Chapter 4

The steam car had but one gear, and they cruised past the sheriff's office and new jail at a stately pace. Jock Smithers leaned against a lamppost in front, studiously casual, smoking a cigarette. Despite the winter cold, he wore only a thick sweater; his prized letterman jacket with the initials "L. H." over the heart. "L. H." stood for Lark Haven high school. Vivian slid lower in the seat and looked the other way. 

The slow roll of the steam car meant that Jock had plenty of time to think of a taunt. "Look! It's mister popularity. Nice car, Gilbie. Gonna race it next state fair?"

Gilbert's teeth audibly ground together. He stretched his face in a mockery of a smile. "Hello, Jock! Aren't you too young to smoke?

Jock proudly waved his cigarette hand, trailing a smoky zigzag. "Ain't nobody gonna arrest me, Gilbie. Lordy, ain't you gone, yet? That thing you're driving is more snail than car."

Gilbert gripped the wheel so tight the leather of his gloves creaked. Vivian studied the opposite side of the street and muttered, "Nobody's going to arrest him? Bah. His dad's the sheriff."

"Ha! Ha! See you around, Gilbie! And your mute sister, too."

Gilbert fumed, "If he were meat, he'd be rancid."

Vivian straightened up in her seat. "He might be onto one thing. The cigarette made him look older."

Gilbert scowled deeper. "You're back on the respect thing, huh?"

"Well, imagine me waving a cigarette, careless and suave like a movie star. I might get noticed, at least."

"Until they saw your teeth turning yellow."

Vivian's impeccably-groomed eyebrows scrunched together. After a while, she conceded, "Fair point."

The car puttered on for a block and turned uphill. Gilbert stewed.

Finally, he blurted, "You could help, once in a while, you know. Back me up. Defend me. Open your mouth and say something."

Vivian's face turned to stone and she examined the car's side mirror. Rearward of the car, ice chunks floated in the sluggish river. She muttered, "Sorry."

They arrived to Mrs. Kapperl's house late. They left their steam car hissing curbside behind a gleaming four-door roadster. Its huge engine compartment and sturdy wheels screamed "speed."

As they ascended the steps to the little house, Gilbert jerked a thumb to the shiny roadster. "Whose car is that?"

"Don't know. I don't think Mrs. Kapperl drives," Vivian said.

They entered the warm little house as usual and hung their coats up on hallway pegs. An immediate right turn led to the piano room. As always, the smell of sharpened pencils, old paper, and tea filled the cozy space. The familiar shelves bulged with uneven stacks of sheet music. A big yellow cat miaowed at them from atop his lordly pianoside cushion.

"Hello, Poundcake," Gilbert said automatically.

But then the twins stopped dead. At the piano, a head bent over a pencil that scratched busily on manuscript paper. But the dark gold tangles on that head resembled not at all Mrs. Kapperl's signature gray bun.

The head raised to spear them with a keen glance. The twins gasped at sight of the face. Four parallel scars slashed diagonally across temple and cheek, pale against burnished skin. That dark metallic skin spoke of warmer, sunnier climes far to the south of Lark Haven. Alert gold eyes regarded them with curiosity. Despite the short hair and what might be a mechanic's coverall complete with streaks of grease, the imposter at the piano was a woman.

She spoke in a measured alto. "Vivian and Gilbert, I presume. You're a bit late."

Gilbert said, "You're not Mrs. Kapperl."

"Mrs. Kapperl's sister fell ill. I agreed to take her afternoon students while she went to visit. I'm Cecilia Carroway."

Vivian and Gilbert exchanged glances. Gilbert bowed and Vivian curtsied. Gilbert said, "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Carroway."

"Miss Carroway. Or, better still, call me Ace."

"Ace," Gilbert repeated dully.

"Sit, sit. Make yourselves at home. Who is first?"

"Vivian," Gilbert said, decisively. He stationed himself by Poundcake and extended a finger for the cat to sniff.

Vivian shot him a sour look, which turned to wide-eyed alarm. She blurted, "We forgot our books!"

Gilbert grimaced. "We sure did."

The scar-faced woman patted the piano bench with a deft, sinewy hand. "Not to worry. Play me your scales."

Vivian slid onto the well-worn bench and arranged herself at the keyboard of the console piano. The taller woman next to her smelled a little like engine grease. The wide belt around her lean waist transformed her coverall into a fashion statement. The manuscript paper she had been working on was half covered in dense musical notation. Vivian darted a fleeting glance into her face. Miss Carroway's ungroomed eyebrows were almost the same deep gold color as her skin. Their eyes met.

She sees me for me, Vivian thought. A small smile crept over the teen's face.

Vivian's tense shoulders relaxed and she rubbed her own hands together. "Cold fingers, Miss Carroway. I may be a little sluggish. Gilbert and I know all our major scales, one octave."

"Hands together?" Ace asked.

"Yes."

Gilbert stared fixedly at Vivian, frowning.

Vivian stuck her tongue out at him before commencing on her scales.

The lesson proceeded. The most memorable event occurred early, when Miss Carroway showed them how to extend their one-octave scales to two octaves with an extra finger tuck-under. Their substitute teacher demonstrated, ripping an F-major scale up and down the entire length of the keyboard at breakneck speed.

"Practice," she said, "until it sounds like that."

Yellow Poundcake gave a yowl, his slumber disturbed. "That's the berries!" Gilbert said.

"You can do it. No question about it," Ace said, her certainty absolute.

After scales and etudes, they pilfered nearby stacks of music for Bach inventions to play. Gilbert and Vivian sight-read some new ones, both of them at the bench playing with one hand each.