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away from us. She had been an ancient, disagreeable woman who rapped on her windowpane angrily if we chased a misthrown ball or a runaway kitten into her messy yard. Her lawn was a tangle of uncut weeds, and her house was ravaged, an eyesore of peeling paint and loose, dangling shutters.
    Finally, one winter she had died. Her death was discovered only when a town official went to the house to discuss her unpaid taxes. Father had written the story for the paper himself, and it was reprinted in papers all across the country.
    She had died of malnutrition and of cold. The
oil company had stopped delivering oil when her bills had gone unpaid for a year, and she was found in the coldest part of February, lying in a bed, covered with layers of blankets, and wearing three sweaters and a shabby coat. There was no food in the house, none at all.
    Yet the house, Father's article had pointed out, was filled with Oriental rugs worth a fortune and with antiques that, had they been sold, could have fed and housed her for years. There was a diamond ring in a jewelry box and a string of real pearls.
    A niece had come from Chicago, after Mrs. Bostwick's death, and Father had interviewed her for the newspaper article. "We didn't know," the niece had said in dismay. "We had no idea. I guess she couldn't bring herself to sell anything. They were family things. She was very proud of her family things, and she was determined they would stay in the family."
    Now Marcus and I thought about Mrs. Bostwick. "Claude could be like that," I pointed out. "Those Russian eggs are family things to him. He meant them for us so of
course
he wouldn't sell them. Anyway, Claude's not starving. He's not cold."
    "Yeah." Marcus nodded, agreeing. "But I think it's crazy. I'm going to sell mine."
    "Your egg? With the jewels and the army and cannons and everything? You'd
sell
it?"
    "Sure. Maybe not till I'm older. When I'm old enough to have a car, that's when I'll sell it. Who wants a dumb egg, when you can have a car?"
    "Boy, I'm not. I wouldn't sell mine, even for a car. I'm going to keep mine on that shelf in my room, the one where my horse statues are. I'm going to keep it forever, and then when I die my kids will have it. And I'll never sell it, even if I'm starving. You're a jerk, Marcus, if you sell yours for a stupid car."
    "Well, I haven't decided yet," Marcus admitted. "I have to see it, first. Maybe I'll change my mind. Maybe I won't sell it."
    We got into bed and pulled the covers up around us.
    "We'll be the richest kids in this town," I whispered. "We'll be richer than Francis Hartmann, even."
    "Yeah. Richer than Francis Hartmann." Marcus's voice was sleepy and satisfied.
    "I wonder if he's hiding them right now, right this minute." I listened for footsteps in the hall, but the house was silent. I hugged my pillow and wondered where Claude would hide the fabulous eggs. The ordinary Easter eggs were always hidden in obvious spots—under the couch cushions and on top of books in the bookcase.
    But these weren't ordinary. These were our whole future—Marcus's and mine—and like all priceless and fragile futures, they would not, I knew, be easy to find.

6
    Stephie was up first in the morning, as she usually was, except for Tom, who had gone off at dawn to deliver the Sunday papers. She scampered around downstairs in her pajamas, carrying her bright-colored Easter basket filled with garish pink grass.
    "Red!" Stephie crowed, taking an egg from its hiding place on the windowsill behind the curtains. "A red one!"
    Marcus and I hung back and watched. Suddenly, to both of us, the game seemed a thing for babies. Yet last year we had joined in, dashing around to find the eggs.
    "Marcus? Louise?" Mother said. "Here are your baskets. You're not going to let your sister find them all, are you?"
    We each took a basket from her and looked at the woven straw and the bird's-nest filling of artificial
grass. We glanced at each other. Half-heartedly, Marcus