Chime by Franny Billingsley Page A

station began when I set the library fire. I’m still astonished that it was Rose herself who alerted the fire station. She told me all about it—how the alarm bell went off, and the firemen went rushing about, harnessing the horses and checking the ladders, and how it was the handsome Robert himself who lifted her onto the fire wagon and stood right behind her so she wouldn’t fall, and off they went, the hose-carts rattling behind.
    “I prefer that you not talk,” said Rose.
    I myself preferred not to talk, but I’d have to talk to say so. “Robert wears shoes.”
    “I don’t like my shoes,” said Rose.
    “I’m wearing my shoes and you don’t see me complain.”
    “You only hear a person complain,” said Rose. “Not see.”
    How has Rose lived for seventeen years and no one has ever killed her, not once?
    “Perhaps you ought to put your shoes on in the wardrobe.” Rose was irritatingly agreeable. She crawled into the wardrobe and shut the door. Rose has a theory that time goes more slowly in the wardrobe, which may be true, given the amount of time she spends in there.
    “Five hundred sixty-four steps to the fire station.”
    “How many steps to the breakfast table?”
    “I don’t want breakfast,” said Rose. “I want to go to the fire station.”
    We ended up compromising. We’d have toast, only toast, which as Rose said, is quick to eat. But Eldric was waiting for us in the dining room, wearing one of Pearl’s ruffled aprons. “You look very beautiful,” I said. “Is this a special occasion?”
    “I suppose you could say so,” he said. “I’m in charge of breakfast this morning.”
    “Boys don’t wear aprons,” said Rose.
    “This boy does,” said Eldric. “He does when he’s cooking eggs.”
    “But Pearl cooks our eggs,” said Rose. “Anyway, I prefer toast today and so does Briony.”
    I looked at Eldric, into his eyes. My fingers knotted themselves together. Eldric looked at me all the while he spoke.
    “Pearl’s baby died.” He swallowed, cleared his throat. And then, because he already knew Rose well enough to know she might not understand, he said, “She’s very sad and wants to stay at home.”
    My fingers hurt. I looked down. They were twisted all about one another.
    I didn’t know what to say, but Rose filled the silence.
    “I like poached eggs,” said Rose, “but Briony thinks they’re disgusting. She likes fried eggs. I think scrambled eggs are disgusting because they’re all one color.”
    “No scrambled eggs.” Eldric curtsied with his apron and vanished into the kitchen.
    “I know what you’re going to say,” said Rose. “That we should eat the eggs because it’s Eldric making them.”
    I nodded.
    What did one say when a baby died? I should think of something before Eldric joined us, practice something regularly girlish. But it turned out he wasn’t to eat with us. Perhaps he’d lost his appetite. Perhaps he thought it heartless that I could eat my fried eggs. Unfair that Rose could eat her poached eggs and no one would think anything at all.
    “Now for your cloak.” Wearing a cloak is on Rose’s list of the thousand things she hates most. The problem is that each of the thousand is ranked number one.
    “But Dr. Rannigan says you must, and anyway, it hardly weighs a thing, it’s so full of holes.” I swung mine round my shoulders. Rose hates any bit of clothing that constricts, but I say, Chin up and bear it. Life is just one great constriction.
    “
Ventilated
,” I said, “that’s the word. Our cloaks are terrifically ventilated.”
    The Brownie waited for us beside the door, then followed us like a double-jointed cricket. By all Brownie rules, he ought to have stayed in the Parsonage. He made a poor Brownie. He worked no mischief in the house; he helped with none of the chores. He was reserved and affectionate, devoted to me, or so it seemed.
    “Go away!”
    He didn’t go away.
    The sky was white and went on forever, and so did the