Chapter Text
When Aunt Goldie told Webby she was welcome to join her on her errand run, Webby’s imagination took flight. Fast forwarding to a life threatening adventure to acquire an ancient, valuable antique and she, Webby Vanderquack, served as her aunt’s (or stepmother, depending on the source) moral compass ensured Goldie never crossed any moral borders beyond the occasional mischief.
Expectations were malleable and were reshaped the longer they drove through town. Further from the business district and deeper into the historical district Goldie drove and Webby sat snugly in the sidecar, trying to pinpoint the buildings with the images in her historical research. Ever mindful she couldn’t strain her neck too far, she spotted Coot’s Emporium and wondered whether the long lasting establishment remained a store or had fallen victim to modern day tourism.
Goldie slowed the motorcycle around a right turn, entering a parking lot behind what Webby knew was a historical building. It’d lost its sheen a long time ago, that fresh look the recent installments held in the business district. Finally at rest, she removed her helmet and shook her head, staring up at the tall building.
“What is this place?” She gawked, setting the helmet in the sidecar.
Goldie turned off the engine and slipped her keys into her pocket. “It’s my accountant. Wanda Whiskers.” She motioned to the back door and started up the steps. “She loves kids.”
Webby hurried after her, brow knitted. “Is she a longtime accountant?”
“I met her on Oak Island in 1972,” she answered, twisting the doorknob. Yielding to her movement, the open door released a guff of cool, perfume scented air onto their faces. Stepping inside, she called out. “Wanda? Wanda, don’t tell me you’re taking an afternoon nap!”
“Is she old?” Webby asked behind her.
“Very old.”
“Older than you?”
A wrinkle rippled across Goldie’s beak. “Hopefully,” she said stiffly.
Webby tucked the information to digest later, retreating to her new surroundings. The inside was surprisingly comfy. Photographs hung on the walls, framed and shaded in sepia, faded monochrome and aged technicolor. They told stories Webby would’ve liked to hear. Other than the photographs, the home was what anyone would expect from an accountant's home.
Nothing extravagant. Nothing overly indulgent. It was closer to a grandmother’s home than anything else, and as they walked down the hallway, curiosity growing feverish as she controlled her beak, Webby wondered when some of her questions would be answered.
They turned a corner, a corner Webby didn’t realize they were turning until they came face to face with a giant, massive mahogany desk.
“You’re late.” Scolded a wind chime tone in some unseen place.
“Um…” Webby pressed on her tiptoes to see above the desk but saw no one there and she stepped to the side, properly confused. “What was that?”
“It was me.” Repeated the wind chime.
“Who?”
Aunt Goldie rolled her eyes with a scoff. “Wanda, stop it.” She motioned to Webby. “I don’t need this kid on edge anymore than she already is.”
“Well, I’m not exactly on edge -,”
“A child?” The wind chime grew spirited and to the left where a tall stack of manila folders were kept, something rustled. “You brought a child with you?”
“Yes,” Goldie grumbled.
“Which one?”
The tower collapsed and from the center stood a woman. A weathered poodle whose grey hair was streaked with copper. She shuffled around the mess, bundling her knitted shawl close as she straightened her glasses. “Is it little Lachlan? Oh, wait, it’s a girl. Opal?”
Goldie’s eyelids crinkled. “No, it isn’t Lachlan or Opal or any of the strays Scrooge welcomes into his house…” she grimaced tightly, pressing her palm onto Webby’s back. “I’m here to check on the Blackjack Saloon’s records.”
Whatever confusion the elderly woman suffered from dissipated in an instant, and she tapped her fingers excitedly. “Ah, yes, the Dawson records,” she motioned for them to come forward as she shuffled to her desk, “I was just finishing up with Elvira’s property taxes, you know.”
“Elvira?” A pinched look crossed her features, and she looked around nervously. “Is she here?”
“Just left, actually.” she plopped down in her chair with a delighted sigh and cranked it higher so she could meet their gazes. Her chair spun to the computer on her desk, a surprisingly recent model if Webby recalled Huey’s tech proclamations correctly. Either way, she climbed into one of the chairs, clasped her hands over her stomach and noted the gentle cinnamon scent.
“Goldie, she is adorable.” Wanda cooed, eyes fixated on her computer screen. “But why did you bring a little baby here with you? It’s so stuffy here.”
