Read Online Angels of Destruction by Keith Donohue - Free Book Online
Authors: Keith Donohue
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Fiction - General, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Girls, supernatural, Widows, Visionary & Metaphysical, American Contemporary Fiction - Individual Authors +
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the coffee table. Though the afternoon light had weakened, she could read Sean's pure delight. Norah switched on a lamp, her hand and face suddenly radiant, and she reflected the glow on her friend. “We have to convince Aunt Diane that I am the real Norah Quinn.”
“But you are Norah Quinn.”
“She doesn't know that, and I want you to be my fearless ally. Partners?”
She spat in her palm and stuck it out; he did the same, and they briefly shook.
“And I'll need a spy to find out more about Erica Quinn. Do you think you could do that?”
A sly grin flashed on his face. “Happily.”
15
T he pain, a deep ache that coursed in the bones, began in her fingertips and toes and radiated into her limbs, across the ribcage like static electricity, up the spine and fused stiff the vertebrae in her neck. Margaret dared not move, but when her jaw twitched and the fire reached her skull, her face gave away the inner turmoil through the deep furrows on her brow and the panic in her eyes. Norah had been watching surreptitiously, glancing now and again from her book, and at last, she could bear it no longer. “Is there something wrong?”
“I'm a bit stiff.” Margaret squeezed out the words. “This winter seems to have done me in. It never used to be this cold.”
“Can I get you anything? Will you be all right?”
Margaret hummed an uncertain answer. Even the words were stuck behind her lips, caught behind the soreness that seemed to leach even to the teeth. For the first time, she worried about the symptoms of her ailment and wished she could ask Paul about the mysterious pain that threatened to leave her riven. Laying the book pages-down on the table, Norah rose and without another word quickened to the kitchen. Alone with her misery, Margaret grimaced and wondered what precautionary responses her sister might undertake should she find her hurting so. She wanted no fuss. Steeling herself, she pushed her toes to the floor and flexed the arches of her soles, and then fanned out her fingers, hoping to release the pressure by willpower. In the kitchen, a saucepan clattered on the stove and Norah sang to herself as she searched the spice cabinet. At least the girl is here, Margaret thought, and I will not have to die alone.
The notion surprised her in its sudden clarity and focused her attention away from the ache in the marrow of her bones to true reasons behind her deceptions involving the foundling child. Penitent and confessor, she forgave herself and pushed away the thought, merely grateful that it had banished the seizing pain and restored former feeling. By the time the child returned, a mug in hand, she could manage to move freely and accept the token of comfort. The scent of cardamom and cinnamon rose from the warm milk.
“My own special sleeping potion,” Norah said.
Margaret blew across the surface and sipped the liquid. “Delicious. What's in it?”
“Family recipe. But you'll feel better soon and you should go to bed right away or you'll end up sleeping on the couch.” Norah knelt on the floor beside her and found her place in the book, reading quietly as Margaret nursed the drink.
A pleasant drowse soon overcame her, and Margaret found herself half dreaming and dazed by the confluence of images merging in her consciousness. The boy Sean caterwauling as he chased Norah from one room to the next became a boy she once loved racing after her as a girl in a cherry orchard. Diane, all of four or five, holding her hand as they dashed across hot sand to embrace the cooling sea. The grieving walk around the world over these hills and through these valleys, the long solitary journey with a hundred things to tell her missing daughter, in her dream wishing her home. Through the haze, Margaret beheld the child reading at her knees. “Yes, if you'll lock up and take care of the house, I'm tired and will go to bed now.” She could trust the girl to follow instructions, and in any case, Paul was in his study
“But you are Norah Quinn.”
“She doesn't know that, and I want you to be my fearless ally. Partners?”
She spat in her palm and stuck it out; he did the same, and they briefly shook.
“And I'll need a spy to find out more about Erica Quinn. Do you think you could do that?”
A sly grin flashed on his face. “Happily.”
15
T he pain, a deep ache that coursed in the bones, began in her fingertips and toes and radiated into her limbs, across the ribcage like static electricity, up the spine and fused stiff the vertebrae in her neck. Margaret dared not move, but when her jaw twitched and the fire reached her skull, her face gave away the inner turmoil through the deep furrows on her brow and the panic in her eyes. Norah had been watching surreptitiously, glancing now and again from her book, and at last, she could bear it no longer. “Is there something wrong?”
“I'm a bit stiff.” Margaret squeezed out the words. “This winter seems to have done me in. It never used to be this cold.”
“Can I get you anything? Will you be all right?”
Margaret hummed an uncertain answer. Even the words were stuck behind her lips, caught behind the soreness that seemed to leach even to the teeth. For the first time, she worried about the symptoms of her ailment and wished she could ask Paul about the mysterious pain that threatened to leave her riven. Laying the book pages-down on the table, Norah rose and without another word quickened to the kitchen. Alone with her misery, Margaret grimaced and wondered what precautionary responses her sister might undertake should she find her hurting so. She wanted no fuss. Steeling herself, she pushed her toes to the floor and flexed the arches of her soles, and then fanned out her fingers, hoping to release the pressure by willpower. In the kitchen, a saucepan clattered on the stove and Norah sang to herself as she searched the spice cabinet. At least the girl is here, Margaret thought, and I will not have to die alone.
The notion surprised her in its sudden clarity and focused her attention away from the ache in the marrow of her bones to true reasons behind her deceptions involving the foundling child. Penitent and confessor, she forgave herself and pushed away the thought, merely grateful that it had banished the seizing pain and restored former feeling. By the time the child returned, a mug in hand, she could manage to move freely and accept the token of comfort. The scent of cardamom and cinnamon rose from the warm milk.
“My own special sleeping potion,” Norah said.
Margaret blew across the surface and sipped the liquid. “Delicious. What's in it?”
“Family recipe. But you'll feel better soon and you should go to bed right away or you'll end up sleeping on the couch.” Norah knelt on the floor beside her and found her place in the book, reading quietly as Margaret nursed the drink.
A pleasant drowse soon overcame her, and Margaret found herself half dreaming and dazed by the confluence of images merging in her consciousness. The boy Sean caterwauling as he chased Norah from one room to the next became a boy she once loved racing after her as a girl in a cherry orchard. Diane, all of four or five, holding her hand as they dashed across hot sand to embrace the cooling sea. The grieving walk around the world over these hills and through these valleys, the long solitary journey with a hundred things to tell her missing daughter, in her dream wishing her home. Through the haze, Margaret beheld the child reading at her knees. “Yes, if you'll lock up and take care of the house, I'm tired and will go to bed now.” She could trust the girl to follow instructions, and in any case, Paul was in his study
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