Ferris thought about Shirley—frosted and sparkling, small and twirling. Nothing about her seemed particularly necessary.

  “Who can explain the human heart?” said Ted.

  Oh, hearts.

  Charisse’s heart.

  “Charisse is taking those pills Dr. Trench gave her,” Ferris said. “But I don’t think she feels that good. She sleeps and sleeps. I’m worried.”

  Uncle Ted smiled at her. “Honey.” He put his hands on her shoulders, one hand on each shoulder. It was the same way Reverend Mulberry put his hands on her when he blessed her in the communion line.

  The smell of peanuts and bathrobe and oil paints filled the air.

  Boomer wagged his tail.

  Uncle Ted looked deep into Ferris’s eyes. He said, “I don’t understand any of it. I truly don’t. The world is a mystery to me. But yet here we are, and our hearts keep on beating. They keep wanting things, don’t they?”

  Which wasn’t really a blessing.

  But still, it managed to seem like one to Ferris because it gave her a way to talk about Charisse and the ghost.

  She said, “Uncle Ted, Charisse has been seeing a ghost.”

  “Lordy,” said Uncle Ted.

  “And the ghost talked to her.”

  “I see,” said Ted. “Please continue.”

  “The ghost wants something.”

  Ted nodded. “Uh-huh.” He kept his hands on her shoulders.

  “Charisse said the ghost wants the old chandelier lit. I’m going to get the candles, and Billy Jackson is going to help. Forty candles. We can do that part. But the ladder and the matches and the lighting . . . we’ll need an adult for that.”

  “So what this ghost wants is more light?” said Ted.

  “Yes,” said Ferris.

  “That’s just exactly my kind of project,” said Ted. His hands were still on her shoulders. He was smiling, and Ferris smiled back at him.

  Boomer pushed his way in between them, wagging his tail furiously, whacking Ferris in the knees.

  “More light,” said Uncle Ted. “That’s what we’re all about around here. More light is good.”

  I’ll tell you what’s going to happen,” said Ferris’s mother when Ferris and Boomer came back up from the basement. “We’re going to work to set Pinky on a different path. That’s what’s going to happen.”

  Ferris’s father had left for the office, and outside the kitchen window, the birds were singing a complicated morning song. There was a blue jay in the branches of the magnolia tree.

  “Sit down,” said her mother.

  Ferris sat down.

  “First,” said her mother, “we’re going to get Pinky her own library card.”

  “Okay,” said Ferris.

  “After the library, we’ll go to Buoy Hardware and have Pinky apologize to Mr. Buoy and return the pliers.”

  Futile.

  That was the Mielk vocabulary word that seemed to apply to this plan of her mother’s.

  It was pointless to try and reform Pinky.

  Besides, Ferris had other, more important things to tend to—like candles and ladders and ghosts. She opened her mouth to say so.

  “No,” said her mother. “She’s your sister. You’re coming with me.”

  “Okay,” said Ferris.

  It was also futile to argue with her mother.

  When it was time to leave, Pinky came down the stairs without her cloak. She was wearing a pair of red shorts and a blue-striped top. Her hair was combed. She looked almost normal.

  Ferris wasn’t fooled, though.

  “Where’s your cape?” said Ferris.

  “None of your bithneth,” said Pinky. “Leth go.”

  Thelma Atkins was the head librarian at the Bingham Memorial Library. Mrs. Atkins had a gold-plated tag pinned to her blouse that read MRS. ATKINS, HEAD LIBRARIAN. Mrs. Atkins wore her glasses on a chain around her neck, but Ferris had never seen her actually put the glasses on. It was more like they were for decoration.

  “Good morning, Thelma,” said Ferris’s mother. “We’re here to get Pinky a library card.”

  “Who?” said Mrs. Atkins.

  Mrs. Atkins did not approve of nicknames, and she would not put them on library cards. Ferris’s library card read “Emma Wilkey.” Sometimes, when Ferris looked at it, she wondered who it belonged to.

  “Eleanor Rose,” said Ferris’s mother. “We’re here for a library card for Eleanor Rose.” She pushed Pinky forward, toward Mrs. Atkins.

  “How old are you, dear?” said Mrs. Atkins.

