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The company’s stock price plummeted the morning after the ads went up. Faye Durkin got the boot, and Oona Wong made a killing. The Irregulars immediately started spending her fortune. It took several days and many thousands of dollars to restore Oona’s reputation around Chinatown. I doubt most of the shopkeepers and restaurant owners really believed that Oona was innocent. But they found it in their hearts to forgive her as soon as she presented them with envelopes stuffed with cash.
The afternoon Oona made peace with the last of Lili Liu’s victims, she invited the Irregulars over to celebrate. Thanks to a previously scheduled appointment, I couldn’t stay long. But I stopped by Oona’s house to offer my congratulations—and to bid farewell to Kaspar, who was finally returning to art school. When I arrived, our hostess was missing. Wherever she was, Iris must have been with her. The two girls still bickered incessantly, but they’d become as inseparable as conjoined twins.
Without them, I was the fifth wheel at the party. I didn’t want to disturb Betty and Kaspar, who were cuddled up on the sofa. And I couldn’t understand the conversation DeeDee and Luz were having. All I gathered was that DeeDee was working on a hair-removing ointment, and Luz had designed some new equipment for her lab. Rather than learn about nozzles, hoses, and valves, I wandered into the kitchen to find Mrs. Fei. She was busy at the stove, and for once the goo bubbling away in the pots smelled absolutely delicious.
“Hey, Mrs. Fei. You making some medicine?” I asked her.
“Yes. Very powerful stuff,” she responded. “Makes everybody feel better. In English, you call it candy.”
“Candy? Who are you planning to treat with it?”
“A girl who spent Chinese New Year in a shed when she should have been here with her family.”
“You’re sending candy to Lili Liu?” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Does Oona know about this?”
“It was her idea,” Mrs. Fei replied.
“Hey!” Oona burst through the kitchen door. “There you are, Fishbein.” She acted like she’d been searching the city for me.
“There I am? Where have you been?” I asked. “You’re late to your own party.”
“Iris and I were picking up a present for you. Come see what it is!”
When I didn’t respond fast enough, Oona practically dragged me out to the living room. There, making small talk with Kaspar and Betty, was a boy I’d never seen before. A gorgeous brown-haired boy with glasses, who looked like a cross between a Roman statue and a young Indiana Jones. Iris rushed up to me.
“What do you think? Isn’t he cute?” she whispered.
When I realized what was happening, I nearly bolted for the door. “Oh my God. Iris! I was kidding about kidnapping a boyfriend!”
“We didn’t kidnap him, Fishbein,” Oona said with a roll of her eyes. “We met him on Doyers Street. He was boring a bunch of people from Boise with a lecture on the Chinatown gang wars.”
“The gang wars aren’t boring at all!” I argued. “Do you know how many people were murdered on Doyers Street?”
“Exactly!” Iris squealed.
“We thought he was leading a tour group, but it turns out our new friend, Hector, just likes to ‘share,’” Oona said.
“What’s wrong with that?” I demanded. “I do the same thing!”
“Exactly!” Iris squealed again.
“We told him we have a friend who knows more about New York history than he ever will. We said we could prove it, and he accepted our challenge.”
“Prove it, prove it!” Iris was jumping up and down.
“I can’t do this right now. I’m meeting Molly Donovan in ten minutes!”
“Geez, Ananka, no one’s asking you to elope. Just go over and say hi!”
The four words that had been bouncing around in my head accidentally popped out of my mouth the moment I met Molly Donovan on the corner of Broadway and Houston. The two of us had been asked to tea at L’Institut Beauregard. My mother had been invited as well.
“I have a date,” I told her.
“Cool,” Molly said, apparently unaware that my news should be shocking. “Is he cute?”
“Yeah,” I said as if I couldn’t quite believe it.
“You gonna tell your mom when we see her?”
“I’ll think I’ll wait until after we have tea. Any additional stress could prove fatal right now.”
Molly cackled. “Your mom’s really that nervous?”
