Read Online A Drowned Maiden's Hair by Laura Amy Schlitz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Laura Amy Schlitz
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shrugged. It might have meant anything, Maud knew, but it didn’t. Muffet’s shrug meant that Maud was lying, which she was.
“Well, maybe a little,” Maud admitted. It went against the grain to admit that Victoria had made her cry, but Muffet wasn’t going to tell anyone.
Muffet continued to gaze at her doubtfully. Maud understood why the hired girl was puzzled. Usually, Maud set the table and helped prepare supper. Tonight, she was confined to her room.
Muffet pressed her fingers against her forehead and assumed a look of anguish. Then she crossed her arms over her belly and doubled over. She straightened up, threw out her palms, and gazed inquiringly at Maud.
Maud giggled and shook her head. “No, I’m not sick.” She thought for a moment, picked up a spare sheet of paper, and began to draw.
She drew two stick figures, one half the size of the other. The larger stick figure was Victoria — recognizable by her spectacles and the way she dressed her hair. In the drawing, the stick Victoria stood scowling down at a stick child. “See?” Maud pointed to the drawing. “Victoria’s angry with me. I’m being punished.”
Muffet reached for the pencil. She corrected Maud’s drawing with a few masterful lines. A real Victoria emerged from the stick Victoria — a woman of soft curves and voluminous skirts, with a wide brow and an anxious expression. Maud had never seen a skillful artist draw, and the process fascinated her. She leaned closer. “How do you do that?”
Muffet understood Maud’s excitement, if not the words. A gleam of pride came into her eyes.
“Draw me,” begged Maud. She pointed to the paper, then to her own face.
Muffet studied her for perhaps ten seconds. Then her pencil began to move. Maud gazed, entranced, as her likeness appeared: a little girl with cropped hair and skeptical eyes. It was not a pretty portrait, but Maud was flattered. The girl in the drawing looked clever and resolute. She even had a certain panache. It struck Maud that Muffet must have observed her very carefully. For the first time, Maud wondered if the hired woman understood her life as a secret child. Did Muffet know the secret that was hidden from Maud?
An idea sprang into Maud’s head. She thrust out her hand, palm up, and waggled her fingers imperiously. Muffet surrendered the pencil.
Maud printed her name underneath her portrait. MAUD. She said, “Maud,” and tapped the paper. She repeated the name, thumping her breast. “Maud. See? Those letters make my name.”
To Maud’s delight, Muffet took back the pencil and copied the word. MAUD, she wrote, copying Maud’s crooked A, which leaned to the right. The inscription was as exact as a forgery.
Maud nodded vigorously. “That’s right, Muffet! See, these letters make a word! If you could learn to write letters —” Her voice died away. It dawned on her that Muffet would never be able to understand letters. She had no sounds with which to connect them. Even if the hired woman knew the secrets of the house, she would never be able to write them to Maud.
Muffet was tapping her breast. Maud realized with a twinge of pity that the woman wanted her own name. She pointed to Muffet and wrote MUFFET on the page.
Muffet shook her head. She took back the pencil and wrote a single word in a child’s handwriting. The letters were rounder and softer than Maud’s: ANNA.
Anna. At some point — perhaps when she was a little girl — someone had taught Muffet to write her name. Maud raised her eyebrows to signify a question. She pointed to Muffet. “Your name?”
Muffet struck her chest and then the word. ANNA. Then she reached over and struck the bed. She drew the briefest of sketches on the page — a four-poster like Maud’s own. She extended the paper to Maud.
Maud wrote BED and passed it back.
Muffet moved around the room. She drew the chair, the table, the washstand. After each sketch, she passed the paper to Maud, who wrote CHAIR. TABLE. WASHSTAND.
“Well, maybe a little,” Maud admitted. It went against the grain to admit that Victoria had made her cry, but Muffet wasn’t going to tell anyone.
Muffet continued to gaze at her doubtfully. Maud understood why the hired girl was puzzled. Usually, Maud set the table and helped prepare supper. Tonight, she was confined to her room.
Muffet pressed her fingers against her forehead and assumed a look of anguish. Then she crossed her arms over her belly and doubled over. She straightened up, threw out her palms, and gazed inquiringly at Maud.
Maud giggled and shook her head. “No, I’m not sick.” She thought for a moment, picked up a spare sheet of paper, and began to draw.
She drew two stick figures, one half the size of the other. The larger stick figure was Victoria — recognizable by her spectacles and the way she dressed her hair. In the drawing, the stick Victoria stood scowling down at a stick child. “See?” Maud pointed to the drawing. “Victoria’s angry with me. I’m being punished.”
Muffet reached for the pencil. She corrected Maud’s drawing with a few masterful lines. A real Victoria emerged from the stick Victoria — a woman of soft curves and voluminous skirts, with a wide brow and an anxious expression. Maud had never seen a skillful artist draw, and the process fascinated her. She leaned closer. “How do you do that?”
Muffet understood Maud’s excitement, if not the words. A gleam of pride came into her eyes.
“Draw me,” begged Maud. She pointed to the paper, then to her own face.
Muffet studied her for perhaps ten seconds. Then her pencil began to move. Maud gazed, entranced, as her likeness appeared: a little girl with cropped hair and skeptical eyes. It was not a pretty portrait, but Maud was flattered. The girl in the drawing looked clever and resolute. She even had a certain panache. It struck Maud that Muffet must have observed her very carefully. For the first time, Maud wondered if the hired woman understood her life as a secret child. Did Muffet know the secret that was hidden from Maud?
An idea sprang into Maud’s head. She thrust out her hand, palm up, and waggled her fingers imperiously. Muffet surrendered the pencil.
Maud printed her name underneath her portrait. MAUD. She said, “Maud,” and tapped the paper. She repeated the name, thumping her breast. “Maud. See? Those letters make my name.”
To Maud’s delight, Muffet took back the pencil and copied the word. MAUD, she wrote, copying Maud’s crooked A, which leaned to the right. The inscription was as exact as a forgery.
Maud nodded vigorously. “That’s right, Muffet! See, these letters make a word! If you could learn to write letters —” Her voice died away. It dawned on her that Muffet would never be able to understand letters. She had no sounds with which to connect them. Even if the hired woman knew the secrets of the house, she would never be able to write them to Maud.
Muffet was tapping her breast. Maud realized with a twinge of pity that the woman wanted her own name. She pointed to Muffet and wrote MUFFET on the page.
Muffet shook her head. She took back the pencil and wrote a single word in a child’s handwriting. The letters were rounder and softer than Maud’s: ANNA.
Anna. At some point — perhaps when she was a little girl — someone had taught Muffet to write her name. Maud raised her eyebrows to signify a question. She pointed to Muffet. “Your name?”
Muffet struck her chest and then the word. ANNA. Then she reached over and struck the bed. She drew the briefest of sketches on the page — a four-poster like Maud’s own. She extended the paper to Maud.
Maud wrote BED and passed it back.
Muffet moved around the room. She drew the chair, the table, the washstand. After each sketch, she passed the paper to Maud, who wrote CHAIR. TABLE. WASHSTAND.
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