The Sign of the Cat (4 page)

Betsy leaned out the window and grinned at him. “Robert's stuck in his room,” she said cheerfully. “In disgrace. The rest of us have to go to dinner. And your mother is in the music room. She said she has to arrange some music for me, so the cook sent up a supper tray to her.”

Duncan grinned right back. He had forgotten how much he liked Robert's little sister. She had told him everything he needed to know, without fuss and without his even asking. Still, for Grizel's sake, he had one more question. “Are you taking Mr. Fluf—um—the cat to the dining room with you?”

Betsy shook her head, and her pigtails whipped back and forth. “He goes to the kitchen, where his bowl is.” She looked down at Grizel, who was gazing at her earnestly. “Your cat can come to the kitchen door if she wants. I'll put out some extra sardines and kitty treats for her. Mr. Fluffers is already too fat, anyway. Aren't you, Fluffy Wuffy?”

The Persian shut his eyes as if in pain. “If any particular cat,” he remarked, “cares to join me for dinner, I simply beg that she will remember my preferred title—”

He choked a little as Betsy pulled him back inside.

“I'd be delighted to join you, Mr. Fluf—I mean—Spike!” meowed Grizel, and she moved with alacrity along the shrubbery, disappearing around the corner of the house.

Betsy poked her head out the window one last time. “Robert could probably use someone to cheer him up while the rest of us are having dinner. You can still climb the drainpipe, can't you?”

Of course he could; Duncan swarmed up the familiar drainpipe as quickly as a cat. The metal brackets rattled under his weight, and his boots scraped on the rough brick, but if the family was at dinner, no one would hear him—the dining room was at the far end of the manor. And any of the baron's guards, standing their usual watch in the corner tower, would be looking out to sea for incoming ships. Maybe they, too, had seen the sailboat with its jaunty blue streamer. Maybe they were also wondering why it had come so close to the island if it was just going to pass by. It wasn't as if it could have anchored on the rugged west side; there was nothing there but steep cliffs and a few goat paths.

Gripping the second-story ledge, Duncan got an elbow up, and then a knee. Robert's room was the third window on the left. It had been a long time since Duncan had visited the manor house; once he'd stopped accompanying his mother to her music lessons, there had been no reason, really. Robert had a tutor and a club where he went with the other island children who had the money to join, and their paths just hadn't crossed.

With a mighty effort, Duncan heaved himself onto the broad stone shelf that ran around the manor beneath the windows. He couldn't avoid a clatter as his foot banged against the drainpipe.

Whoosh!
The sash of Robert's window flew up. A head poked out, the hair brown and curly. Robert caught sight of Duncan, and his mouth opened in astonishment.

Duncan put a finger to his lips.

“What's that racket out there?” The voice coming from inside the room was a little loud, a little annoyed, and clearly accustomed to command.

Robert gave Duncan a wink and pulled his head back into the room. “Maybe it was a squirrel climbing the drainpipe?”

The baron grumbled some more but, to Duncan's intense relief, did not put his head out to look. The last time Duncan had paid a visit, he had accidentally stampeded the sheep that the baron kept around to crop his grass—if
stampede
was the right word for the bunching, stupid way they all scattered at the least little thing—and the baron had not been happy.

Duncan pressed himself against the outside wall and breathed quietly in and out. Inside the room, the baron still talked, and his voice floated clearly through the open window.

“… and no son of mine is going to fail to get into the Academy. Is that clear?”

Robert's reply was an unhappy mumble.

“Of course you want to go!” The baron's voice took on a piercing note. “You've been on the list since you were born. You're a noble's son. You're going to be properly educated, and that means you're going to the Academy in Capital City.”

Duncan felt a sudden constriction in his chest like a fist gripping. Although Robert might have trouble getting into the Academy, there was no question that his family had the money to send him. Robert's passage would be paid on the finest ship, his trunks would be packed with new clothes, he would have all the books and pocket money he wanted.…

Then, someday, Robert would come back and be the baron, and Duncan would take off his cap to him.

