âIt doesnât bother you, does it?â she asked.
âWhat?â
âThe clock. My niece says it ticks so loudly she canât hear herself think.â She put her hand on her hip as she transferred the hash browns and bacon to a spare plate and started on the eggs. âI find it reassuring, myself. After all, the passage of time is the only thing we can be sure of in this world.â Mrs. Harmon dropped two slices of bread in the toaster, took the eggs off the stove, and arranged our plates.
It was the best breakfast Iâd ever tasted. You canât feel entirely hopeless with a warm meal in your bellyâa warm, honest mealâand being with Mrs. Harmon was even better. She made me forget, for a little while at least, that I didnât have a place to go home to anymore. Mrs. Harmon smiled at me as she sipped her orange juice, and it hit me then: She trusted me.
I took our plates to the sink and washed them along with the frying pan, and with a murmur of thanks she laid herself down on the sofa and pulled the red and blue afghan over her. The white cat hopped up and settled itself on her tummy. âAh, Puss,â she said, and rubbed him behind the ears.
I sat in the armchair by the door and noticed on the table beside it a white wicker basket brimming with balls of yarn in sherbet colors, raspberry and peach and baby blue. âDo you knit?â Mrs. Harmon asked, and I shook my head. âI have bags and bags of wool, but Iâll never be able to use it all. I canât do much needlework these daysâmy arthritis prevents it.â
âMaybe you could teach me. I mean, if it wouldnât hurt your hands too much.â Iâd never thought of learning how to knit before, but now out of nowhere I wanted to very much. I wanted to knit myself a sweater I could hide inside.
âIâd love to, dear. Iâll just have a little rest first.â In my mind I was already knitting a hood like the Grim Reaperâs. I would wear it up so no one could see my face.
âYou look tired yourself, Maren. Why donât you take a nap in the spare room?â Every time I hear the words âspare roomâ I think of Narnia. Daughter of Eve from the far land of Spare Oom, where eternal summer reigns around the bright city of War Drobe  â¦
âNo one has come to stay with me for ages,â Mrs. Harmon was saying. âI think spare rooms ought to be used as much as possible, donât you? Itâs the first door on the right past the kitchen. Then when you wake up, weâll have tea and cake. I baked a carrot cake yesterday. And Iâll teach you how to knit, and when you go home Iâll give you a bag of yarn to take with you. Wonât that be nice?â
After a night in an abandoned Cadillac, it sounded like a dream.
I watched her eyelids grow heavy. âHave a nice rest, Maren.â
âYou too, Mrs. Harmon.â
Then she startled herself awake with a thought. âOh! Perhaps you should call your mother?â
I shook my head. âSheâs not expecting me back until later.â I didnât like lying to her, but maybe it wasnât as much of a lie if you wished it were true.
âAh. Good.â Mrs. Harmon closed her eyes, and I went down the hall and opened the door on the right. It was the fanciest bed Iâd ever seen, with a dark mahogany headboard carved with laughing cherubsâtoo old, too strange, and much too marvelous for an ordinary house like thisâand a pinwheel quilt in yellow and blue. A big chest of drawers with a mirror on top stood at the far wall, and there was a chair in the corner with a red velvet cushion. It was the nicest Spare Oom there ever was.
On the night table I found an antique sculpture, a sphinx cast in bronze with wings outspread. I picked it upâit was much heavier than I expected, and covered in soft emerald-green felt on the bottomâand when I read the inscription I
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