Read Online A Bitter Magic by Roderick Townley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Roderick Townley
Ads: Link
boyness, the room’s darkness, our aloneness.
“Quite a place,” he says softly.
“Yeah.”
I wonder if there’s some way to bump into him again. But I remember where I am. Mother’s sanctuary. She’d
hate
knowing a stranger was here.
And do I trust him? Do I still think he’s looking tosteal something? This would be the place. He meets my glance. “These aren’t your rooms, are they?”
I shake my head. “Mother’s.”
“Where is she?”
He doesn’t know! “Don’t you read the papers?”
“I don’t believe them.”
“You really haven’t heard anything?”
“The other kids talk about it. They say your uncle killed her. Did he?”
I have an unreasonable impulse to defend Uncle Asa—although just last night, I wanted to ask the same question myself.
“Not that I believe what they say,” he adds quickly.
“No, you shouldn’t.”
We fall silent. The place seems to want silence.
“So you’re here looking…,” he says.
“I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
He glances around the shadows. “You want me to help?”
I ignore the zing of excitement and scan his face: the clear forehead, full lips, alert blue eyes so often on the verge of amusement. But not now. He’s serious now.
“I’ve searched the place pretty thoroughly already, but…” I need to make a quick decision: trust or mistrust. Mistrust. Trust. “Okay,” I tell him. “You’d better sit down.”
He takes the flowered ottoman. I take the chair opposite and tell him about my mother’s disappearance, the mysterious black mirror, the note she left me, the shipthat sailed without me. Cole’s a good listener, it turns out, almost as good as a lobster.
“You must have been very close to her,” he says.
I take a beat too long to answer. “Very,” I say. “So. About the mirror. It was back there, in the bedroom.”
“Can I see?”
I glance at the darkness beyond the bedroom door. No one goes in there without Mother’s permission.
I lead the way, carrying a lamp before me. The flame turns the room’s red-tinted air to burnt orange. A finger of sunlight pokes through an opening in the drapes and throws a bright diagonal across the wall. Across the painting.
“Who’s that?”
“That would be my mother.”
He looks at the painting longer than absolutely necessary. “Pretty woman.”
“People have said that.”
“Not sure I’d trust her.”
My heart beats harder. “Why do you say that?”
“The eyes.”
“What’s wrong…?” I stop myself. I look at the portrait, trying to see it the way Cole does. Okay, maybe there’s something about the eyes. Half mischief, half steel. The artist really caught her.
“She has her own picture by her own bed?” he says.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. It just seems a little…” He catches my look. “Nothing.”
I pull the drapes aside, changing the subject by flooding the room with light. “Over here is where the mirror used to be.”
He studies the indentations in the carpet. “Not much to go on. Let’s see if there’s anything else.”
I remind myself that I’ve decided to trust him. Still, I hold back. Mother glares at me from the painting.
No need to tell him about the dress I tried on
.
I settle myself at the vanity, before the three-paneled mirror, her domain. Everything’s neatly arranged: combs, silver-backed brushes, a glass tray with little bottles of perfume. I pull out the top-left drawer. Nothing any lady of fashion wouldn’t have.
“Do you really have time for this?” I ask, turning to Cole, hoping he doesn’t. “Don’t you need to get back to your dad?”
“Yes, but remember? I don’t know how to get there.”
“Right.”
“Maybe he’ll send a search party after me.”
“They’d get lost.” I go to Mother’s dresser and open the top drawer, feeling beneath her carefully folded clothes. All I find are sweet-smelling sachets and a number of silk stockings, some still with the
“Quite a place,” he says softly.
“Yeah.”
I wonder if there’s some way to bump into him again. But I remember where I am. Mother’s sanctuary. She’d
hate
knowing a stranger was here.
And do I trust him? Do I still think he’s looking tosteal something? This would be the place. He meets my glance. “These aren’t your rooms, are they?”
I shake my head. “Mother’s.”
“Where is she?”
He doesn’t know! “Don’t you read the papers?”
“I don’t believe them.”
“You really haven’t heard anything?”
“The other kids talk about it. They say your uncle killed her. Did he?”
I have an unreasonable impulse to defend Uncle Asa—although just last night, I wanted to ask the same question myself.
“Not that I believe what they say,” he adds quickly.
“No, you shouldn’t.”
We fall silent. The place seems to want silence.
“So you’re here looking…,” he says.
“I don’t know what I’m looking for.”
He glances around the shadows. “You want me to help?”
I ignore the zing of excitement and scan his face: the clear forehead, full lips, alert blue eyes so often on the verge of amusement. But not now. He’s serious now.
“I’ve searched the place pretty thoroughly already, but…” I need to make a quick decision: trust or mistrust. Mistrust. Trust. “Okay,” I tell him. “You’d better sit down.”
He takes the flowered ottoman. I take the chair opposite and tell him about my mother’s disappearance, the mysterious black mirror, the note she left me, the shipthat sailed without me. Cole’s a good listener, it turns out, almost as good as a lobster.
“You must have been very close to her,” he says.
I take a beat too long to answer. “Very,” I say. “So. About the mirror. It was back there, in the bedroom.”
“Can I see?”
I glance at the darkness beyond the bedroom door. No one goes in there without Mother’s permission.
I lead the way, carrying a lamp before me. The flame turns the room’s red-tinted air to burnt orange. A finger of sunlight pokes through an opening in the drapes and throws a bright diagonal across the wall. Across the painting.
“Who’s that?”
“That would be my mother.”
He looks at the painting longer than absolutely necessary. “Pretty woman.”
“People have said that.”
“Not sure I’d trust her.”
My heart beats harder. “Why do you say that?”
“The eyes.”
“What’s wrong…?” I stop myself. I look at the portrait, trying to see it the way Cole does. Okay, maybe there’s something about the eyes. Half mischief, half steel. The artist really caught her.
“She has her own picture by her own bed?” he says.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. It just seems a little…” He catches my look. “Nothing.”
I pull the drapes aside, changing the subject by flooding the room with light. “Over here is where the mirror used to be.”
He studies the indentations in the carpet. “Not much to go on. Let’s see if there’s anything else.”
I remind myself that I’ve decided to trust him. Still, I hold back. Mother glares at me from the painting.
No need to tell him about the dress I tried on
.
I settle myself at the vanity, before the three-paneled mirror, her domain. Everything’s neatly arranged: combs, silver-backed brushes, a glass tray with little bottles of perfume. I pull out the top-left drawer. Nothing any lady of fashion wouldn’t have.
“Do you really have time for this?” I ask, turning to Cole, hoping he doesn’t. “Don’t you need to get back to your dad?”
“Yes, but remember? I don’t know how to get there.”
“Right.”
“Maybe he’ll send a search party after me.”
“They’d get lost.” I go to Mother’s dresser and open the top drawer, feeling beneath her carefully folded clothes. All I find are sweet-smelling sachets and a number of silk stockings, some still with the
Similar Books
