Keeper of the Doves by Betsy Byars Page B

muffled laughter from the Bellas. I didn’t see anything funny.
    Now Aunt Pauline looked at me. There was such fury in her face that I stepped back. I would much rather she had looked at me with the eyes in the back of her head than the ones in the front.
    â€œChildren should be seen and not heard, Amen.” “Amen,” the twins said in unison, as if they thought it was some sort of pronouncement.
    â€œChildren who ask questions will not learn the truth.”
    I knew that Aunt Pauline made up some of these things, but she looked as if she meant it, and then she swept from the room.
    The twins collapsed on the love seat in laughter, kicking their feet in uncontrolled glee.
    I was still awed by the terrible look from Aunt Pauline and wondering how you could learn the truth if you didn’t ask questions. “What’s so funny?” I asked.
    The Bellas were good at imitating people. And as soon as Aunt Pauline was out of earshot one of the Bellas sat up and said, “Children!” It was Aunt Pauline’s voice. “Children, if you tell a lie, your nose will grow long and ugly.”
    The other Bella said in my voice, “Is that what happened to your nose, Aunt Pauline?”
    They fell back again. More laughter, more kicking.
    I was a serious child and was always surprised at the things others—particularly the Bellas—found funny.
    Finally, their mirth spent, the Bellas went outside, and I followed. I tried to turn the conversation back to Mr. Tominski. “Why did Aunt Pauline say he was lurking in the memorial garden?”
    The Bellas were busy making up a new Aunt Pauline insult and didn’t answer.
    â€œWhat does he do anyway?”
    No answer.
    â€œHe must do something!” I was aware that all the people at The Willows had specific duties. That was how our food got prepared, our clothes laundered, our gardens tended.
    â€œSomebody tell me what he does!” I remembered the Bellas had spotted him at the barn. “Is it something to do with the horses?”
    But the Bellas’ minds continued, trainlike, on a single track.
    â€œChildren, if you frown at a horse, your face will turn into one.”
    â€œDid you frown at a horse, Aunt Pauline?” Again, it was my innocent voice asking the question.
    During the rest of the afternoon, in the middle of one of our games, one twin would break off and say, “Children,” in that terrible Aunt Pauline way that made me wish I wasn’t one of the group. “Children, if you say the word witch , you’ll turn into one.”
    And my voice would pipe up from the other: “Did you say the word witch , Aunt Pauline?”
    I still didn’t see what was so funny, but by now, I had stopped asking for an explanation and made myself laugh along with them.

chapter four
    A Daisy and Other Invisible Flowers
    â€œD aisy . . . dandelion . . . daffodil . . .”
    My sister Augusta knew more words than anyone in the world. I loved to walk in the garden with her. It was like taking a walk with a dictionary.
    Scout led the way. He paused and looked back occasionally to make sure we were following.
    Augusta always started with aster and buttercup, and as she moved through the garden and the alphabet, she bent gracefully and picked imaginary flowers.
    â€œElderberry . . . fuchsia . . . gardenia.” She added these to her bouquet.
    It was a winter’s day. The branches above us were bare. The only flowers were the invisible ones in my sister’s arms.
    We proceeded through the empty, colorless yard, with my sister going through the alphabet of flowers, gathering them one by one.
    â€œ. . . verbena . . . wisteria . . . the rare xanthenia—” Here she paused to give me a wink of conspiracy. Augusta was my serious sister, so even this sort of mild joke was rare. She ended with “. . . yellow jasmine . . . zinnia.”
    Thus, we came to the family cemetery. This was the end of the