Margot


 
 
 Cover
 Title
 Contents
 Part I. Beginning
 Part II. Intermediate
 Part III. Advancing
 Acknowledgments
 Also by Wendell Steavenson
 Copyright
 
 
 
 
 
 iii
 v
 1
 2
 3
 4
 5
 6
 7
 8
 9
 10
 11
 12
 13
 14
 15
 16
 17
 18
 19
 20
 21
 22
 23
 24
 25
 26
 27
 28
 29
 30
 31
 32
 33
 34
 35
 36
 37
 38
 39
 40
 41
 42
 43
 44
 45
 46
 47
 48
 49
 50
 51
 52
 53
 54
 55
 56
 57
 58
 59
 60
 61
 62
 63
 64
 65
 66
 67
 68
 69
 70
 71
 72
 73
 74
 75
 76
 77
 78
 79
 80
 81
 82
 83
 84
 85
 86
 87
 88
 89
 90
 91
 92
 93
 94
 95
 96
 97
 98
 99
 100
 101
 102
 103
 104
 105
 106
 107
 108
 109
 110
 111
 112
 113
 114
 115
 116
 117
 118
 119
 120
 121
 122
 123
 124
 125
 126
 127
 128
 129
 130
 131
 132
 133
 134
 135
 136
 137
 138
 139
 140
 141
 142
 143
 144
 145
 146
 147
 148
 149
 150
 151
 152
 153
 154
 155
 156
 157
 158
 159
 160
 161
 162
 163
 164
 165
 166
 167
 168
 169
 170
 171
 172
 173
 174
 175
 176
 177
 178
 179
 180
 181
 182
 183
 184
 185
 186
 187
 188
 189
 190
 191
 192
 193
 194
 195
 196
 197
 198
 199
 200
 201
 202
 203
 204
 205
 206
 207
 208
 209
 210
 211
 212
 213
 214
 215
 216
 217
 218
 219
 220
 221
 222
 223
 224
 225
 226
 227
 228
 229
 230
 231
 232
 233
 234
 235
 236
 237
 238
 239
 240
 241
 242
 243
 244
 245
 246
 247
 248
 249
 250
 251
 252
 253
 254
 255
 256
 257
 258
 259
 260
 261
 262
 263
 264
 265
 266
 267
 
 i
 ii
 iv
 
 
 
 MARGOT
 
 A NOVEL
 WENDELL STEAVENSON
 
 W. W. NORTON & COMPANY
 Celebrating a Century of Independent Publishing
 For my brothers, Misha and Xander. A sister could ask for none better.
 PART ONE
 
 BEGINNING
 1
 MARGOT PULLED HERSELF UP. THE RUNGS OF THE ROPE ladder sagged under her Mary Janes. Don’t look down! Below, the mossy planks of the old treehouse; above the blue sky, laced with leaves. Stevie said there was a nest with three blue eggs inside. The trunk of the oak was crumpled up and hollowed with squirrel hidey-holes. Catkins, dangling yellow and powdery, splotched her hands like finger paint. The leaves made whispering sounds like the seashore. Some of the leaves had ragged edges, Margot saw a fat caterpillar with green stripes eating them. She reached out to touch his soft bristles. A gust of wind blew up. The rope ladder swayed and banged against the trunk, her knuckles scraped on the bark and Margot let go—felt herself fall. Heard a loud CRACK, right inside her head.
 Her first thought was: Perhaps I am dead now and Mother will be mad at me for gallivanting. But then Margot realized her thoughts were still thinking, so she must be alive. She began to count to ten for when the pain came, but by the time she got to six, her vision blacked out.
 Assessing this development, Margot wondered if she could stand. Her mother would be furious if she had gone blind and had to miss Trip Merryweather’s birthday party. She tried to sit up, but felt seasick. If she threw up, her mother would say she had done it on purpose because she didn’t want to go to the party. She spread out her palms to steady herself. The stone path was cold to touch. She put one hand up to her face, it was warm and sticky. “Help!” Tried again to shout, more urgently, “HELP!” But the Big House was on the other side of the hill, it was unlikely anyone could hear. She decided to try and crawl.
 Her fingers grubbed between the flagstones of the old path, knotted roots, mulchy leaves, dirt. Shuffled slowly on all fours, grazing her knees on twigs and acorn caps. The very dark behind her eyelids began to lighten reddish, then dissolved into a blur as her vision cleared. The sky fizzed.
 She managed to limp back and push open the great big front door. Her mother was standing in the hall, sorting the pile of mail on the silver salver. A diamond flashed on her finger, the hardest of all minerals; her carmine lipstick drew a thin red line, her hair was lacquered into a Trojan helmet. She turned and stopped.
 “Margot! Oh for heaven’s sake!”
 Margot looked down and saw that her new dress was ruined with mud and blood. She felt the fear-tears gathering and pressed her lips together tightly to stop them from falling.
 “Don’t make that face at me, young lady!” Her mother encircled her neck with her hand and tilted her head backwards to inspect the damage.
 “Nanny Hastings!”
 Nanny Hastings appeared in all haste.
 “Look at the state of the child! Her dress is a write-off and her hair looks like she’s been dragged backwards through a hedge.”
 Her mother’s fingernails pinched like clothespins. Margot felt her nose fill up, stinging, briny.
 “Margot, I have told you before about your selfish behavior. You are eight years old. Old enough to know better! And Nanny Hastings, I have made it very clear she is not to go running off like some kind of feral goat.”
 “But Mrs. Thornsen, children need fresh air and—”
 Margot watched her mother’s nostrils flare.
 She said, “It was my fault, Mama, I wasn’t thinking.”
 “You never think! You never think of anyone but yourself !”
 Nanny Hastings opened her mouth but no sound came out.
 “Take the child upstairs and clean her up.” Her mother looked at her watch. “I’ve told James to bring the car around at ten to three sharp”.
 Margot put her quivering hand in Nanny’s. Her shoes squeaked on the marble hall where she was not allowed to play hopscotch