Duncan swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. He tried to remember that Robert was his friend.

The baron was still rumbling away in tones of deep displeasure. His voice had lowered, but Duncan heard enough to understand that Robert, too, had taken the national tests that day. Being the baron's son, with a private tutor, his test had been graded immediately. And Robert had failed.

Duncan's breath quickened. He had beaten Robert—he was almost sure of it. Robert would never know, of course.

Duncan's mother would never know, either. Scores for the national tests were not put on report cards. They were not published in the paper. And last year, when the test results were handed out, Duncan had forgotten to show them to his mother.

She had never missed them. That was when Duncan had decided to study hard, all year, for the next national test. Because just once, he wanted to do his very best. Just once, he wanted to see how he really measured up against everyone else.

He had taken that test today. And soon, maybe in a week or so when the tests were scored, he would know how he had done.

The baron's voice, which had been rising and falling all this while, rose one more time: “—expect you to study an extra three hours each day. You'll take the makeup test at the end of the month, and you had better pass it, my boy.”

There was a sound of a door being forcefully closed, and then Robert's head popped out again. “Quick! Get in!”

Duncan swung his legs through the window and dropped to the floor. Robert grinned, sizing him up. “You're bigger than the last time I saw you. Want to have a sword fight? I got real sabers for my birthday!”

Two crossed sabers hung on the wall. Their edges were blunted with thin rubber, naturally, but they looked beautifully dangerous all the same. Duncan took one down and curled his fingers around the grip. The steel was cool to his hand, and perfectly balanced. He swished it through the air.

Robert ducked.

“Sorry,” said Duncan. “Couldn't resist.”

But Robert already had the other saber in his hand. “Fight! Fight!”

Duncan shook his head. “There isn't enough room in here for a real sword fight.”

“Let's go outside,” Robert begged.

“I thought you had to study.” Duncan trailed his finger along the edge of Robert's bookshelf. It was jammed with books.

Robert shrugged. “I have a whole month to do that. My father wants me to practice swordsmanship, too, because he wants me to make the fencing team at the Academy. And my tutor thinks they'll probably let me in on academic probation. I only missed a passing grade by three questions.”

“Don't you have to eat dinner now?” Duncan's hollow stomach twisted painfully.

Robert rolled his eyes. “I'm supposed to go without dinner tonight because of my score on the test. I don't care, though—I've got emergency supplies.” He pulled out a dictionary, a math book, and a volume of Arvidian history, and reached behind them. He retrieved a shallow metal box and opened it to reveal a stack of chocolate bars wrapped in silver foil.

The creamy scent of chocolate rose from the tin, and Duncan's mouth filled with water. He swallowed painfully and turned his eyes to the history book. “Hey, this is the new one that includes current events! I saw it in the bookstore window—it just came out last month.”

Robert shrugged. “My father thinks that if he gets me more books, I'll get better grades.” He held out the metal tin. “You can have as much chocolate as you want, if you give me a bout with the sabers.”

Duncan picked up the book with a casual air. “Can I borrow this, too?”

Robert grinned. “Keep it. Just give me my saber battle.”

Duncan didn't take long to decide. “All right. I'll just let my mother know I'm here, so she doesn't leave without me.” He tucked two bars of chocolate into his pockets, took a bite of a third, and opened the door to the hall. He knew the way to the music room. He had sat there often enough in years past, kicking his heels and looking at all the different instruments in their cases, ready for guests who wanted to play.

The chocolate melted slowly on Duncan's tongue. His footsteps were muffled on the ornately patterned rug that ran the length of the hallway, and above him, portraits of Robert's ancestors, going back hundreds of years, stared down from the walls.

Lucky Robert. Anytime he wanted to know what his great-great-great-grandfather looked like, or any other relative, he could just walk up to a painting.

Duncan would settle for a picture of his father. He had never seen one, although his mother said that all he had to do was look in the mirror to get a good idea. He supposed that meant his father had a long nose and gray eyes and dark red hair, nearly brown. Still, it was only a boy's face that looked back at him from the mirror, not a man's.