  “Thickth,” said Pinky.

  “Well, now,” said Mrs. Atkins. She bent down and put her hands on her knees and looked Pinky in the eye.

  Ferris felt like this was probably a mistake.

  “Six years old,” said Mrs. Atkins, “is not old enough for a library card. In my library, you have to be able to read to acquire a library card. And you, my dear, will learn how to do that when you attend first grade.”

  “I can read now,” said Pinky in a voice of deadly calm.

  “It’s true,” said Ferris’s mother. “She taught herself. Somehow. When she was four.”

  Mrs. Atkins stood up. She released a disbelieving breath through her nostrils. “Well,” she said. “We’ll see about that, won’t we?”

  She turned and pulled a thick book off a library cart: Hans Christian Andersen’s Complete Fairy Tales. Mrs. Atkins flipped through the volume until she found a particular page.

  “Now, then,” she said to Pinky. She handed her the book. “Why don’t you read that to me?”

  It was the story of the little match girl, and Pinky read it through without stumbling or hesitating. True, some of the words sounded funny because of Pinky’s missing teeth, but she knew every word.

  Ferris’s mother had edged away and was looking at the new arrivals display, but Ferris stood transfixed as Pinky read.

  Transfixed.

  Frozen in horror or astonishment.

  Because who knew what was going to happen in the showdown between Mrs. Atkins and Pinky?

  Pinky slammed the book shut when she was done reading. “Thath that thtory,” she said.

  “My goodness,” said Mrs. Atkins, who looked impressed but unwilling to admit it.

  “That girl thould have juth robbed a bank,” said Pinky.

  “I beg your pardon?” said Mrs. Atkins.

  “That thilly girl thould have robbed a bank!” said Pinky. “She thould have done thumpthing to rethcue herthelf.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Atkins. “Perhaps.”

  And then, for the first time ever, Ferris saw Mrs. Atkins raise her glasses up to her eyes. She did it so she could study Pinky. She stared at her as if she were a particularly interesting specimen of some sort.

  “That girl thould have acted,” said Pinky.

  Mrs. Atkins rocked back on her heels. She lowered the glasses. She said, “I would be happy to issue a library card to such an excellent reader and, um, original thinker. Would you like some assistance in selecting your books?”

  “Maybe,” said Pinky. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared somewhere past Thelma Atkins.

  Ferris had to admit that she felt just the tiniest bit proud to know Pinky. Talk about formidable.

  In the end, Pinky left with two nonfiction books—one about deadly snakes and the other about Houdini. Ferris checked out Anne of Green Gables, even though she had already read it, and her mother selected a biography of Abraham Lincoln in an effort to “shore up her moral fortitude.”

  “Speaking of moral fortitude,” said her mother. “We will now go to Buoy Hardware. Pinky, you will go in there and return those pliers and issue an apology.”

  Pinky said nothing. She was studying a full-page picture of a rattlesnake in her Snakes You Do Not Want to Meet! book.

  When they arrived at Buoy Hardware, Pinky walked into the store without complaint. She marched up to the counter and pulled the pliers from the pocket of her shorts and handed them to Mr. Buoy.

  “What’s this?” said Mr. Buoy, taking the pliers from her.

  “I thtole them,” said Pinky.

  “How’s that?” said Mr. Buoy. He fiddled with his hearing aid.

  “I THTOLE THEM!” shouted Pinky.

  “Thank you so much,” said Mr. Buoy. “Whatever you’re saying, I appreciate it very much. What a handsome pair of pliers.”

  “I’m thorry,” said Pinky.

  “She said she’s sorry,” said Ferris’s mother in a very loud voice. “She stole the pliers and used them to pull a few of her own teeth. Which is why it’s difficult to understand her.”

  “Heavens,” said Mr. Buoy. “That must have hurt.”

  Pinky shrugged.

  Mr. Buoy winked at her. He bent down and disappeared below the counter, and then he slowly reappeared holding three lollipops—a red one and a green one and a yellow one.

  He handed the red lollipop to Pinky. “All is forgiven,” said Mr. Buoy.

  He held out the green and yellow lollipops to Ferris and said, “Here you go, my dear. I remember when you were born.”