“I am not a baby!” she piped up rebelliously yet respectfully. She remained seated in the admittedly comfortable chair, then blushed when their eyes set on her. “I mean...er…”
Goldie smiled, patting her head softly. “Yeah, she’s got a point. You really don’t wanna hear about my financial records.” Then her eyes flashed as if a lightbulb went off in her head. “Hey...is Debbie here?”
“Debbie?”
“My niece.” Wanda grinned. “She should be in the kitchen feasting on Elvira’s pie.” She pointed to the right where an entrance appeared. “Go on, right ahead, and you are more than welcome to some pie. Elvira’s goodies are to die for.”
Usually, Webby would’ve shown some reluctance before slipping away, but she had no interest in money. She sprinted off, hungry for stories and didn’t think twice when she heard Aunt Goldie’s sigh nip at her heels.
Webby didn’t have to travel long. She didn’t think the building was normal in the traditional sense. Entry ways appeared at whim of Ms. Wanda and neither she nor Aunt Goldie made any mention of it. She was certain her aunt wouldn’t tell her if she asked, so she walked in the general direction until she heard sounds ahead.
She was certain it wasn’t the kitchen.
It wasn’t the kitchen.
“I wish Wanda had the patience for these things.” Cooed a grandmotherly voice. Webby was certain it was a grandmother. The tenderness was unmistakable. “But here’s little Fethry with his baby brother Abner.”
“Baby brother?” Chuckled a second person. “Are you sure? I’d say it was the other way around.”
Webby crept slowly around the corner, peeking through to confirm that the room she’d wandered to wasn’t the kitchen. It wasn’t the kitchen. It was more like a living room and much less cluttered than Ms. Whisker’s office. In fact, this room met her expectations for what an elderly woman - a non-adventurous woman - would want in her home.
Until she saw a silver blade mounted beneath a serpentine head that was much too large for the house it was confined to. Webby couldn’t contain her gasp then. Covering her mouth, her eyes watered with tears as she crossed the threshold and she pointed to the head, dancing her tiptoes as a high whistling squeal permeated throughout the room.
Two heads looked up at her, then up to where her fingers pointed and back at her. Webby would’ve remained stuck in that position, lost in her excitement and disbelief, if not for the warm hand touching her shoulder.
Immediately stepping back, not out of fear but surprise, she stared back at the woman whose touch sent a shiver up her spine. “Oh, my,” the woman whispered kindly in return, setting her hands on her knees, “I am so sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to frighten you, but you look...oddly familiar.”
“Oddly familiar?” She didn’t get that often but it made sense. Her family was in the news almost every second Tuesday night. “Oh, that’s okay, ma’am. You probably saw us in the news.”
The old woman shook her head. “No, no, that is not it.” she tapped her beak thoughtfully, eyes squinting until her eyelids flew to her forehead. “Gladdy!”
“Gladdy?”
“Gladdy?”
The woman clapped her hands. “My Gladdy! He sends me letters all the time when he travels, and he told me about the boys and their little friend.”
“Gladdy?”
“Yes!” Her face brightened. “And Fethry too. He called them Little Donalds, but I reminded him they had their own names -,”
“Huey, Dewey and Louie?” She didn’t know why she came to the conclusion she did without so much as a proper context clue, though Fethry and Gladstone were the most obvious. And Little Donalds too. Okay, those were proper context clues, but how could she have known?
“Yes!”
“Wait.” She raised her hands, head spinning. “You’re Fethry and Gladstone’s grandmother?”
She pulled back, just a little and looked at her with good humor shining behind her bifocals. “And Abner, Donald and Della’s, yes.”
“How?”
“Well, Quackmore Duck had to come from somewhere, right?” She looked up awkwardly. “Though Humperdinck and I weren’t expecting triplets.”
Her mouth could’ve dropped to the floor. That was it felt like anyways. In all her years of research, she’d neglected a significant portion of her family. A grave mistake on her part, she realized and then it struck her that this was Quackmore’s mother.
“Wait.” Her amazement crinkled into curiosity. “Do you live in a cursed castle?”
Elvira blinked. “No, or I don’t think so.” She hummed thoughtfully. “Daddy did put up a protective spell around the woods, but that was about it. No youth altering spells.”
“And do you have any living relatives your age?”
“Ah, my brother Casey!” She laughed. “He lives off with his wife, but Gus, his grandson, stays with me. Work from home, y’see.”
