Breadcrumbs - Anne Ursu [8]
The Briggses lived far from the blocks made up of rows of single-story houses plopped on top of place-mat yards where Hazel lived. There was nothing uneasy about the houses along this drive. They wore their second and third stories with assurance. No one had to dream up shutters and window boxes and trim, or porches and turrets and wide curving staircases. The snow covered the houses here, too—but where in Hazel’s neighborhood it let the ordinary borrow magic from it, these houses seemed to be lending their power to the snow.
The Briggses lived on one of the lakes that lay in the heart of the city like a chain of jewels. There was an ice rink on it, complete with hockey boards and lights and a warming house, and as Hazel peered out her car window she saw families in matched sets sailing around the rink. She must have been the only girl in all of Minneapolis who did not know how to skate.
The Briggses’ house perched on top of a small hill across from the lake, its red brick glowing against the white snow. It looked the size of Hazel’s house and Jack’s and one or two more put together. It made Hazel’s look like a toy built from a cheap kit.
“Ready?” asked her mother as they parked.
“Sure,” said Hazel.
The big dark-wood front door had an iron knocker on it, the kind you’d expect Dracula to have, and Hazel tried to reach up for it. Her mom rested a hand on her shoulder. “It’s just decoration,” she whispered, pressing the doorbell.
And then Adelaide’s mother was opening the door, and she smiled at Hazel, and Hazel was struck by how easy a thing it seemed for her to do. “Hazel!” she said. “You’re all grown up! Come on in. Adie will be so happy to see you!”
Hazel took a breath before she entered, because it seemed like the sort of thing you should do. Inside, the house was all color and brightness and matching sets, the kind that had furniture that was just for decoration. And the smell . . .
“Elizabeth?” her mother asked. “Are you making . . . cookies?”
“Not me,” Adelaide’s mom said. She led them into the kitchen where Adelaide sat at a table, tapping a pencil against a notebook.
Hazel hadn’t seen Adelaide in two years. Her dark hair had curled up and now hung around her face in tantalizing sproings. She had magenta horn-rimmed glasses that were probably very cool, though Hazel was no arbiter of such things. The kitchen around her, which was as big as Hazel’s living room, looked like the sort of kitchen you see on TV, all matching and gleamy. Like Adelaide.
“Hi,” Hazel said.
“Hi!” Adelaide said, gleaming. “I was just doing math homework.” She motioned to the textbook in front of her. “I’ve got so much.”
“Oh,” said Hazel. She looked down at Adelaide’s textbook. She didn’t recognize it. It struck her that she didn’t know where Adelaide went to school, and if it was the sort of place that told you you had a good imagination or the sort of place that told you you needed to work on following the rules. “I probably can’t help you.”
“That’s okay,” Adelaide said, leaning in like she was telling a secret. “I can’t help me either.”
“I don’t want to keep you,” Hazel said, shifting.
“Oh, don’t be a goof.” Adelaide shut the book. “Come on, sit down.”
Goof. Hazel blinked. “Okay.” She crossed the kitchen and sat down on the cushioned oak chair next to Adelaide.
“What, I’m not here?” a male voice said.
Hazel turned. Adelaide’s kitchen was big enough that if there was a man taking cookies out of the oven you might not immediately notice. Which in this case there was.
The man smiled at Hazel. He was roughly parent age and tall, with a poof of brown hair and sparkly gray eyes. He looked like the sort of person who might hand you an invitation to wizard school. “I’m Adelaide’s uncle. You can call me Martin.”
Hazel could not take it all in, the kitchen, the gleaming, the uncle in the apron. This was the universe that everyone else lived in. She wanted to ask Adelaide to explain this place to her, to explain the rules, to show her the potion you had to drink to fit in here, but all she could say was “Your uncle makes cookies.