Some letters came quickly, usually mastered by nighttime. Others required days of patient repetition—Q was particularly vexing, and X might as well have been a foreign language.
But Ivy knew from her years of tutoring that frustration was the enemy of learning, and when she recognized Jewel’s struggles, she simply shifted to something the girl could succeed at, circling back to the difficult letter later. Some letters needed many circles.
“You really have the gift of patience. More than I ever did,” Torin said one evening, looking up from his book to watch Ivy guide Jewel through yet another attempt. “I would have given up on Q days ago.”
“Patience isn't a gift,” Ivy replied, not looking up from where she was positioning Jewel's chalk on the slate. “It's a skill, learned by breathing through your frustration, reaching deep down inside so as not to snap or give up, and then forcing yourself to use a calm voice.”
“By those terms, I guess Jewel has taught me a great deal of patience.”
She looked up with a smile. “And Jewel is teaching me as much as I'm teaching her.”
He was quiet for a moment, fingering the edges of the page he’d been reading. “What is she teaching you?”
Looking down at her pupil, Ivy considered. “That the speed of learning doesn't determine its value. That the child who takes a week to learn a letter might understand the meaning more deeply than the one who grasps it in an hour. That joy is its own kind of intelligence. To savor the little victories.”
When she glanced up, she saw Torin staring at her with an expression she couldn't quite read—something between wonder and pain, as if she'd put into words a truth he'd always felt—and her traitorous heart fluttered.
13
By June, with the trees budding and the lake sparkling under longer, warmer days, Jewel had mastered the entire alphabet. All twenty-six letters, in order, with their sounds. She could identify them on sight, trace their shapes with her finger, and produce recognizable versions on her slate. She could even sing the Alphabet Song, although not particularly on key. These accomplishments for a Mongoloid child were staggering.
If I were a doctor, I’d publish a scientific paper refuting the current mythology about Mongolism.She wondered if Dr. Angus would be interested.
She still hadn’t met the doctor. But from all accounts, he adored Jewel just like the rest of them did. With his brother, Dr. Fergus, staying home with his new baby daughter and a wife who was still recovering from a difficult pregnancy and birth, Dr. Angus was hard-pressed to see to the needs of his patients in Sweetwater Springs and the surrounding environs.
For a more frivolous reason, she hadn’t met Constance Taylor. Andre Bellaire was keeping Constance and Elsie busy with clothing orders for his daughter, new wife and grandniece. Cora certainly wasn’t protesting the acquisition of the fancywardrobe bestowed on her by her doting great-uncle-by-marriage.
“Twenty-six!” Jewel announced one morning, having counted the letters on her shelf with the thoroughness of a shopkeeper doing inventory. “All done!”
“All learned,” Ivy corrected gently, unable to suppress a grin. “But never all done. Now we get to use them tospellwords. That means we arrange them together. You’ll see.”
They started simply. Ivy had spent her evenings planning the progression—three-letter words first, chosen for their relevance to Jewel's world.
“Watch me.” Ivy placed the blueCon the kitchen table, then the redA, then the yellowTwith a few inches of space between them. She pointed to each in turn, slowly and clearly. “These three letters spell, Cuh. Aay. Tuh.” Then she swept her finger across all three, blending the sounds together. “Cat.”
Jewel's eyes went round. She stared at the three letters lined up on the table, her lips moving silently as she processed what she'd just witnessed. Then she looked at Brave, who was sleeping on her cushion on the chair—one paw tucked under her chin, her black fur gleaming in the morning light—and back to the letters.
“Bave?” she said, a question and a revelation.
“Brave is a cat, yes. Andcatis the word we just spelled.” Ivy rearranged the letters, mixing them up with the others. “Can you put them back together? C-A-T?”
Jewel's brow furrowed. She reached for theCand placed it carefully on the left side of the table.
Good.
Then theA, with a slight hesitation before setting it beside theC. She stared at the remaining letters scattered across the surface—felt shapes in a dozen colors—and her hand hovered, uncertain.
“Which one makes thetuhsound at the end?” Ivy prompted gently.
Jewel’s tongue poked out. Her gaze swept the letters. Her hand moved to theT, hesitated, then closed around it. “Tee!” She placed it beside theAwith a small, decisive thump.
The child stared at the row of three letters. Her face scrunched in fierce concentration. Then, slowly, she moved her finger across them, just as Ivy had done. “Cuh...aay...tuh.” She paused.
The longest pause Ivy had ever endured.
Jewel's eyes widened. Her whole face seemed to open—mouth, eyes, forehead—as if understanding had physically expanded her. And then, with a force that made the table rattle, and the remaining felt letters jump, “Cat!”
The word rang out with such triumph that Brave lifted her head, ears pricking, and blinked. The cat stared at Jewel with an expression of sleepy bewilderment, clearly wondering what all the fuss was about, before tucking her nose back under her paw.
