The Key to the Indian. Lynne Banks Reid

as a Charlotte, it was always Lottie. She named you after my wic—’” He caught himself, and stopped, and then went on, “‘—after my sister, Jessica Charlotte.’”

      “Is this the truth?”

      “Yes it is. I remembered it very clearly when I was reading—”

      Omri trod heavily on his foot and he stopped.

      “Tell me!” she cried, and Omri saw her clasp her hands at her breast. “Is my Lottie still alive?”

      Omri’s mouth went abruptly dry. He almost pushed in front of his father. “Aunt Jessie, we can’t talk any more. It’s – it’s not allowed. If we give you the key, can you take it back with you and copy it?”

      She switched her gaze on to him. He thought he saw a look of eagerness – a sort of blaze – in her eyes.

      “I will.”

      Omri put out his hand for the key, and when his father gave it to him, laid it on the glass at Jessica Charlotte’s feet. She bent down and looked at it.

      “How can I manage to carry something so large and heavy? I have a long walk home from the Embankment.”

      “When you get back, you’ll be full-size, and the key will be very small. Do you think you can do it?”

      “I’ll try. How shall I – go back?”

      “The same way you came – through Frederick’s cupboard.”

      “Frederick’s cupboard? What do you mean?”

      “Never mind. It’s all in your future. When do you think the key will be ready?”

      “Tomorrow.”

      “We’ll bring you back then.”

      Jessica Charlotte bent down again and grasped the key, holding it just below the bulging plastic top part. Just as she was lifting it, with some difficulty, she stopped and pointed at the glass at her feet.

      “These are photographs,” she said. “Who are they?”

      “People in our family.”

      “Who is that?”

      She was pointing to a black and white picture of a young woman holding a baby in her arms. Beside her was a tall, good-looking man in naval uniform.

      “That’s your Lottie,” said Omri’s father very quietly. “With her husband and Jane. My Jane, Omri’s mother. Jane Charlotte.”

      Omri’s Aunt Jessie stood with the heavy key, its end still resting on the glass, in her hands, staring and staring down at the faded photo. When she had looked her fill, she turned, lifted the key, which was nearly as big as herself, and turned her face to them. The tears in her eyes caught the light in starlike pinpoints.

      “I will never despair again,” she said. “Now please. Send me about my business.”

       6Little Bull’s Need