  “You do?” said Ferris.

  “Yes, indeed. I was at the fair that day. It was all very exciting.”

  “It sure was,” said Ferris’s mother.

  Ferris reached out to take the lollipops from Mr. Buoy. He wrapped his warm and calloused hand around her fingers and pulled her closer. “If you wouldn’t mind, could you give this other sweet, the yellow one, to your grandmother from me?”

  “You want me to give a lollipop to Charisse?” said Ferris.

  “Yes,” said Mr. Buoy. “Please. She has been breaking hearts since the day she came into the world. She has certainly broken mine. Give her my love.”

  Ferris’s mother sighed loudly. “Thank you, Mr. Buoy,” she said. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

  Mr. Buoy waved his hand through the air dismissively.

  “It’s all inconvenience,” he said. “And then, suddenly it’s over. And you find yourself thinking that you wouldn’t mind a little inconvenience.”

  Pinky exited the hardware store. The door shut behind her with a loud bang.

  “Do you sell candles?” Ferris said to Mr. Buoy.

  “How’s that?” said Mr. Buoy.

  “Candles!” shouted Ferris. “Lights!”

  “We sell flashlights, patio lights, and lanterns,” said Mr. Buoy.

  Ferris’s mother turned to her and said, “What in the world do you need candles for?” And this was when Ferris realized, for the first time, that the chandelier wasn’t going to get lit without her mother’s approval.

  “Go on and give that sweet to Charisse,” said Mr. Buoy. “Promise me you will, now.”

  “I promise,” said Ferris.

  “Give it to her with my regards,” said Mr. Buoy, “and also my love.”

  That night after supper, Pinky locked herself in her room with her library books. The police report was gone from her door. It had been replaced with a sign that said “Studying. DO NOT DISTURB.”

  Ferris thought about knocking on Pinky’s door and telling her that she admired how formidable she had been with Mrs. Atkins. But the sign said “DO NOT DISTURB,” and it was probably a good idea—in general—not to disturb Pinky.

  Charisse was in her room playing solitaire on the bed.

  “Here,” said Ferris. She held out the yellow lollipop. “I forgot to give you this. Mr. Buoy sent it to you with his regards and his love. That’s what he told me to tell you.”

  “Allen Buoy!” Charisse said. She clapped her hands in delight. “Is that man still carrying a torch for me?” She unwrapped the lollipop. “Speaking of torches, what about the chandelier lighting?”

  “It’s kind of complicated,” said Ferris. “Billy Jackson is going to help me, and so is Uncle Ted. But I have to tell Mom and Dad about it. I think I’m going to have to get permission.”

  “Oh, pooh, permission!” said Charisse. She held out the lollipop and studied it, turning it from side to side. “We must not let ourselves be deterred, Emmaphineas. What I mean by that is: don’t let your mother talk you out of it. She errs on the side of sensibleness, which is not always the best side to err on.”

  “Okay,” said Ferris. “I’m going to talk to them now. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  She found her parents on the front porch, sitting together on the porch swing.

  Ferris’s mother was reading about the life of Lincoln, and Ferris’s father was reading the J–K volume of the encyclopedia. Part of the reason her father read random volumes of the encyclopedia was that he liked to be surprised; he liked to encounter the unexpected.

  Ferris’s mother said that “an appetite for the unexpected” was the Achilles’ heel of all the Wilkeys.

  Achilles’ heel was a Mielk vocabulary word.

  Even though it was more like a phrase.

  It meant a weakness, a vulnerability.

  “Hey, Ferris,” said her father when she walked onto the porch. He pushed against the porch floor with one foot so that the swing rocked back and forth gently. He didn’t look up from the encyclopedia.

  “Hey,” said Ferris back.

  “Hmmm,” said her father. “Who knew?”

  “Shhh,” said her mother.

  “Fascinating,” said her father. He gave the swing another push.

  “Did you need something, Ferris?” said her mother. She turned a page in the Lincoln book.

  Ferris stood and looked at her parents.

  The crickets were singing.

  Billy Jackson had told Ferris once that everything in the whole world made music. The trees made music and the stones made music and so did the flowers and the grass and the grains of sand.

