White chrysanthemums.
It isn't Penny Parker's first memory; that's a recollection of staring hard at her feet, one with a sock and one without, and being very puzzled by the difference. Not even her first good memory, because there's some dusky faded ones. Snowfall, sweet salty taffy, the soft grey flannel of her nanny's dressing gown- the second one, the only one she'd really liked. Her mother nodding with amused pride, as she lisped out the difference between fiction and non-fiction to a librarian at a quite impossibly tall desk. But none are nearly so lovely as the chrysanthemums.
Creeping away from her new nanny, who'd been talking to big booming Aunt Betty. (Had there been a wink, from under an outrageous cherry-covered hat? Older Penny is almost sure there was.) She'd trotted off, to go find out everything about Minnesota. Lots smaller than Boston, she remembers thinking. Quieter. Prettier grass.
"Penelope! Penelope Parker!"
Older Penny feels a little guilty, remembering the young nanny's cry of fright for her lost charge. Young Penny had just looked around for the first hiding place she could find, pushing two chubby hands against an unlocked door. Into wonderland.
A friendly, creaky floor good for hands as well as feet (honey-coloured; Mac's own recipe for varnish). Big black tables and chairs, with lots of cushions (antique wrought iron, made by one of Mission City's retired blacksmiths.) Paintings of lakes and trees (Ellen's watercolours), hung against the wooden walls. A fireplace, a drinks workshop (she never gets out of the habit of calling the counter that, not after seeing how much it makes Mac laugh.)
And a big picture window, through which she can see her nanny looking for her.
In the corner is the biggest bunch of white flowers she's ever seen, all lacey like her dress. They make a safe little nook just her size; she crawls inside to wait. She's very good at waiting, with all the tests her parents make her do.
Happy laughter wakes her: Penny rubs her eyes and peeks out of the flowers. People all around, dressed in such lovely clothes. A great big cake, topped with a silver bell that rings out whenever someone touches it. A young man, kissing a lady in white.
"You'll have to sit in the booth, of course," an older woman tells them briskly. "Together, you know."
"Just like always," the young man says, smiling. "Only different now, huh?"
She nods at him, delighted.
Penny doesn't think they've seen her, until the young man turns his head just so, and plucks her out of the flowers.
"Now I don't recognise you! And I thought I knew just about everybody in Mission City by sight, so where did you come from?"
"She's probably the Parker child," the lady says, kneeling down next to them. "Betty Parker's great-niece. I expect you'd like a piece of cake, wouldn't you?"
"Cake isn't healthy," Penny tells them. (What silly grown-ups don't know that?) "So I never have any," she adds, proudly.
"Why, you brave little dear! All of five years old, and you've never had any cake?"
"Four. I'm four."
"I was gonna say we'd better find her parents, but sheesh," the young man says. "Let's pretend we thought she was a flower girl and spoil her rotten. Or just say she's ours."
"Fancy explaining that to your mother. Married this afternoon, and a four-year old daughter already?"
"We'll just say she's a fast developer."
"I'm not," Penny insists. "I'm awfully slow. Everybody thinks so."
"Worse and worse," the lady says. "I'm sure we don't."
"I'll tell you a secret," the young man says impishly. "In Mission City, today is topsy-turvy day. And do you know what happens on topsy-turvy day?"
"No."
"Everything's backwards and upside-down. So cake's good for you, and you're clever. No matter what anybody else says."
Penny thinks about this, hard. "So my dress is black?"
"Uh-huh."
"And we're sitting on the ceiling?"
"Sure thing."
"And the bride kisses the best man instead of the groom?" somebody asks.
(It's funny remembering Jack Dalton like that, too young to even wear a moustache yet).
For his pains, he gets two cushions thrown at him.