“She spent the whole morning ransacking her closets for the perfect outfit and muttering to herself.”
“Talking to herself? Is that normal for Fishbeins?”
“’Fraid so,” I admitted. “It’s kind of a family thing.”
“Well, we can always go back and grab my mom,” Molly offered. “If she can soothe the savage beasts that sent their kids to the institute, she can have Lillian Fishbein relaxed and ready in no time.”
It wasn’t a joke. Even her daughter now admitted that Mrs. Donovan had been born with special powers. The morning after Amelia Beauregard failed to shut down Molly’s academy, the furious, frustrated mothers of Manhattan had gathered outside the actress’s home with picket signs and bullhorns. Thirty minutes later, the ladies were chuckling over cocoa with the impossibly charming Theresa Donovan. An hour after that, they were touring their daughters’ new finishing school and eagerly accepting souvenir T-shirts emblazoned with the slogan RECLAIM YOUR BRAIN.
“Wow, Molly. Are you actually volunteering to spend time with your mom?” I asked.
“Yes, well, I’m trying to be nicer to the poor dear,” Molly said in a perfect imitation of Amelia Beauregard’s crisp accent. “Mother is the black sheep in the family, after all. I even agreed to go to Europe with her this summer. Grandma’s going too. She’s accepting some big award from the city of Paris. By the way, did you read that newspaper article I sent you?”
“Of course not,” I said. “It was in French. But Betty told me your great-grandfather was finally declared a hero. Must be nice.”
“It is. I just wish that double agent guy was still around. I’d teach Joseph Hanson a thing or two. Even his daughter thought he was a snake. She ratted her dad out the first time Detective Fitzroy phoned her. Of course, she could have mentioned something a little bit earlier.”
“Yeah, well, at least she came clean in the end,” I said, just as I laid eyes on my mother. “Must have been hard walking around with a secret like that for so many years.”
Lillian Fishbein was standing outside L’Institut Beauregard, studying the building as if it were an enemy fort. She looked uneasy but she didn’t seem scared.
“Mom, I’d like you to meet Molly Donovan.”
“So, you’re the legendary Molly,” my mother said. “Ananka tells wonderful tall tales about you. One of my favorites had something to do with a pig rodeo.”
“I won second place at the Boreland Academy Games,” Molly said.
“It was true?” my mother asked in astonishment. “You really ride pigs?”
“Not as often as I’d like,” Molly said. “I’m back at the Atalanta School for Girls, and Principal Wickham says there’s nowhere on the Upper East Side to keep my prize sow, Ananka Jr. So I’m having her sent to my mom’s house in Southampton.”
“I see,” was all my mother could offer.
“So! Are you ready?” I asked her. “I’ve heard one should try to be punctual when summoned to the headmistress’s office.”
My mother didn’t budge. “Are you sure this is absolutely necessary, Ananka?”
“No,” I admitted. “I have no idea why Madame wants to see you. I’m only following orders.”
Molly led the way through the halls of L’Institut Beauregard. The zombies were gone, and workmen had taken their place. A flower-arranging classroom had been refitted for
survival skills instruction. The room in which girls had once learned to curtsy had been transformed into an archery range. Everywhere we looked, pastel-colored walls were being repainted and pretty carpets ripped up.
“Orders of the new headmistress,” Molly explained over her shoulder. “She says the color pink gives her migraines.”
My mother nodded scientifically. I had a feeling she would be thumbing through psychology books later that evening, trying to diagnose our redheaded tour guide.
When we reached Madame Beauregard’s office, we found it relatively untouched. Several boxes filled with martial arts equipment sat against the wall. I recognized a Japanese pole weapon that belonged to Verushka Kozlova’s personal collection.
“Molly! Ananka!” A lovely, bright-eyed woman in an emerald green dress jumped up from the loveseat where she’d been sharing a pot of tea with Principal Wickham. After she gave us both a hug, she held out a hand to my mother. “Thank you for accepting my invitation, Mrs. Fishbein.”