  “The whole world is singing all the time, and we don’t even know it.”

  That was what Billy Jackson had said.

  Ferris took a deep breath. “Charisse wants us to light the old chandelier.”

  Her parents both looked up from their books.

  “What?” said her mother. “No.”

  “I don’t think anyone has ever used that chandelier, honey,” said her father. “It’s just for show.”

  “It needs forty candles,” said Ferris. “I’ll get them, and Uncle Ted will help with the ladder and also the matches and the lighting. Billy Jackson will help, too. It’s for Charisse. It’s what Charisse wants. She doesn’t feel well, and it’s what she wants.”

  She didn’t say anything about the ghost and what the ghost wanted.

  Ferris’s mother closed the biography of Lincoln with a loud thump. She looked at Ferris. “So this is what the candles were about.”

  “It’s a gift,” said Ferris. “A gift for Charisse. Can’t we do it, please?”

  Boomer came out onto the porch and stood next to Ferris. He wagged his tail, hopefully, from side to side.

  Ferris’s mother sighed. “It’s always something around here, isn’t it?”

  “Speaking of which,” said her father. “I called the exterminator.”

  “Oh no,” said Ferris.

  Boomer stopped wagging his tail.

  “We cannot simply hand over the house to the raccoons, honey,” said her father.

  “We can’t agree to burn it down, either,” said her mother.

  “I bet it would be glorious to see that chandelier all lit up,” said her father. “I bet it would be magical.”

  “You Wilkeys,” said her mother. She shook her head. “You people.”

  “We’ll be careful,” said Ferris.

  “Oh good grief,” said her mother. “I give up. But listen to me. I want to be apprised every step of the way, and I do not want Pinky involved. I do not want this to turn into some incident that we will read about in the paper the next morning as we sit in the smoldering ruins of our house.”

  Ferris looked at the little white moths dancing and flittering around the porch light.

  The moths were probably singing, too.

  “Ferris?” said her mother. “Promise me.”

  Ferris stood up straighter. “I promise.”

  It occurred to her that she had been making a lot of promises lately.

  Mrs. Mielk was bereft.

  Bereft was a Mielk vocabulary word.

  Something about the circular logic of this—Mrs. Mielk having provided the right word for better understanding how she, Mrs. Mielk, felt—made Ferris slightly dizzy. It deepened the power of words, the power that Mrs. Mielk had so often talked about, the lightning-like effect of them.

  Bereft.

  Robbed of the possession of something.

  The something (or rather, someone) that Mrs. Mielk had been robbed of was Mr. Mielk.

  “And she told you that she was bereft?” said Ferris.

  “No,” said Billy Jackson. “But that’s what she is.”

  They were in the steakhouse. It was afternoon and Boomer was snuffling his way along the carpet, eating bread crumbs and also the crumbs of other things. He was making happy sounds and wagging his tail to himself.

  If Boomer ever thought about heaven, if he ever imagined what it would be like, Ferris thought that Big Billy Jackson’s Steakhouse in the afternoon before the crumbs had been vacuumed up—Ferris sitting somewhere nearby and Billy Jackson playing the piano—was probably what the dog would come up with.

  “When Mrs. Mielk came in last night,” said Billy, “she didn’t even order a burger. She just asked for some fries and then she sat and stared at them. Pop told me to go out there and sit with her again.”

  “Did she talk to you?”

  “Mostly she just cried. Bob Munson was playing that song ‘King of the Road.’ You know that song?”

  Billy switched from playing “Mysterious Barricades” to playing “King of the Road.” After a few bars, he stopped and let his hands rest on the keys.

  “Anyway,” he said. “Mr. Munson played that song, and Mrs. Mielk cried all the way through it, and then at the end she said to me how her husband had liked that song and how he’d whistled it all the time when he was out in the workshop repairing things. And then she said how futile it was to bother repairing things in this hopelessly broken world.”

  Ferris’s mother had shown her the obituary in the paper that morning. There was a picture of Mr. Mielk. He had on horn-rimmed glasses and a string tie, and it said below the picture that he liked fishing and had fought in the European theater in World War II and that he was survived by his children, Pete and Nancy, and his wife of thirty-six years, Imogene.