“Husband?”
“He passed away a few years back.”
So, it came down to a single question Webby knew she didn’t have much room to really care about. “No spells, no cursed castle, how are you alive?”
Any other adult would’ve frowned at the intrusion, the rampant set of questions directed at them. But this woman, Elvira, Webby knew, wasn’t like most people and wasn’t any other adult. With a warm smile, she guided Webby to the sofa and nestled beside her. She reached for a leather bound photo album, placing it on her lap as a nostalgic sigh left her lips.
“Would you like some pie?” Debbie offered.
“Oooh.” Webby bobbed her head eagerly. “I’d love some, thank you.”
Goldie wasn’t worried. No. Not at all. Webby was the strongest kid she’d ever known, mentally and physically. An absolute wild card, she made abduction a particularly impossible feat to accomplish. But sitting in Wanda’s office, boredom increasing every passing second, she wished she’d followed her not-niece into the labyrinth that was Whiskerville Manor.
“As I said, Goldie,” Wanda said blithely, clicking away as they reviewed her financial records. “All is well in Dawson. Gotta say you chose a great place for a multidimensional hotel resort.”
Goldie snorted. “It certainly wasn’t the original plan.”
After Dawson, Goldie had to think and think fast. It wasn’t like she hadn’t planned ahead. She kept multiple accounts for the day the gold ran dry and was willing to sell off some of her dresses when push came to shove, but certain complications arose she hadn’t anticipated.
Now, in the present, she read through the physical files Wanda produced and lamented over her good fortune. Sometimes, she didn’t understand how she managed to make it through.
“I suppose you have Scrooge to thank for that.”
“What?” She raised her head sharply.
“If you hadn’t met him…”
“Wanda Whiskerville,” her true name rang harshly in the room, and she rolled her shoulders forward as she closed the folder, “you better choose your next words very closely.”
Where other people would’ve shrunk in fear, Wanda rolled her eyes. “Oh, please,” she scoffed. “All I mean is that until you met him, you didn’t know how weird the world was, and it is weird. To think, if you hadn’t known, you would’ve stayed in Dawson, withering your savings away with on those kids.”
“Orphans.”
“What?”
Goldie shifted in the chair, relaxed and studied her long time accountant. “Orphans, I stayed for children who were either abandoned by their no good parents or their no good parents died,” she tossed the folder back on the desk. “But yes, I see your point.”
Nostalgia didn’t perforate Goldie regularly, not as much as people thought. She tried not to think about the early days after the end, after Scrooge had left Dawson and the realization of gold drying up sobered them up. She’d been desperate, hungry and there were others who were more desperate with starving bellies.
“I didn’t mean offense.”
“No, I know.” She waved her apology off. “I know.”
“So…”
“So what?”
She squinted at her. “Have you heard about Dolly’s candy store?”
“Which one?”
“Oof.”
“You get it.”
Goldie wasn’t going to admit the repetition of which Rosie had fallen into. She called every other day to remind her that she was opening a candy store, a candy story like she always would when they were girls and that she wanted Goldie to visit, at least once. Back then, even a few weeks ago, Goldie didn’t have a reason to check out this chocolate factory.
After all, what was the point of visiting a candy store when she could use her daughter’s Amazon Prime account to order gummy worms for free. As she sat on it, there was something promising about the idea. “It did open up,” she said mildly, “didn’t it?”
It was silly, the time span it took her to realize she had a delightful opportunity in her grasp. Children liked candy, or most children did. Webby wasn’t like most children, and she guessed Beakley wasn’t inclined to indulge her granddaughter the most common, typical childlike indulgence.
“Alright then,” she slapped her hands on the arms of her chair, “how’s the orphanage doing anyways?”
Surprised by her outburst, Wanda blinked at her. “Uh...it’s doing remarkably well, as all of the orphanages are.” She squinted at her, head turning slightly to the left. “Are you well, Goldie?”
“I’m fine.” She stood, pushing the chair so quickly it scratched the floor. “Where is that girl?”
It’d been a while since she had to entertain a child properly, but Goldie was confident she’d found a good start.
“This is Hortense and Quackmore on their wedding day.” Grandma Duck, yes, she insisted on the name, pointed with a smile. “Hortense insisted she wear pants to her wedding, completely unheard of. Daphne nearly had a fit, but Quackmore was besotted.”
