The Red Necklace by Sally Gardner Page B

friendly: It was like a huge overcoat, one he was well used to wearing. He could see almost as clearly in the dark as in the day, and had never understood people’s fear of it.
    For all the trouble Yann caused the Laxtons, they could not help liking the boy. There was nothing timid in his nature. He was fearless, stood up and fought, despised injustice, and cared little about the injuries he received. Mr. Rose was an ass of a man for not seeing how clever the boy was. Anyone who had a tongue that could master English this quickly was no fool. Têtu had been right when he told Cordell the boy had talent. The problem lay in how to make him see the opportunities he was merrily throwing away.
    Mrs. Laxton understood better than her husband what Yann felt. She too had been sent near mad by grief, and it was the memory of what she had gone through that made her brave.
    Late one foggy March night she waited in Yann’s room for him to come back from one of his escapades. He looked sheepish as he climbed through the window to see her sitting there in the dark. He was certain he was going to be punished. Instead she lit a candle and invited him to sit down.
    “What is it you want?” she asked.
    “To go back to Paris.”
    “Why?”
    “I want to find out what happened to Têtu.”
    “You know what happened, he was shot. It was a terrible tragedy for you. Why do you think he sent you here?”
    Yann shrugged his shoulders.
    “No, that won’t do,” she said sharply. “You are a clever boy. Now, tell me again.”
    “To learn to speak English, and I can now.”
    “You have the accent of the street and the manners of a ruffian. Your friend Têtu went to Mr. Cordell and told him you were talented, that you deserved to be given an opportunity, that there was a lot more to you than meets the eye. What I have seen is a stubborn, unhappy Gypsy who is too wrapped up in himself to see what his friend sacrificed for him.”
    “I am a Gypsy,” said Yann through gritted teeth, realizing that he was about to break down. “I don’t belong here, not in your world. Not in all this softness. Not imprisoned by walls—”
    “When I was nine my mother died,” Mrs. Laxton interrupted. “She was very pious, and I believed that the only reason she had left me was because I had been naughty. I was lucky; I had a loving older sister who helped me to understand that she hadn’t left me behind for anything I had done.” She leaned forward and touched Yann’s hand. “It’s not your fault Têtu died. You couldn’t have caught the bullet; you are not a magician.”
    Yann felt burning hot tears sting the corners of his eyes.
    “I should have stayed with him—I shouldn’t have run.”
    He was suddenly aware that Mr. Laxton was standing in the doorway, listening.
    “Stayed to be killed,” Mr. Laxton said. “That would have been a waste.”
    “We are here to help you,” said his wife softly, “but you refuse to let even a chink of light into that dark space in your head.”
    “I don’t want anything from you. I don’t want your help. I never wanted to come here!” Yann was shouting now, so angry at the tears that wouldn’t stop rolling down his face, joining together under his chin. “Save your money and save your pity. I want none of it!”
    Blast the tears, why didn’t they stop?
    “The door is open. If you want to go back to Paris, go,” said Henry Laxton. “I am not your jailer. You are not a slave, you are a free man.”
    Yann bolted down the stairs two at a time. He pushed past the startled doorman and out into the foggy night air.
    Henry Laxton leaned over the banisters and watched him go. “Well, that’s that. What a fine mess we’ve made.”
    His wife put her arms around him. “Mon chéri,” she said, “don’t despair. I promise you, this is not the end. It is just the beginning.”

chapter thirteen
    If ann only stopped running when he reached Seven Dials. The sound of his feet on the pavement was the drumbeat