Emmy and the Rats in the Belfry by Lynne Jonell Page B

her one bit. And now—” She stood, bracing herself against the wall.
    â€œAnd now what?” Emmy asked.
    â€œAnd now you know everything,” she said, giving Emmy an appealing look. “But don’t tell your parents. Or anyone else. Please —” She put a hand to her forehead, swaying slightly. “Oh dear …”
    She groped blindly and staggered, her hand hitting the wall and sliding off. Emmy grabbed for the old lady’s arm, but it was too late. Aunt Melly crumpled at the knees and slid slowly to the floor in a dead faint. Two blackened fronds dropped from the potted palm.
    Emmy straightened her aunt’s robe, tucked it around her legs, and sat back on her heels. “Now what?” she said for the second time that day. She opened the carrier door. “Any ideas?”
    Raston breathed loudly through his nose. Cecilia twisted her paws together, looking anxious.
    â€œI can think of one,” said Ana, hopping out with a flick of her tail. “Kiss me, Sissy. Kiss me twice.”
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    Aunt Melly was heavy and awkward to lift, but between them, the two girls carried her to the bedroom next door and tucked her in. Emmy drew the covers up under the old lady’s chin, and Ana shut the blinds. Sissy lined up her slippers neatly on the floor. Raston jumped on her pillow to plump it.
    â€œShe’s all worn out,” said Ana in a low voice. “I know how that feels.”
    Emmy glanced up at the older girl. “You do?” She smoothed the comforter over her great-aunt. “I mean, I know you were a prisoner with the other little girls, but I didn’t think you had to do much actual work.”
    â€œBut I was the oldest,” said Ana. “I had to take care of them. I taught them lessons, and told them stories, and tucked them in, and tried to keep them safe. I just—felt alone, you know? Like it was all up to me.”
    Emmy looked down at Aunt Melly’s lined, care-worn face in sudden pity. “Everything’s been up to her, too.”
    â€œBut now,” said Ana firmly, “it’s up to us.”
    â€œWe’ll help, too,” said Sissy. “Right, Rasty?”
    â€œYou bet,” said Raston. “Got any more pillows to jump on?”
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    They began with the kitchen.
    â€œIt’s in the worst shape,” said Ana, “and we’ll want to make something to eat after a while.”
    â€œDo you know how to cook?” asked Emmy. She was at the sink, scraping crusted food off the dishes.
    â€œI watched Mr. B do it for years,” Ana answered, making a clatter in the broom closet. She emerged, triumphant, with a bucket, cleaning rags, and a feather duster. “I can make toast and tea, anyway.”
    â€œI can boil an egg,” said Emmy. She ran a sink full of sudsy water and began to wash the glass-ware, grateful that she had not always been rich with servants to clean up after her. Back before her father had inherited the Addison estate, she had learned to do dishes and vacuum and shovel snow and keep her room tidy. “And I can make grilled cheese and heat up soup. And once I baked cookies.”
    â€œThere are cookbooks on the shelf.” Ana scrubbed at the kitchen table with energy. “We can follow directions. How hard can it be?”
    â€œCookbooks?” said Raston, twisting around to look.
    â€œHold still, Rasty.” Sissy clawed holes in a rag for Raston’s forearms and stuck feathers from the duster through the cloth. “Now you can dust the books in the hall. Just run over them and twirl around.”
    Raston looked down at his feathered skirt with dismay. “What do you think I am, a ballerina?”
    â€œWould you rather clean the grout in the bathroom?” Sissy held up a toothbrush.
    â€œI’d rather bake biscotti! Why don’t you let me be the cook? I’ve always wanted to make filet de boeuf !”
    â€œCleaning first,” Ana said