Birdie's Book - Andrea Burden [47]
We bundled up and headed out the front door. The acers that grew right through the front porch were all decorated with silvery stars.
“We’re having a New Year’s Eve celebration tonight!” said Mo, walking down the steps between the starry sugar maples. “Thought I’d decorate a bit.”
“What? A party?” I asked. What exactly had happened while I was off dreaming in Aventurine? Then a thought hit me.
“Are we telling Dad about the Singing Stone?” I asked.
Mom, Granny Mo, and I looked at each other.
“No,” we all said at once.
Then Mom added, “We can talk about it, though. Maybe there’s a way to tell him. Usually the men in the family are left out. Maybe they should know, even if they can’t actually be a part of it—fairy godmothers could probably use some understanding support, wouldn’t you say, MoMo?”
Mo nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll see.”
Now we were on the driveway that was lined with the striped maples (Acer pennsylvanicum) that looked like majestic sentries. I remembered Mo saying that this had been Emma’s “moose walk” when she was little.
“And, of course, Hank is joining us tonight,” added Mo. “And I’ll be playing a little music.”
I smiled but didn’t say a word, since we were standing beneath the trees. Mom had started spinning around, her arms outstretched. I started spinning, too. And pretty soon, there were three of us, spinning around like dizzy, magical moose wings.
When Mom and Granny Mo headed back, I decided to stay a few more minutes. I wanted a moment to myself before all the New Year celebrating started. As they were walking away, their voices carried.
“What is life without family?” I heard my mom saying. “And what is life without green magic? About time I figured that out, huh?”
“Aren’t you proud?” asked Granny Mo. “Aren’t you proud of your Birdie?”
“I am proud,” said my mom. “Very, very proud.”
I took the Singing Stone from my pocket and stood there, holding it in my hand. The air shimmered as snow began to fall. And for a moment, just a moment, I was sure I saw a flower petal or two falling among those snowflakes, floating and waltzing around me.
On the morning of my first day at the Girls’ International School of Manhattan, my mom was waiting for me in the kitchen with a cup of Granny Mo’s gumbo-limbo tea and a bowl of cereal. She’d be taking me to school before she went to work at her new job in her new Manhattan office. She looked perfect, going off to help save threatened forest ecosystems. She’d still be traveling now and then, but I could tell it would feel different. Her sense of purpose matched her job, she told me, and it showed.
I had lately decided she was a Potentilla reptans, a creeping cinquefoil. Mo told me the Irish name for it is Cúig Mhéar Mhuire. It has beautiful yellow flowers and can grow practically anywhere—roadsides, wasteland—beautiful and strong as steel.
My school uniform was a fashion failure compared to my mom’s elegant suit or the fairy clothes of my first trip to Aventurine. Still, it was classic: a navy blue skirt with dark leggings and thick-soled boots. I’d accessorized as best I could with the green peacoat and twelve-foot-long striped scarf that Mo had given me.
Mom and I walked from our apartment through the park across the street to get to my school. I had to admit that the little park had seemed dead and gray when I’d first arrived in New York City. But I had a different viewpoint now. Plus, Dad told me that sometimes in January there would be a quick thaw for a day or two in New York. And guess what? Today was the day. It was still chilly, but a springy chilly, not a wintry chilly. The sky was robin’s-egg blue, patches of grass peeked out from the snow, and a few persevering leaves still dangled from the tree branches.
People bustled around us as Mom and I walked silently, playing our old game—the listening game. We tried to hear the wind blow and the birds sing over the sound of