Webby wanted to press her face onto the photographs and would’ve if it wasn’t so rude, but she was given a great view of the festivities. The largest photograph was the family photo taken at the wedding itself. So many faces she didn’t know or knew only by vague descriptions from Uncle Scrooges. Fortunately, Grandma Duck was more than happy to fill in the pieces.
“That’s my eldest boy, Eider.” She pointed to a slightly taller than the average duck man whose prominent muscles showed through his tuxedo. “And that’s his wife, Lulubelle.”
“And that’s Uncle Fethry’s dad?”
Grandma nodded. “That he is. Lulu was just a doll, truly. She had a unique way of thinking, and Eider loved her for it.”
Webby notated the use of past tense when referring to Lulubelle Loon and wisely continued, scoping the picture for familiar faces. “And this lady, right here? With curly hair?”
“Gladstone’s mother,” she laughed, chuckling. “Daphne and Hortense got in a tizzy over bridesmaid dresses. She was adamant that their dresses needed to compliment Hortense’s.”
“But you said Hortense wore pants?”
“I did.” She winked. “That was the problem.” She sighed, shaking her head fondly at the memory. “Bless, Matilda. She had a way with Hortense and Daphne, especially Daphne. My girl doesn’t have a temper like her brothers, but she’s as sharp as they come.”
Their giggles suggested they'd known each other all their lives, as if Elvira had been there the day Webby was hatched. Which in fact was impossible since Webby hadn’t hatched at all, being manufactured in a lab. Shaking away the thought, she returned to the photo, still searching for something she hadn’t noticed before.
“Wait.” She sliced another piece of her pie and scooped it into her mouth. “Is that...Goldie?”
Grandma fixed her bifocals and stared. “Aw, yes!” She chuckled. “That is indeed her. Scrooge couldn’t make it to the wedding on time. Was conducting some business in Africa, I think? Hortense and Matilda didn’t like talking about it.”
Her hair wasn’t as long, though the similarities were clear. Even with the faded, monochrome coloring, Aunt Goldie appeared younger. Less wrinkles. Less crinkles near her eyes. Hair bangs were identical despite her hair reaching right to her neck, and she was slimmer, thin waisted as she clutched the shoulders of a boy.
“Hold it,” she peered deeply at the photo and Goldie’s dry smile, “who’s that right there?”
“Who, dearie?” Grandma followed her finger before her feathers paled and a barely audible gasp escaped her. But Webby was close enough, directly underneath her to feel the shock and maybe guilt in that little gasp. “Er...well...that’s Lachlan.”
“Lachlan?”
“Yes! And ooooh,” she grabbed the corner of the page and turned so swiftly, Webby didn’t realize she was staring at a different page until she noticed baby booties, “do you want to see baby photos of Quackmore? I’ve got a few of Donald, Della and the boys too.”
Webby was tempted, naturally, to ask about the boy Grandma had so adeptly evaded. Lachlan. His smile was as cocky as the woman standing above him. His eyes were as vibrant and shiny as hers too, and his bangs, well, his bangs were familiar, though the last time she’d seen them was during an unplanned youth tonic adventure in Florida. A stammer tap danced on her chest and the muscles in her throat constricted as question after question stormed in her head.
Lachlan. For now, placing the name on the back-burner was wise. She’d hook into it later. Besides, the baby photos were easily the best part. “Aw,” she pressed her wrists into her cheeks, “baby Donald and baby Della were so cute!”
“That they were, especially when Hortense would set up baby fights between Della and Opal.”
“Is that a photo of baby Della smacking baby Opal?”
Grandma beamed proudly. “That she did, but I think Opal managed to swipe her favorite teething ring. I warned Hortense about making baby battle bets.” As the memories faded, she was brought back to reality and her smile thinned.
“I wish they’d visit more often. The last time I received a postcard from them was before Donald moved in with Scrooge.”
“And...have they talked to you since?”
“Oh!” Spotting the concern on Webby’s face, the reluctance to hear anything bad about her family but prepared to, Grandma hushed her quietly and kissed the side of her head. “Don’t you worry your little head. Della came over after that moonvasion business and Donald’s been a tad busy with work and...his new friend.”
“Daisy?”
“That’s her name.” She brightened. “Daisy. I remember the last lady friend he brought over was a woman named Donna.”
“Donna?”
“Yeah,” she paused, as if thinking better of what she was going to say, “anyways, you’re more than welcome, Webby dear, to visit the farm.”
