maisie and Felix’s father’s wedding to Agatha the Great. It was hard not to feel excited, too, Felix thought. But Maisie was not excited. She was mad.
Maisie was going to be a junior bridesmaid, not once but twice. This would be fine, maybe even thrilling, except for the fact that Felix was going to be a best man. Twice. And on the importance scale for weddings, best man was much higher than junior bridesmaid.
“Can’t I be a real bridesmaid?” Maisie asked her father.
“I don’t really know how this all works,” he admitted. “But Agatha said junior bridesmaid, which I think just refers to your age. Maybe you can’t be a full-blown bridesmaid until you’re old enough to vote?”
“That,” Maisie said, “is ridiculous.”
“Can’t I be a real bridesmaid?” Maisie asked Great-Uncle Thorne that night at supper.
“No,” he answered, his mouth full of moules, which were actually mussels. But he insisted on calling them by their French name.
“Maybe you’ll think about it?” Maisie said.
She took a mussel out of its shell with the special little fork that was used for just this purpose, and stared at it. Yellow and slimy with some blue around the edges. She put it back in its shiny black shell and waited.
“There’s nothing to think about,” Great-Uncle Thorne said. “Read your Emily Post.”
“My what?” Maisie asked.
Across the table, Felix plopped mussels into his mouth. How could someone who did not like eggs or mayonnaise or anything normal eat these disgusting blobs? Maisie looked away.
“Etiquette, my dear girl,” Great-Uncle Thorne said, tossing his empty shell into the sterling silver bowl with the interlocking Ps engraved in it. “Eleven-year-olds—”
“I’m twelve,” Maisie corrected him.
“Children,” he said, dipping a fresh mussel into the broth beneath the pile of moules, “are junior bridesmaids.”
“But then how can Felix be your best man?” Maisie persisted.
Great-Uncle Thorne sighed dramatically.
“Number one,” he said, holding up his liver-spotted hand and raising one finger, “all of my friends are dead. Number two, I rather like the lad. He’ll be a fine best man.”
“Merci,” Felix said, chewing a moule.