He stepped into the fore-chamber of the music room. This was a little alcove where someone could wait, listening, without disturbing the musicians until the song ended. The velvet curtain in the archway was hanging straight down. He was reaching out to pull it back, when suddenly a sweet, muted vibration filled the air. He cocked his head, listening. A violin? It was being played so softly that he hadn't heard it out in the hall. He didn't know it was possible to play a violin that softly—or that sweetly.

The tune was simple; the notes were long and slow, not flashy or difficult at all. Even so, there was something about the tone that seemed to fill his heart almost to bursting. He pulled back the curtain an inch and looked through the gap. Sylvia McKay's back was to him; he saw a side view of her in one of the mirrors that lined the room. He took in his breath, startled.

She had tossed off the ugly green scarf that she wore everywhere and shaken out her wavy brown hair. Her shoulders, usually stooped, were thrown back, and in the curve of her bow arm, there was a sense of sureness and mastery that he had never seen before. Her eyes were closed and her thin face was strangely beautiful, absorbed, fully given to the music pouring from the strings.

Was this really his mother? And if she could play like this, what was she doing giving piano lessons to children who couldn't count the beat?

Something furry brushed against his leg: the baron's cat, looking up at him smugly. “Ha! I
told
you she could play the violin.”

“It's not polite,” said Grizel, behind him, “to say ‘I told you so.'”

Spike flicked an ear. “But it's so very
satisfying.
”

Grizel did not answer. She had just eaten half of Spike's sardines and seven of his kitty treats, and she was at a moral disadvantage. She lifted her tail high; she walked straight through the gap in the curtains into the music room and rubbed against Sylvia McKay's leg.

The music stopped. The curtains flew back with a jangle of brass rings. Duncan's mother stood in the archway, her cheeks pale, still gripping the velvet curtain with one slim hand.

“I'm just visiting Robert,” Duncan said. He made a vague gesture toward the music room behind her. “I didn't know you played the violin.”

The worry line etched itself deeper between his mother's brows. “Oh, I don't
really
play … it was just the simplest tune.…” She snatched her green scarf from her pocket.

Duncan watched as she tied her hair up like a washerwoman's and rounded her shoulders into their usual stoop. She looked older suddenly, and not nearly so pretty.

“I thought you were good,” he said quietly.

“Don't say that,” she said. “And don't tell
anyone
that I play the violin.”

Duncan frowned. Here was one more thing he had to keep hidden. Didn't his mother have any confidence at all?

Maybe she just needed some encouragement. “You could be in the island chamber orchestra, I bet,” he said. “If you just practiced—”

Sylvia McKay's mouth relaxed slightly at the corners.

“You have a better sound than the concertmaster,” Duncan persisted. “I heard him once, when he came to our school.”

His mother shook her head. “I haven't played for a long time. Didn't you hear how softly I was playing?” She smiled at him. “I didn't want anyone to hear my mistakes.”

Duncan looked away. He didn't want to call his mother a liar. But he had heard violin students practicing at the monastery school, and it took most of them years before Duncan stopped wanting to cover his ears every time they lifted the bow.

“I think you're
good
,” he said stubbornly. “You just don't know it.” He smacked his hands together with a sudden idea. “I bet you could get into the Capital City Orchestra, even! I hear that pays really well. We could move to Capital City! And I could go to the Academy!” He caught a glimpse of his mother's expression and forged ahead. “I could get a job cleaning classrooms, maybe, to help pay for it—”

“Stop, Duncan!” His mother's hands gripped his shoulders. “You must forget you heard me play, and never bring this up again to
anyone
.” She gave his shoulders a little shake. “I can't tell you why, not now. You just have to trust me. This is important, son.”

Duncan's silence verged on the sullen. Maybe she didn't want to go to Capital City, but she could still get more money if she taught violin lessons as well as piano. And concertmaster for the small orchestra on their own island was a paid position. Why wouldn't she even try? Any normal person who played the violin that well would
want
people to know about it.