A Box of Gargoyles by Anne Nesbet Page A

mother broke the spell by giving Maya a kiss and slipping her a little box of her own.
    â€œSomething very old, darling girl,” she said. “My mother gave this to me, when I was thirteen, and she had it from an aunt or great-aunt, who had no daughters of her own.”
    A bracelet, quite simple and lovely, with one milky stone set in it.
    â€œThat’s an opal—can you see the colors hiding in it?” said Maya’s mother. “Our family stone, said my mother. More than one thing at once, you see: water, stone, and light, all mixed up together. Like a rainbow in the fog. Wear it, and be happy.”
    She fastened it on Maya’s wrist, where the stone winked in the light, shy and mysterious. They watched it glimmer for a moment, Maya and her mother.
    â€œOh! And ‘ it comes with a choice ’—that’s what she said when she gave it to me.” And Maya’s mother gave a surprised little laugh. “Isn’t that funny? I’d forgotten that completely. It was so many years ago, you know.”
    â€œChoice?” said Maya. “What choice?”
    A light flickered for a moment deep in Maya’s mother’s eyes—an old fire made of more than one thing at once, and seen from far away. The hint of a light, and then it faded again.
    â€œNo, I can’t remember,” she said. “Memories can be pretty shy creatures, can’t they? Just the merest glimpse, and then they’re gone.”
    On the other side of the room, Cousin Louise was talking very earnestly to Pauline Vian. And Maya’s father was just now coming in with the cake:
    â€œHappy birthday to you, happy birthday to you . . . !”
    They sang it in English, they sang it in French; one of them even sang bits of it in Bulgarian. And then they ate slices of Maya’s father’s excellent chocolate cake, while the various grown-ups made conversation with each other.
    Meanwhile the astonishing Pauline Vian gave Maya long, appraising looks over her slice of cake.
    â€œThe adults, they want us to be friends,” she said finally, in her blunt stare of a voice. “Papi is full of great enthusiasm about it.”
    â€œHe is?” said Maya, figuring out only at the very last second that “Papi” must mean that well-dressed grandfather of hers.
    â€œIt’s all arrangé ,” said Pauline with a shrug. “Because you do not have friends speaking French with you—”
    â€œYou apparently forget Maya’s charming, loyal friend Valko,” said Valko, leaning around Maya from the other side. He did not seem flustered by the astonishing Pauline at all, but that must be because he had gotten more or less used to her during all those advanced math and science classes they had together.
    â€œBut no,” said Pauline. “I am not forgetting you, Valko, but you speak English to Maya all the time, and so her French cannot improve, can it? Whereas I will not speak English to her at all, because for one thing, I know only ‘ one, two, sree ’ in English.”
    â€œYou’ll have to know more than that by the end of the year,” said Valko. English was part of the big final exam.
    â€œ Exactement ,” said Pauline. “For preparing for the exams, Maya’s mother will teach me English; and in exchange I make Maya speak French. That is Papi’s plan.”
    She set down her fork.
    â€œBut my plan is different!” she said, and for the first time a glint of something less frowny came into her eyes. “It is about the violin !”
    For some reason—perhaps the remarkable shininess with which that one word, violin , stood out from everything else Pauline had said since entering the Davidsons’ apartment—everyone in that whole room fell silent all at once and looked at her.
    â€œDo you play the violin, dear?” said Maya’s mother kindly.
    â€œYes, madame !” said Pauline Vian. She stood up