“My pleasure, Madame Beauregard,” my mother said, though we could all see it was anything but.
“Please. Call me Amelia. Come, have a seat. You already know Theodora, I believe.”
“Yes. Hello, Principal,” my mother said, trying to figure out how I’d gotten Theodora Wickham involved in this strange scheme.
“What do you think about the renovations, Lillian?” Principal Wickham inquired. “Soon the institute will look nothing like the one you remember.”
“No,” my mother responded. “It won’t.” We all waited for more, but my mother had nothing more to say.
“Our new headmistress has wonderful things planned for the institute,” Amelia Beauregard said. “Have you met Verushka Kozlova?”
My mother’s head spun around toward me. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it had kept on spinning. “Verushka Kozlova?” she whispered. “She’s real?”
“Yep,” I said. “You’ll meet her on the first day of classes.”
Amelia Beauregard clapped her hands together with excitement. “So does that mean you’ll be enrolling at the institute, Ananka?”
“All of the Irregulars are planning to take classes here. We still have a lot to learn from Verushka. Which reminds me …” I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a check. “We want to start a scholarship fund in Gordon Grant’s name.”
Amelia Beauregard took the check. “One hundred thousand dollars! Oh, Ananka! This is an incredibly generous gift!”
“Woo-hoo!” yelled Molly.
“Where?” my mother croaked. “Where on Earth did you get all of that money?”
“After we put up those Fem-Tex ads all around town, Oona made a fortune betting against the company’s stock,” I said, trying to explain.
“Your friend Oona—the pretty girl who always picks the lock on our front door—she made a hundred thousand dollars on the stock market?” My mother collapsed against her chair’s cushions.
“The Irregulars have made tons of money before,” I pointed out. “Remember the Reverse Pied Piper?”
“Yes, but …”
“Yeah, I know. You and Dad didn’t want to believe that ‘Ananka’s Story Hour’ could be anything other than fiction.”
“I just never imagined that my daughter … So the stories were all true?”
“I can vouch for most them,” Principal Wickham said. “And I’ve never once doubted the others.”
“But Ananka is only fifteen,” my mother blurted out.
“I didn’t expect you to sound quite so shocked, Mrs. Fishbein,” Amelia Beauregard announced. “When I discovered the identity of Ananka’s mother, it all made perfect sense to me. Lillian Snodgrass’s daughter would be capable of anything.”
“You remember me?” my mother gasped when she heard her maiden name.
“How could I forget you?” Amelia asked. “You were the only girl I ever expelled. And as I recall, you were fifteen years old at the time. Even back then, I was very impressed.”
“Oh, this is going to be good!” Molly was bouncing up and down in her seat.
“What did my mother do?” I asked, hoping I wouldn’t keel over from all the excitement.
“Lillian Snodgrass was a very quiet girl who never called much attention to herself. None of the institute’s instructors ever suspected she’d been spying on them for a full semester. She must have followed each teacher for days, waiting to observe an embarrassing moment. Then she snapped a picture for posterity.”
“You know how to tail people?” I asked.
My mother shrugged and kept her mouth shut, but her devilish smile said everything.
“That wasn’t the end of it,” Amelia Beauregard continued. “When Lillian finished documenting the lives of the institute’s teachers, she focused on her classmates’ parents. Some of the wealthiest women in Manhattan were photographed with their skirts tucked into their pantyhose, their fingers up their noses, or their arms around other ladies’ husbands.”
The memories were too much for my mother. She broke into a fit of laughter. “I was just trying to prove that no one is perfect,” she insisted.
Even Amelia Beauregard couldn’t keep a straight face. “And I believe you succeeded. The photographs were bad enough, but the book you wrote to accompany them was … how shall I put this …?”
“Possibly the greatest book I’ve ever read,” Principal Wickham finished the sentence.
