âWill, what would make you happiest in the whole wide world?â
He didnât hesitate. âFor Frozen Billy to fall under the wheels of a carriage and be broken in pieces.â
I clapped my hand over his mouth. âSsssh, Will!â
He tugged away. âOh, come on, Clarrie. Uncle Len wonât be listening. Heâll be dead to the world â again .â
I knew he was right because only a few minutes earlier Iâd pushed the bedroom door open a crack. I was sliding in the boots that heâd left by the fender because I so hated it when he woke with a sore head, and started his fretful shouting. âClarrie, girl! Where are my stage boots?â
That always set Will scoffing. âStage boots!â And it was true that they were just a plain pair of hefty black lace-ups (though I could make them shine as if theyâd been freshly lifted out of a shopfront display). They were nothing to compare with Willâs perfectly round-toed shoes with intricate patterns of tiny holes, made especially to match the wooden ones carved on the feet of Frozen Billy.
I came to hate those shoes of Willâs. I think it was because they were the last thing he put on before each show. While he was still daubing red on his mouth, or pulling on his shirt, I could still try to console him with talk of how soon Mother might be home, and how short the time would seem after that before Father had saved up the money for our passage.
But with the first click of those shoes on the floorboards, I found myself dealing with a wooden heart.
âStuff your dreams in your pillow, Clarrie! For all we know, Father has found better things to do with his earnings than buy us tickets for the boat.â
âYou read his letters, Will. How can you doubt him?â
âI think he sounds merry enough without us.â
âWhy should he weep and wail in letters? After all, we hide our troubles from him.â
My brother turned on me eyes as hard as glass. âHow much trust do you have inside you to throw away, Clarrie? We wasted some on Madame Terrazini, thinking sheâd pay enough for two. We wasted more on Uncle Len, thinking heâd share what he has. You carry on if you like, but my well of trustâs run dry.â
I thought of arguing, though what would have been the point? Tears could have washed away stone faster than any words of mine could have cheered my brother. But next time I pushed the broom past the open carrying box, I found myself leaning over to hiss at the dummy in sudden fury, âThis is your fault, Frozen Billy! My brother changes day by day, and I blame you .â
The wooden lips lay in their wide, still smirk. The eyes were closed.
âI hate you, Frozen Billy!â I told the dummy. âEach night you drip more poison into my brotherâs life.â I leaned even closer. âBut donât think youâll win,â I whispered. âRemember this. You might spend night after night on stage with him. But what do you know about me? Nothing! And if you donât know anything about your enemy, how can you hope to win the battle?â
To ram the message home, I banged the broom head hard against the table leg.
The eyes flew open. How Frozen Billy stared! I know heâs made of wood, but Iâll still swear I saw something in that stiff face Iâd never seen before.
And it was triumph.
Thatâs why I kept on following Will to the theatre. I felt as if I were locked in a duel for my brotherâs soul. For there were two Wills now: the loving, ever-hopeful boy my mother had left with me, and a cold puppet with a marble heart. If I werenât there each night to save my precious brother from Frozen Billy â wrap my arms tightly round him until his tears washed out the poisons of his act â I feared that somehow he might remain stuck for ever inside that queer little changeling doll he played.
One evening, Madame Terrazini dropped a hand
Learning to Kill: Stories