“I don’t know. How can I when the letters move around all the time?”
“He isn’t ignorant,” Olive said quickly.
Emil shot her an exasperated look. “The thought never crossed my mind. Now, young Mr. Becket, answer me this. Do the letters ever march across the page like they’re an army of ants?”
“Yes,” Robbie breathed. “Does that happen to you, too?”
“No, but it does to my older brother. That’s how I know you’re telling the truth.”
Robbie’s breath hitched, and he was staring at Emil like he’d lifted an enormous weight from his shoulders. An ache burned the back of Olive’s throat, and she was forced to admit that Emil had done the same for her. There was comfort in knowing one wasn’t alone. That others shared the same challenge.
“That’s why he left school?—”
Her gasp of horror made Robbie jump, but Emil only rolled his eyes.
“—Left school at sixteen and began working for the family business doing something he really loved. Woodcarving. Now he’s our best craftsman, and his skills are in high demand.”
“Though school is still very important,” Olive insisted.
“It is,” Emil said. “But I think it also helps to know that intelligence comes in many forms.”
“Like what?” Robbie asked.
“Well, reading, writing, and arithmetic are one kind of knowledge. But there are plenty of others, like playing the piano. Solving cases. Building boats. You’ll find yours.” He ruffled Robbie’s hair. “Besides, I think you’re lucky.”
“Why?”
“If everything came easily, you’d never have to work for it. Worse, you might get used to quitting when something doesn’t work on the first try. Tell me, kid. Do you keep going, even when things get tough?”
“Most of the time.” He glanced at Olive, and she gave him an emphatic nod.
“Then you’ve got grit. All you need to go back to school tomorrow.”
Robbie considered Emil’s words. “Why not?” He shrugged. “Besides, I’m much faster than that snake Willy Jones. And I tie better knots than him.”
“There you go.” Olive squeezed his shoulder one last time, then rose to her feet.
A hollow ache gnawed at her stomach, and the world tilted. She blinked her eyes furiously. Drat, not now. She didn’t have time for dizziness. Not when she needed to be strong for Robbie. Not when she had to lead Emil to the next clue. She steadied herself with the handrail, but her legs wobbled beneath her.
“Olive, sit down.” Dimly, she found herself obeying Emil. Half sitting, half collapsing back to the stone steps. “Head down. That’s it.”
She closed her eyes and willed the spinning to stop. After a while, she became aware of a hushed conversation taking place above her.
“Does she normally skip breakfast?”
“Sometimes. I think…I think she made me eat her oatmeal this morning. There wasn’t much left.”
“Is your father’s job not paying enough?”
“Father died when I was five,” he said. “Olive takes care of me and Mama.”
“I see. Perhaps we should collect your mother, have her come help Olive?—”
“But Mama never leaves home.”
“Never?” There was a lengthy pause. “Is she ill?”
“I don’t think so.”
