Read Online Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 20 by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant
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have rained for years—and at first I thought the crash at the back of the house was a clap of thunder, though I'd seen no lightning. I listened for my wife's footsteps on the stairs, but except for the staccato ping of rain there was silence. When I threw open the back room's door, the window was open and rain spattered in droplets onto the clean wooden floor.
I almost left after I shut the window, but then I noticed, nestled between two boxes that hadn't yet been cleared away, a round, mottled object. It was an egg, more spherical than oblong, cream-colored but speckled with black and brown. When I lifted it, the egg was heavy and warm and slightly damp to the touch, and it smelled of camphor and dust.
I pressed the heavy egg against my neck; I don't know if I felt something pulsing inside it, or if I felt my own blood rumbling in my arteries. When I held it to my lips, I tasted blood and salt. The shell cracked easily against my tooth, and the yolk slid rich and golden down my chin.
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The Third Kind of Darkness
M. Brock Moorer
There are three kinds of darkness: the first is the icy, terrifying, pitch black you either avoid or jump into like the cold, cold water at the beach, in spring, that swallows you up and steals your breath. Then there is the darkness you just want to get through or move aside with a candle, or flashlight. It is weightless and silent, made to be pushed back and walked through. The third kind is harder to recognize or describe, but I've felt it, warm and feathery light, brushing up against me. It is a place, liquid and right next to us all the time. But no one can touch or hold it.
There aren't many thunderstorms here in Brooklyn. Not like home where they rumble in, all flash and fury, and leave everything dripping green and breathless. Here summer is either cement-hot, or days of drizzling rain. Of course I don't get out much during the day to know one way or another. All of my hours are spent training with Lao, or studying. Mostly history. It's not the kind of history I learned before. Granddad doesn't bother with the Civil War and stuf f like that. I must memorize long, involved family maps and lineage. And battles; battles I've never heard of in places with names that sound made up. Like Ifingard. That's not a real country. I know because I sneaked out one day and looked it up in the bookstore around the corner.
It's hard to sneak away from Granddad's house; the servants tell on me and someone is always watching. But today Mrs. Mowett has the staff polishing silver so I know I have at least thirty minutes. It is worth risking Granddad's anger to stand in that warm and dimly lit place full of strangers and brightly colored books that have no lessons or necessary things inside.
"What are you doing here? Are you skipping school too?” It's a girl's voice, but I'm almost positive it's a boy. A very young boy, it turns out—less than half my height—stands behind me, his head barely reaching the second row of books.
"Yes,” I lie, slowly replacing the almanac on the shelf, then nervously check the clock. If I am not back in time, he will know. Everything in Granddad's house runs on an exact schedule. Except Granddad.
"So are we,” he says. “School is so wretchedly stupid.” But he isn't old enough to be skipping school, at least I don't think he is. I don't remember much about school, except that I hated it, but now I would give anything to sit through boring lectures in a classroom full of other kids who don't say, “My Lord,” after everything.
"Jack, leave her alone,” a bored voice says and I look over to where she sits reading, not even looking up. Usually people are fooled by the suits Granddad makes me wear at all times. Coat and tie and everything scratchy wool, even in summer, and too warm.
"It's okay,” I say, still not sure how to behave with people like this who aren't servants or teachers.
"See,” Jack says loudly and she rolls her
I almost left after I shut the window, but then I noticed, nestled between two boxes that hadn't yet been cleared away, a round, mottled object. It was an egg, more spherical than oblong, cream-colored but speckled with black and brown. When I lifted it, the egg was heavy and warm and slightly damp to the touch, and it smelled of camphor and dust.
I pressed the heavy egg against my neck; I don't know if I felt something pulsing inside it, or if I felt my own blood rumbling in my arteries. When I held it to my lips, I tasted blood and salt. The shell cracked easily against my tooth, and the yolk slid rich and golden down my chin.
[Back to Table of Contents]
The Third Kind of Darkness
M. Brock Moorer
There are three kinds of darkness: the first is the icy, terrifying, pitch black you either avoid or jump into like the cold, cold water at the beach, in spring, that swallows you up and steals your breath. Then there is the darkness you just want to get through or move aside with a candle, or flashlight. It is weightless and silent, made to be pushed back and walked through. The third kind is harder to recognize or describe, but I've felt it, warm and feathery light, brushing up against me. It is a place, liquid and right next to us all the time. But no one can touch or hold it.
There aren't many thunderstorms here in Brooklyn. Not like home where they rumble in, all flash and fury, and leave everything dripping green and breathless. Here summer is either cement-hot, or days of drizzling rain. Of course I don't get out much during the day to know one way or another. All of my hours are spent training with Lao, or studying. Mostly history. It's not the kind of history I learned before. Granddad doesn't bother with the Civil War and stuf f like that. I must memorize long, involved family maps and lineage. And battles; battles I've never heard of in places with names that sound made up. Like Ifingard. That's not a real country. I know because I sneaked out one day and looked it up in the bookstore around the corner.
It's hard to sneak away from Granddad's house; the servants tell on me and someone is always watching. But today Mrs. Mowett has the staff polishing silver so I know I have at least thirty minutes. It is worth risking Granddad's anger to stand in that warm and dimly lit place full of strangers and brightly colored books that have no lessons or necessary things inside.
"What are you doing here? Are you skipping school too?” It's a girl's voice, but I'm almost positive it's a boy. A very young boy, it turns out—less than half my height—stands behind me, his head barely reaching the second row of books.
"Yes,” I lie, slowly replacing the almanac on the shelf, then nervously check the clock. If I am not back in time, he will know. Everything in Granddad's house runs on an exact schedule. Except Granddad.
"So are we,” he says. “School is so wretchedly stupid.” But he isn't old enough to be skipping school, at least I don't think he is. I don't remember much about school, except that I hated it, but now I would give anything to sit through boring lectures in a classroom full of other kids who don't say, “My Lord,” after everything.
"Jack, leave her alone,” a bored voice says and I look over to where she sits reading, not even looking up. Usually people are fooled by the suits Granddad makes me wear at all times. Coat and tie and everything scratchy wool, even in summer, and too warm.
"It's okay,” I say, still not sure how to behave with people like this who aren't servants or teachers.
"See,” Jack says loudly and she rolls her
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