However, in 1905 the piece wound up in the hands of a family from Corrander by the name of Rabe. After several months of negotiations, Victoria Patton brokered a deal to trade the Blooming Sapphire for something that had great sentimental significance to the Rabes: a garden of glass flowers, crafted centuries ago by their distant ancestors.
The deal went off without a hitch—?until three months later, when the Rabes discovered that while a select few of the flowers were genuine, many had been faked.
The fallout was immediate. The enraged Rabes demanded that the Blooming Sapphire tiara be returned.
The Pattons argued that they purchased the glass flower garden for a hefty sum specifically to facilitate the exchange. They put the Blooming Sapphire under lock and key. Several months of mounting frustration, accusations, and aggression followed, until the Rabes became so angry that they left Corrander forever. They have not been seen or heard from since.
The proximity of this event to the first Disappearance has led many to believe it is the Catalyst for the landslide of troubles that followed. The Rabes were always an unusual family, and there were whispers of their dabbling in dark arts. But perhaps the most incriminating element of this theory is a look at the Rabes’ fascination with the glass flower garden. A near-perfect imitation of nature, the flowers are said to be so realistic that the only way a human being can tell that they are not real is by their missing scent.
An interesting coincidence, to be sure . . .
Dr. Digby walks into the room just as I return the book to my bag. I can’t help but grin. Everything is starting to make so much more sense now. Why Eliza took to hating me so easily. It is about Will—?but not entirely. To hate me is to deflect blame from her own family.
“So . . .” I say as casually as I can to Beas. The opening bell rings out through the halls, and Dr. Digby shuts the door. “You’re friends with Eliza Patton?”
“Mmmhmm,” Beas says absently. She clenches her pencil between her teeth, still looking over her music.
“That’s interesting.”
She raises her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“I guess I’m just a little surprised.”
Beas takes a deep breath and removes the pencil from her mouth. “Sorry, Aila. Keep me out of it,” she says simply. “I’m not interested in being caught in the middle. I know Eliza can be ridiculous sometimes, but we’ve been friends since kindergarten. And you’ll learn that if there’s one thing I value, it’s loyalty.”
I purse my lips and scratch at a freckle on my arm. “Of course.” A dull flush begins to creep up my neck. “You’ve known her forever. I wasn’t trying to make it about choosing sides,” I add hurriedly. “It just seems like somehow I’ve already wound up on Eliza’s bad one.”
Beas fills in the empty oval of a note. “Yes,” she concedes. “Being on Eliza’s good side is the safest place to be. And I don’t think you’ll be getting there anytime soon.” She pauses. “Not as long as you’re sleeping down the hall from Will, anyway.”
Or as long as Mother can be used to draw any blame away from Eliza’s family. The Pattons must have found it very convenient that their scapegoat could no longer defend herself.
That is, until Miles and I showed up.
I bend toward the wall, curving away from Beas. When I’ve finished writing, I tap Beas’s foot under the table, drawing up the hem of my skirt.
My guest, if aught amiss were said, I’ve written along the top of my knee, forgive it and dismiss it from your head.
Beas reads the scrawled words of my Stevenson quote and lowers her face so Dr. Digby can’t see her amusement.
“I knew I liked you,” she says, and goes back to drawing a symphony of notes across her page.
When we return home after school that afternoon, Dr. Cliffton’s car is parked in the driveway.
And his book is still in my bag. My stomach drops.
“Want to study together?” Will asks, and we push open the door to Dr. Cliffton’s library. Will sinks into the plush leather armchair. I sit on the floor and lean my back against the paisley loveseat, watching the sun cast shadows across the rug and my knee. Trying desperately to think of a way to get him to leave.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working your apprenticeship with Tuck today?” I ask.
“He’s meeting with Cleary about a stage for the Harvest Fair.”
The Harvest Fair. Sterling’s polite euphemism for Disappearance Day.
Will opens his notebook. “Twenty days left,” he says, staring out the window.
The resignation in his voice reminds me of when Mother was ill and we were starting to grasp that she might not get better. I understand how Sterling feels, straining against a countdown it can’t escape. Watching the time run out, then being forcibly turned upside down and reset.
To distract us both, I stand and fiddle with the knobs on the radio, adjusting the settings until Judy Garland’s voice fills the room. She barely masks the sound of Dr. Cliffton’s shuffling walk, his weight against the cane. I start to squirm. My bag lies on its side on the rug, not three steps from our feet.
Will’s dark eyebrows raise as his father enters the library. “Well? Did you have success?” he asks.
“Success in that I’ve determined a few more things that won’t bring the stars back,” Dr. Cliffton says, and smiles good-naturedly. He pushes his glasses from where they’ve fallen down his nose. “But I’m afraid I’m still as stumped as ever on this one.” My apprehension grows as he makes his way, slowly, to his desk.
He opens the first drawer, then the second, as if he’s searching for something. My stomach knots. Why didn’t I leave the book there? What happens when he realizes it’s missing and then it turns up in my bag? I edge back to my seat and pull out my homework.
His hand moves to the final drawer.
“Dr. Cliffton!” I blurt out, scattering my papers to the floor. “Would you tell me how you invented the first Variants?”
Dr. Cliffton releases the drawer handle and straightens. His eyes light with interest. “You’d like to hear the story about the discovery day?”
Will puts his feet up on the ottoman. “My guess is she wants the abridged version,” he says, his mouth twisting.
Dr. Cliffton places his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and gives us a wry look. “The abridged version? I’ll do my best.” I sigh in relief as he turns to examine the row of books closest to his desk and pulls out a large volume called An Encyclopedia of Herbs, Spices, and Botanical Cures from the shelf. I’ve bought myself a little more time.
Dr. Cliffton brings the book to his desk and splits open the pages like an axe falling into wood. I abandon my homework and rise to get a better look. The image he navigates to is not what I was expecting: it is a spindly, ugly little flower with straggly green leaves and a puffed head of spikes in a bright magenta.