“Anytime?”
“Most of the time!” She barked a laugh that crinkled like aluminum foil. “It’s good to have other young folks besides Abner, Fethry and Gladstone.”
“So, the boys haven’t visited you?”
Grandma patted her head. “Ah, you sweet girl,” though she smiled, the smile was dipped in sadness but the type buried deep underneath, “the boys are very busy with their uncle. I’d never begrudge them that.”
“I could.” she blurted out without thinking, and at the sight of surprise on the woman’s face, she backtracked quickly. “I mean it makes no sense for them or anyone for that matter to neglect a perfectly good granny.” It didn’t seem right. It didn’t feel right. Webby was one thousand and a half percent certain it wasn’t right. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” She sputtered before cupping her cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart, you have no reason to be sorry. Kids do that. They love you when they’re young and leave you for their wealthy, adventurous uncle when they’re older.”
“That’s probably the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.” Webby inhaled, though when she thought about it, she didn’t have much of a right to judge the boys for their neglect. Hadn’t she been obsessed with Scrooge even before the revelation that he was her biological donor? At that, her head fell and she frowned. “I...he...isn’t that great, you know. I mean, he’s good and all. The greatest, but…”
Her beak pursed tightly, and she couldn’t find the words to say what she wanted. She’d never been tongue tied, and she wasn’t tongue tied, at least not right then. Just stunted. Just unsure.
Grandma placed a kind hand on her back. “There’s no shame in loving him, dear.” Her hand reached over to her shoulder and tugged Webby into a half hug she didn’t know she needed. “For all his faults, Scrooge does love his family dearly. He’s just…” she inhaled deeply, chest expanding with effort, “needs to accept there are other ways to show his love.”
Other ways... for the second time in a single day, Webby was confronted with the confounding puzzle that was her uncle and her stomach twisted in knots. “I understand,” she wiped her eyes, embarrassed tears had escaped once again, “thanks, Grandma.”
“This was an emotionally driven afternoon I wasn’t prepared for.”
Grandma didn’t turn to look at Debbie when she said, “Debbie Goof, eat your pie in peace.”
“Goof?”
Her response went unnoticed. Cheeks flushed, Debbie pushed back her strawberry blonde hair and nodded. “Fine.” She mumbled before stuffing her mouth a fourth time. “Aunt Goophelia will be happy once she gets back from Spoonerville.”
“Wait, your uncle is -,”
“There you are.”
Raising her head, Aunt Goldie walked into the room. Her smile shimmered and suddenly dimmed at Elvira. “Wait, I thought you left.”
She shrugged, indifferent to her disapproval. “I brought pie.” As she gestured to Debbie, Webby saw her hand slide underneath the photo album, closing it as smoothly as if it was a regular book. “Would you like some?”
Aunt Goldie glared at the inoffensive pie resting on the coffee table. Arms crossed, scowl ever present, she debated whether the calories were worth it. “Alright,” she threw her hands up, “I’ll take a slice in a half.”
Ms. Wanda cocked a strange look in her direction. “A slice and a half? Just say two slices, Goldie.”
“It’s really good!” Webby waved her voice innocently. “So flaky and sweet.” Another reminder as to why she and her brothers were going to have a very, very long talk about the importance of honoring and loving your grandmas.
Aunt Goldie didn’t know about that. She didn’t know about anything that had transpired between her and Grandma. After getting her slice and a half exactly, she grinned at Webby with a wink that was so mischievous Webby believed they were going to steal money from the bank.
But bank heists were beneath Goldie and as she told Webby, pinching her cheek softly, she had another idea in mind.
“She’s your sister?”
Webbigail Vanderquack was the second person Goldie told about her sister. Counseling or not, whatever Von Drake had whittled into Goldie’s heart had done the trick and as they walked down the sidewalk, hand in hand since Wanda’s place wasn’t a short walk, she didn’t mind it. She didn’t mind the feeling of admitting this small, insignificant thing.
“You have a sister?”
Goldie nodded, stomach only half full. “A triplet.”
“Triplet?” She said, eyes wide. “Wow.”
“Triplets aren’t exactly uncommon for ducks.” Goldie chuckled, though they weren’t as common in ducks as people thought. Scrooge certainly wasn’t a triplet despite his father being part of a set, but she didn’t mention that. “Rosie doesn’t like people looking too deeply into her life. I suspect she’ll disappear when she hits 85 or something.”