“I believe my good friend Theodora is right,” Amelia Beauregard said. “And I’ve reached the conclusion that every young lady deserves a copy of her own. Unfortunately, I had most of the books destroyed thirty years ago. Fortunately, my friend Theodora managed to save one. I have a feeling the author’s daughter will enjoy it.”
Principal Wickham pulled a small paper book from her handbag and passed it to me. I glanced down at the cover and fell off my chair when I read the title.
THE SNODGRASS GUIDE TO BEING A LADY
“You’re a very lucky girl, Ananka,” Amelia Beauregard informed me. “You turned out to be just like your mother.”
THE FISHBEIN GUIDE TO … MAGIC WORDS AND MORE
The single most annoying phrase in the English language is, “What’s the magic word?” Even as a toddler, I cringed when I heard it. I’m a little more mature now, and I’ve come to believe that words can be magic. Whatever you want, there’s a secret combination of words that might help you get it. (In case you’re wondering, very few of these words will be four letters long.)
There are three things you can use to address any challenge: Your brain, your fists, and a few magic words. The trick is figuring out which should be put to work first. I used to be in awe of quick-fisted types, but experience has taught me that they often waste energy punching when a simple please would do.
Here are a few Fishbein tips for getting what you want …
Make Politeness Your Plan A
How many successful spies, detectives, or adventurers are rude? Very few. (In fact, I can’t think of a single one.) They’re not all wonderful people—but they’re smart enough to know that curses, sneers, and insults won’t get you anywhere.
Be Ready with Plan B
Sometimes sweetness only goes so far. Know what your next step will be if the people you’re dealing with need a little more convincing.
Know Who Deserves Politeness—and Who Deserves a Swift Kick in the Pants (or Worse)
There are several kinds of people around whom you should never mind your manners. These include kidnappers, adults who don’t keep their hands to themselves, or anyone who seems like a threat to your safety. Should you encounter such individuals, do not think twice about screaming, thrashing, or kicking them in their most vulnerable spots.
Build a Network of Associates
It’s a simple fact—and the secret of every great detective. People to whom you’ve been helpful are more likely to give you help when you need it. And it doesn’t matter who you are—one day, you’re going to need some assistance. You don’t n
eed to be best friends with all of your associates. Merely offer people your respect and do them a good turn if you have the chance—and you may be surprised to discover how willing they are to help you out of a jam.
Be Courageous Every Single Day
You don’t have to battle man-eating rats to show you’ve got guts. Defend the innocent and the weak. Stand up for your own beliefs. Challenge your mind and your body. Don’t take the easy route. Refuse to be anyone other than yourself. Sleep with the light off. (Okay, I’m still working on that one.) Don’t expect other people’s respect. Earn it. You’ll find its far easier to get what you want.
Don’t Let Anyone Make You Feel Inferior
One of the greatest women who ever lived once said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” Never, ever give that consent.
Chapter 43
And They All Lived Happily Ever After
PARIS: SUNDAY, MAY 3
So now we must conclude our tale of two princesses. How did you expect it to end? With wedding bells and “happily ever after”? Well, I won’t promise “happily ever after.” And as for a wedding … you’ve got to be kidding. (Kiki probably just vomited at the thought.) Fortunately for those who like to keep things traditional, I can promise bells.
At eight a.m. on Sunday, May 3, the bell of St. Maurice rang for the first time in a century. The regulars at the sidewalk café below the tower glanced up in astonishment. The bell’s sonorous tone—both melancholy and hopeful—bypassed the brain and delivered a message straight to the soul. It was, everyone agreed, the most heavenly sound they’d ever heard.
Two young people sat at the same café with newspapers open in front of them. Many of their fellow patrons must have recognized the famous couple the moment they’d taken their seats, but no one dared invade their privacy. When the bell of St. Maurice began to toll, the dark-haired boy peeked over his copy of Le Monde, and his pale companion set her New York Times aside. They grinned at each other across the table. In the bell tower high above them, a tall blond boy swung from the rope like a jubilant chimp.