“We can but try.” Not budging from her cross-legged seat on the floor, she leaned over and slid the fork beneath the disks opposite from the direction the pole was leaning, keeping Mr. Tipps near her nose. With a saint's patience, she lifted the blue disk, and the plastic acrobat twirled like a pinwheel until slowing to improbable stability.
“You cheated!” Sean shouted. “It's impossible—there's not enough weight on that end. You breathed on him.”
Her mouth was still an O. Glaring at him, she clamped together her lips, but the acrobat refused to fall, and then, closing her eyes, Norah made a new circle and began to gently blow. Mr. Tipps tottered, the pole shivered and slightly bent before heading back to the center until stopping at ninety degrees, and still she blew no harder than the air it takes to launch seeds from a dandelion puffball, and when the acrobat righted himself, steady and still, she inhaled, the wind whistling. Mr. Tipps spun counterclockwise, faster and faster till Sean grew dizzy just watching. When she sealed her lips, the whole apparatus clattered to the living room floor.
“The rabbis say that with every breath, God exhales an angel.” Norah picked up the pieces and placed them in the box.
Eager to know the truth, he pressed the question. “How do you do that?”
The plastic man lay flat in her hand. Pinching his head, she picked him up and balanced his nose on her fingertips. “My grandmother's sister is coming this weekend. She will not believe without some proof.”
Lightly blowing, she spun Mr. Tipps on her finger, and then setting the acrobat inside the box, she replaced the box top and slid the game beneath the coffee table. Though the afternoon light had weakened, she could read Sean's pure delight. Norah switched on a lamp, her hand and face suddenly radiant, and she reflected the glow on her friend. “We have to convince Aunt Diane that I am the real Norah Quinn.”
“But you are Norah Quinn.”
“She doesn't know that, and I want you to be my fearless ally. Partners?”
She spat in her palm and stuck it out; he did the same, and they briefly shook.
“And I'll need a spy to find out more about Erica Quinn. Do you think you could do that?”
A sly grin flashed on his face. “Happily.”
15
The pain, a deep ache that coursed in the bones, began in her fingertips and toes and radiated into her limbs, across the ribcage like static electricity, up the spine and fused stiff the vertebrae in her neck. Margaret dared not move, but when her jaw twitched and the fire reached her skull, her face gave away the inner turmoil through the deep furrows on her brow and the panic in her eyes. Norah had been watching surreptitiously, glancing now and again from her book, and at last, she could bear it no longer. “Is there something wrong?”
“I'm a bit stiff.” Margaret squeezed out the words. “This winter seems to have done me in. It never used to be this cold.”
“Can I get you anything? Will you be all right?”
Margaret hummed an uncertain answer. Even the words were stuck behind her lips, caught behind the soreness that seemed to leach even to the teeth. For the first time, she worried about the symptoms of her ailment and wished she could ask Paul about the mysterious pain that threatened to leave her riven. Laying the book pages-down on the table, Norah rose and without another word quickened to the kitchen. Alone with her misery, Margaret grimaced and wondered what precautionary responses her sister might undertake should she find her hurting so. She wanted no fuss. Steeling herself, she pushed her toes to the floor and flexed the arches of her soles, and then fanned out her fingers, hoping to release the pressure by willpower. In the kitchen, a saucepan clattered on the stove and Norah sang to herself as she searched the spice cabinet. At least the girl is here, Margaret thought, and I will not have to die alone.
The notion surprised her in its sudden clarity and focused her attention away from the ache in the marrow of her bones to true reasons behind her deceptions involving the foundling child. Penitent and confessor, she forgave herself and pushed away the thought, merely grateful that it had banished the seizing pain and restored former feeling. By the time the child returned, a mug in hand, she could manage to move freely and accept the token of comfort. The scent of cardamom and cinnamon rose from the warm milk.
“My own special sleeping potion,” Norah said.
Margaret blew across the surface and sipped the liquid. “Delicious. What's in it?”