“Disappear?”
“Yes,” she nodded. “She reinvents herself every few decades or so.”
“Oh.” Webby said thoughtfully, looking down to the pavement in thought. “What about you?”
“What about me ?”
It seemed little, this worry. Of course, what Webby feared wouldn’t come to pass. Yet, when she found the strength to return her aunt’s inquisitive stare, the fear had nestled properly in her chest. “Are you planning to disappear?” she asked so quietly, so softly with the passive, desperate fear of a child that could coil its tendril around a throat.
“Disappear?” Goldie tossed her head back. “Oh, no, never.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” It’d been appealing, initially. Changing her entire identity when she’d gathered the funds to leave for Dawson. “Not my style, kid. It’s exhausting, really and I want people to know me. Know who I am. What I am.”
“Isn’t it dangerous?”
“You’re not asking Scrooge, are you?”
Webby quieted at that, and her face scrunched so tightly Goldie was certain she was looking at a miniature Bentina Beakley, not Scrooge. “No, no, I’m not.” Her tone was deliberate, as if realizing something she should’ve known all along. “He has just as many enemies.”
“He does.”
It was more than that.
Rosie O’Gilt was smart and that was a requirement for an O’Gilt. They needed to be smart, shrewd and sharp. Cleverness kept them alive, even the ones who saw the straight and narrow as the safest choice. This was a necessity. They had to be smarter than the rest or shrewd just enough to make it out alive, scars and all. Keeping their names, the names their momma and daddy gave them in a one room shack, to the sands of time, lost in obscurity was safest. Leave bread crumbs and then sweep them away, was what Queenie said. But not Goldie. No. She never saw the appeal and hated the idea that she’d never receive credit for the work she’d accomplished.
Her Blackjack Saloon was the first concession. She scrawled a man’s name on the signature line, Archibald O’Gilt and thanked whatever deity for giving her plenty of brothers to choose from and of them, Archie would’ve laughed at the steal. Finding amusement where amusement was not meant to be was his specialty. He’d laugh and give her ideas, show her the way she needed to go for the best steals, but Goldie didn’t need him. Not really. She just missed that was all.
Like she missed Rosie, and maybe, secretly, this yearning explained why she guided Webby inside, in spite of the entitled adults and children, coated in sweat and indignation.
“Do you think he knows any other way to love his family?” Webby asked.
More surprised by the question than confused, Goldie didn’t have time when she spotted Linda at the register. She waved at her and her long time employee sighed with the derision she was known for, but overwhelmed with a naive staff, she slipped away to lead them to the back office.
“As for your question…”
“Yeah?”
She squeezed her hand reassuringly. “I think there are ways he hasn’t considered.” Gripping the door knob, she gazed at the young girl and lamented the doubt that had been unknowingly brewing in her soul for years. “I also suspect he’s much more agreeable to these alternative ways today than he was when I met him.” Or any other time up until you kids moved in.
Webby showed her thanks with a small smile and an even smaller nod. “Maybe you can talk to him for us.”
“Don’t worry,” she winked. “I’ll have Von Drake do it.”
Then she opened the door, forgetting the odd sounds she heard before, not registering that her sister might’ve been engaged in some meeting or other thing. But she opened the door and saw them, and she realized three things at the exact same time.
Scrooge was an idiot. She’d already known for some time but hadn’t realized the depths of his idiocy until this very instant. His hands gripped Rosie’s ass in a firm, teasing manner reserved only for Goldie and his eyes were hooded, hungry in a manner reserved only for Goldie. The second was Rosie. Rosie’s eyes were the opposite, though she gripped his shoulders - the bitch - her eyelids were raised high and she stepped back nervously. She was confused despite understanding the situation and a little amused.
The third thing was much more simple, despite their long standing rivalry and her attempt on her saloon, Rosie would never aim at her man. Call it sister code, common decency or whatever morals still threaded between them, Scrooge was off limits and Rosie respected that.
Goldie didn’t know what to say. Her mouth had dried, more like sand was stuffed inside with her beak clamped shut against her will. Its bead-like structure scratched her throat and her eyelids fluttered rapidly as her brow curved downwards.
“Rosie.” It wasn’t a shout. That much she’d take pride in. A harsh, unforgiving whisper sped at them, a curse twined in fire and bristles. For some reason, she couldn’t take her eyes off of her.
