Her grandmother called her to the house. Fern ran to her, ripped open the letter her grandmother had been holding and read it out loud while following her grandmother upstairs. Dear Fern, I have the Bone. I want the book. I believe you’ve heard of The Art of Being Anybody? I’ll come to collect it at three o’clock. Don’t try to find us. We’ll find you. If I don’t have it today, I’ll have to do something terrible to the Bone. I don’t want to do this terrible thing. But as you know, I haven’t been myself. Sincerely, M. Fern began, “Do you know—” “The Miser, yes. He was a fine enough boy. His name was Michael, once upon a time. Your mother cared for him, but didn’t love him.” “Did you know—” “I knew Mr. Haiserblaitherness was the Miser, certainly. Just as I knew you and your father were never the Bibbs.” “And Mr. and Mrs. Drudger…” “They are nice people, Fern. They took care of you well. A bit dull, but nice.” “How come—” “You could get crickets to pop out of a book as a little, little girl, but now you have to relearn it?
