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"Where are Jefferson's things—his shoes, his clothes?"

"I told him if he leaves them lying around sloppily, I would hide them forever and I have," he replied and started to brush Melanie's hair again.

Rage first nailed me to the floor and then exploded in my chest, sending me charging toward him. He looked up with surprise when I grabbed the brush out of his hand and raised it threateningly. He cowered and Melanie screamed.

"Who do you think you are? What right do you have to do these things in our house?" I screamed.

"What's going on in here? What is it?" Aunt Bet cried from the doorway. She had come running from what was now her and Uncle Philip's bedroom. She was still in her nightgown, her hair under a sleeping cap, her face white with cold cream. It made her lips as pale as dead worms and her small eyes like two dull brown marbles.

"Richard has hidden Jefferson's shoes and clothes," I said. "And he won't tell where."

"He left everything lying on the floor again and his shoes in the middle of the floor. Someone could trip over them in the middle of the night," Richard cried in his defense. Aunt Bet nodded.

"You did the right thing, Richard. Jefferson must learn to take care of his things. Richard's not going to be his valet. Jefferson's old enough to know what to do, how to be neat and clean," she told me.

"If he doesn't tell me this moment where Jefferson's things are hidden, I'll sneak into the room in the middle of the night when he's asleep and set a fire under his bed," I threatened. I don't know from where I got the idea or the strength to say such a thing, but it drove a knife of astonishment and terror into Aunt Bet's heart. She gasped and brought her hands to her throat.

"That's . . . horrible . . . a terrible, terrible thing to say. What's gotten into you, Christie?" she complained.

"I won't permit my brother to be tormented," I said firmly. Then I turned to Richard. "Where are his things?"

"Tell her, Richard," Aunt Bet said. "I want this deplorable incident to come to an end immediately. Your uncle has gone to supervise the work at the hotel," she added, "or I would bring him in here to see and hear this."

"I don't care if you tell him or not," I said.

"Well?" I asked Richard.

"I threw them out the window," he confessed.

"What? When?" It had started raining after dinner and then rained all night.

"Last night before I went to sleep," he said.

"Everything's probably ruined. Are you satisfied?" I asked Aunt Bet.

"Richard," she said. "You shouldn't have done that. You should have come to me, first," she chastised gently.

"I'm just tired of living in a pigsty," he replied coldly.

"Well, I can understand that," she said. "Maybe Jefferson will take better care of his things from now on," she added, turning to me.

"If he touches any of my brother's things again, he'll be very sorry," I threatened. I slapped the brush into his hand. He winced and backed away.

Then I took Jefferson's hand and we marched out of the room. After I got dressed, we went out and found his shoes, pants, shirt and underwear under the window. The shoes were soaked and I was sure they were ruined. Mrs. Boston said that when they dried, they would probably be out of shape and rough to wear.

Still enraged, I put them in a paper bag and walked over to the hotel to find Uncle Philip. Most of the hotel's main structure had been demolished. Now the workmen were in the process of removing the debris. Uncle Philip was conferring with the architect and the engineers about the rebuilding of the hotel and the changes they would make. He looked up from the blueprints when I arrived. It was impossible to look at my face and not see the anger. My cheeks were crimson, my eyes bright with heat, my lips trembling with fury.

"Excuse me," Uncle Philip said quickly and stepped away from the others. "What's wrong, Christie?"

"Look," I said, thrusting the bag of soaked shoes at him. He took it and gazed inside. Then he felt them.

"What happened?" he asked, a look of concern in his face.

"Richard threw Jefferson's shoes and his clothes out the window last night because he didn't like the way Jefferson takes care of his things. He didn't care that it was pouring and these would be ruined."

Uncle Philip nodded.

"I'll have a talk with him," he said.