“Henri, stop!” I call. “We’re not supposed to play in here. Let’s go to the library instead or the playroom or the gardens!”
“Catch me first!” he shouts back, laughing.
He’s running in circles around the massive dining table and among all the heavy curtains, gilded mirrors, and antique china. As if that wasn’t dangerous enough, he also spins from time to time, arms outstretched, like a propeller gone berserk. His nanny is off today. Mother is in bed with the flu, and the household staff is busy. So, I’m the unofficial stand-in. But I’m only nine and an inexperienced babysitter. I’m not equipped to deal with the hellion that is my little brother.
When I manage to catch him, he thrashes, bites my arm and breaks free.
“Henri, stop!” I plead again.
“No!” he shrieks, his curls bouncing as he races away from me. “This is fun!”
I change tactics and try to herd him like a sheepdog. But he zigzags around the chairs, outmaneuvering me. My stomach clenched, I glance at the table, covered with a richly embroidered white cloth. At each end of it, Granny Mathilde’s favorite vase holds a bouquet of roses from the garden.
“Henri, seriously, let’s go!” I try again.
He just giggles and darts under the table. I crouch to grab him, but he slips away and reappears on the other side.
“Catch me if you can!” the little imp taunts me.
My heart is pounding as I chase him. “Henri!”
“You can’t catch me?—”
His triumphant jeer cuts short when his hand snags the edge of the tablecloth. Time slows. The vases slide to the edge. I instinctively reach out and catch the one closest to me.
Crash!
The other vase shatters. Fragments scatter across the parquet floor like confetti. Henri freezes, his wide eyes locked on the mess he’s made. My heart sinks into my stomach.
Footsteps. Heavy, urgent.
I put the vase on the table. Seconds later, the double doors fly open, and Father strides in. He’s followed by Granny Mathilde and Grandpa Antoine. They stop in their tracks when they realize what happened. Their eyes dart from the broken vase to my little brother. They’renothappy.
Henri steps back, his lower lip trembling. Panic and guilt are written all over his face as he looks up at me.
I step forward. “I did it.”
The accusatory stares shift to me. Eyebrows rise. Heads tilt with suspicion.
I keep my voice steady despite the hammering in my chest. “Really, it was me! I was running and I snagged the tablecloth. I’m sorry.”
Silence.
Granny Mathilde covers her mouth and shakes her head, as if refusing to believe the finality of the disaster. Father’s jaw tightens. I hear someone sneeze outside the room. Mother enters in her pajamas. She surveys the damage, swears under her breath, turns away, and blows her nose.
“Antoine,” Father starts, his voice low and firm, “how could you be so careless? You know how valuable that vase was.”
Henri’s lip stops quivering. Relief brightens his round face, which makes me both proud and a little bitter.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
Grandpa Antoine doesn’t say a word as he escorts Granny Mathilde out of the room, her lamentations fading down the hall. Later, after the commotion has died down, I take refuge in the library. I’m sitting on the window seat, staring out at the gardens, when Grandpa Antoine walks in, his hands clasped behind his back.
He stops by the fireplace. “Come here.”
I slide off the seat and walk toward him, my stomach knotting. He places a hand on my shoulder and crouches to meet my eyes.
“Tell me the truth,” he says quietly. “Was it Henri?”
