Page 51

The stairs to the cellar are shallow stone and a little slippery from time and wear. The door at the bottom has a lock on it, but it hangs in its latch in the open doorway with the key inside. I walk through the door and call for Nina once more.

My eyes slowly adjust to the dark room, lit by only one bare bulb in the center. The light is not strong enough to reach the room’s corners but plenty strong enough to see what sits directly beneath it.

A massive radio, much larger and older than the one in the gramophone shell, but perhaps more powerful too. Next to it sits a handmade Morse code device. It’s a simple one constructed from a ruler and a metal cap attached to a cork, to allow for easy clicking, and a simple spring mechanism—all bound together with cloth tape. I haven’t seen a Morse code device like this before, not a homemade one, but it’s obvious what it is. And if I were to make one, that’s exactly how I’d do it too.

“Nina?” I call again.

“Back here.” Her voice emerges from a far dark corner. “I accidentally knocked down some boxes.”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. I made a mess though. I was searching for my windup robot. It can walk, but it’s broken. Mum said she put it down here, but I can’t find it. I thought we could fix it.”

“Of course we can, but perhaps we shouldn’t be down here. Why don’t you ask your mum about it, then either bring it to the store or we can work on it when I come for another lesson?”

I bite my lip, afraid I’ve let my nerves show. While Nina may be allowed down here all the time, I’m certain I’ve just reminded her, through my high-pitched tone and cracking voice, that I’m not. I suspect no one is.

Nina sighs. “Papa doesn’t mind, but you’re right, Mum gets cross when I come down here. But she said it was here.”

Her whine, bordering on a screech, reminds me how young fourteen is. Only eight years behind me, and I remember wanting to release just those same notes—and probably would have had someone been around who cared enough to hear.

“I tell you what.” I will my voice to come out calm and level. “Whenever you find it I’m happy to work on it with you.”

“Okay.”

She begrudgingly walks past me, but I stop her. “Should we pick up the boxes you dropped? Clear up any signs that you were down here?”

She nods eagerly, as if I’ve just gotten her out of a jam rather than myself. I follow her to the room’s dark back corner and we restack the boxes. A few feel light enough to have jumpers or blankets packed away inside them, while others feel heavy enough to be filled with books or even rocks. I don’t pause to ponder; I merely stack them just as Nina instructs me, and we walk back out of the cellar together.

She stops at the doorway and, after I’ve passed her, turns to fasten the lock again. She lifts up on her toes and sets the key atop the door lintel. She then leads us back upstairs to the parlor.

My foot hits the top step as the front door opens and Ursula rushes in. She doesn’t see us right away, giving me time to take a few more steps into the room, away from the stairs.

Her eyes catch upon Peter first, tucked tight against the front door winding his toy plane to make a run across the length of the house. She then takes in Nina and me standing close together in the parlor.

A question and the merest hint of suspicion skips through her eyes before she says anything. She lands on a melodic, “What are you two up to?” Her eyes are serious, making her light, airy query all the more impressive.

Nina replies, equally light and casual. “Miss Brown just fixed Peter’s plane.”

At that Nina and Peter head upstairs, and Ursula leads me to the kitchen. I gesture back towards the children and their pounding footsteps now above us.

“Do they not have school today?”

“I kept them out. I need to run an errand with them at lunchtime and felt a full day off would be best.” She circles around her kitchen, but I sense she’s not seeing it. She seems scattered, almost lost.

“If today isn’t a good day I can come back Friday.”

“No.” The word comes out short and crisp. “Of course it’s a good day.” She scans the room again. “I thought scones.” She turns to me again and blows out a long, slow breath. “I’m sorry. Perhaps you’re right. Friday is best. Things have been so busy lately. I’m not even sure what ingredients I’ve got on hand. We’ve used up most of what you brought last time.”

She smiles, but it’s not her usual one with dancing eyes and teeth on display, nor is it her sly one with the merest left corner of her mouth pulled up. It’s straight and flat, and her eyes strike me as strained and again—or maybe still—dark circled.

“Let’s forget baking. How can I help you?”

“What?” She blinks in surprise.

“You said things are busy. And perhaps you’re a little tired? I have the next couple hours free before work. So how can I help you?”

She looks at me with tender fondness, and I feel like a jerk. While I am sincerely offering to help, my motives aren’t completely pure. I figure if I offer my help I get to stick around. If I stick around I learn more. And to make matters worse, in terms of my conscience, I press what feels like an advantage. “Did something happen? Is something wrong?”