Then she did. Her head creaked to the right and she saw his terror mangled on his face as he stepped back. “Goldie,” her name was whispered through, a tiny, frail murmur.
“Uncle Scrooge?”
Right. In her shock, Goldie had forgotten she wasn’t alone, and she belatedly stepped sideways, pressing her palm onto the girl’s eyes. She had no plans to explain this instance to Bentina, deciding with a calculated eye that this was on Scrooge, as uncle and responsible party.
Time never stood still. Goldie hated the phrase since she’d experience time standing still. In Demogorgona, during the rebellion that torched countless homes and lives, time stood still repeatedly. She could feel it. Muscles stopping mid-movement. Heart ceasing mid-beat. Eyelids stuck at the top. She could feel the freezing time, and this, surprisingly, was what happened between her and Scrooge. Time standing still.
It happened only once before. Just once.
They promised it’d never happen again.
“Good Lord.” Rosie’s chatter clanged against their silence, crushing time and pushing Scrooge hard on his chest, causing him to stumble back into the desk. “I don’t want your man, and he don’t want me.” She marched to Goldie, pushing her roughly in the shoulder and spotting Webby below. “Heaven curse us,” she muttered to herself, growing more agitated by the second, “get your shit together, will you.”
Goldie almost scolded her for the swear, but Rosie was faster. “I am not going to get in the way,” she directed to Webby, scowl turning into a smile at the drop of a dime, “and I reckon you haven’t gotten your fill of candy, did you?”
“Uh…” Webby blinked at Goldie, measuring her blank expression and rightly controlled fury.
Goldie understood and inhaled sharply through her nostrils. “You can trust her. Go on, Webby.”
“Webby, no.”
Three heads shot up. Scrooge stood, back on the desk, gripping the edge so tightly that the pink skin underneath his feathers glistened with sweat.
“Webby, go.”
“No, Webby.”
“I said leave.”
Rosie quietly guided Webby out the door, shaking her head with a murmur, “Bravest man alive, I bet.”
“Webby, stay, please! Don’t leave me!”
“Webbigail,” Goldie stomped her foot, “you get outta here! Out with ya!”
Good thing Webby was smart enough to understand the situation. Its complexities were higher than the blue skies on this warm afternoon day and were not hers to understand. But that was the point. It was grown folks business, and she, as a child, had no place in it. Besides, she wanted more candy, having managed to get only a bag for herself. Lena and Violet would appreciate some bags too.
When the door closed, slammed shut and shouts clamored along the walls, Webby wasn’t worried. Rosie - Ms. Rosie, she mentally corrected - chattered on, excited at the prospect of a new customer and led her to the fray she and her aunt had recently escaped.
“Mrs. Partridge.” An overworked, over-stressed but excited adolescent worker skipped to her, panting. “Mrs. Partridge, we’re having a good show today.”
“Wonderful!” But her stare twists as if readying for a see-saw effect.
Her worker nodded. “Well, from what we were able to see, one of the parents tried to take some candy from a little boy. She said something about getting the last gobstoppers for her little girl.”
“And…”
“Well, the little boy’s aunt came in and well,” he shrugged, scratching the back of his neck in a way suggesting he couldn’t believe he’d witnessed what he had, “she vomited on her.”
“Vomited?”
“Yep.” He thrusted his arms forward. “Exorcist, projectile style.”
Webby winced at the imagery and speculated whose aim could be so sure, so the surprise in her heart was wilted when she heard her name echo in her ears. Her head spun so quickly, so sharply she thought she was dreaming, but she saw his excited waves as he slipped behind the register, grinning ear to ear.
“Dewey?”
“Yep!” He produced two full bags of candy. “I got ‘em all! Or what was left.” He added with a slight shrug. The slightness in his thin shoulders made Webby twitch, and she gave him her best sisterly crooked stare, to extract the truth out of him.
“Oh.” He blinked, blushing. “Right! Well, the second bag is Aunt Opal’s.”
“Aunt Opal’s?”
“Yeah, she told me to hold onto them before she threw up on that mean lady.” He chuckled, then frowned and looked back at Webby with concern. “Yeah, I think she fainted.”
Ms. Rosie spun around, blinked and Webby was certain, more certain than ever, that she was her aunt’s sister. Her face folded, twisted and gleamed in annoyance before she muttered, “Oh, hell.”