Read Online Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot by Robin Jarvis - Free Book Online
Authors: Robin Jarvis
Tags: Fiction
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Miss Veronica had been sullen and silent. Now, sitting in a worn leather armchair, with her cane resting upon her lap, she stared vacantly at the small square window, watching the rain streak down the diamond latticed panes.
Over her white powdered face the faint drizzling shadows fell, but whether she was aware of the soft, rippling light or was lost in a corner of her jumbled mind it was impossible to determine.
A plate of her favourite delicacy, jam and pancakes, lay untouched upon the table at her side and this fact alone worried her sister.
Miss Celandine Webster had tried everything she could think of to coax and cajole Miss Veronica out of her tedious sulk, but the wizened woman in the armchair was oblivious to all her urging.
‘You're no fun today, Veronica,’ whined Celandine. ‘It's not fair—it isn't!’
‘Let her be, Celandine,’ a curt, impatient voice interrupted. ‘If Veronica wishes to be childish do not spoil it for her.’
Miss Celandine turned her nut-brown face to the fireplace where Miss Ursula, resplendent in a black beaded evening gown, stood cold and detached.
‘But it isn't like her, Ursula!’ she protested. ‘Veronica never mopes, not ever!’
‘Then she's obviously making up for lost time,’ came the cold reply. ‘Leave her alone.’
The Websters’ quarters were a poky little apartment situated at the top of The Wyrd Museum. Cluttered with bric-a-brac collected over the endless years, it was almost a monument to the building's history.
Images of the place in various stages of its enduring existence covered the shabby wallpaper; from a small stone shrine to a twelfth century manor house. A later watercolour showed the building to be a graceful Queen Anne residence surrounded by well-tended gardens. But the final portrait of the ever expanding abode of the three Fates was a faded, sepia photograph of the stark and severe looking Well Lane Workhouse and this grim print brought the record to a bleak and melancholy close.
Unaffected by the tense, oppressive atmosphere, Edie Dorkins paid little attention to the Websters’ squabbles. She was too busy examining the dust-covered ornaments and fingering the collection of delicate, antique fans to care what the others were doing. For her the place was a treasury of enchantment. She felt so blissfully at ease and welcome that sometimes the rapturous sense of belonging swelled so greatly inside her that she wanted to run outside and hug every corner of the ugly building.
Lifting her gaze to the mantelpiece, Edie looked only briefly at the oval Victorian painting of the three sisters, before staring with fascination at the vases which stood upon either side. Never had she seen anything like the peacock feathers which those vessels contained and she quickly pulled a chair over to the fireplace to scramble up and snatch a handful.
‘Lor’!’ she exclaimed, shaking off the dust and holding the plumes up to the dim light. ‘They're lovely. Can I keep ‘em?’
‘They are yours already, Edith, dear,’ Miss Ursula replied. ‘Everything here is yours, you know that.’
Edie chuckled and gloated over the shimmering blues and greens, like a miser with his gold.
‘I never seen a bird with fevvers like this,’ she muttered. ‘Much nicer'n that big black ‘un last night.’
Miss Ursula smiled indulgently. ‘I really must get that fool of a caretaker to board up the broken windows,’ she said. ‘I cannot have the museum overrun with pigeons.’
‘Weren't no pigeon!’ Edie cried. ‘Were the biggest crow I ever saw. Bold he were too, chased me clean through the rooms downstairs and tried to bite he did.’
Hoisting the hem of her skirt, she pulled and twisted her hole-riddled stockings to show the others the raven's clawmarks.
‘Make a real good scab that will,’ she grinned. ‘I was gonna get me own back but the mean old bird took off before I could catch him.’
Miss Ursula's long face had become stern and her elegant
Over her white powdered face the faint drizzling shadows fell, but whether she was aware of the soft, rippling light or was lost in a corner of her jumbled mind it was impossible to determine.
A plate of her favourite delicacy, jam and pancakes, lay untouched upon the table at her side and this fact alone worried her sister.
Miss Celandine Webster had tried everything she could think of to coax and cajole Miss Veronica out of her tedious sulk, but the wizened woman in the armchair was oblivious to all her urging.
‘You're no fun today, Veronica,’ whined Celandine. ‘It's not fair—it isn't!’
‘Let her be, Celandine,’ a curt, impatient voice interrupted. ‘If Veronica wishes to be childish do not spoil it for her.’
Miss Celandine turned her nut-brown face to the fireplace where Miss Ursula, resplendent in a black beaded evening gown, stood cold and detached.
‘But it isn't like her, Ursula!’ she protested. ‘Veronica never mopes, not ever!’
‘Then she's obviously making up for lost time,’ came the cold reply. ‘Leave her alone.’
The Websters’ quarters were a poky little apartment situated at the top of The Wyrd Museum. Cluttered with bric-a-brac collected over the endless years, it was almost a monument to the building's history.
Images of the place in various stages of its enduring existence covered the shabby wallpaper; from a small stone shrine to a twelfth century manor house. A later watercolour showed the building to be a graceful Queen Anne residence surrounded by well-tended gardens. But the final portrait of the ever expanding abode of the three Fates was a faded, sepia photograph of the stark and severe looking Well Lane Workhouse and this grim print brought the record to a bleak and melancholy close.
Unaffected by the tense, oppressive atmosphere, Edie Dorkins paid little attention to the Websters’ squabbles. She was too busy examining the dust-covered ornaments and fingering the collection of delicate, antique fans to care what the others were doing. For her the place was a treasury of enchantment. She felt so blissfully at ease and welcome that sometimes the rapturous sense of belonging swelled so greatly inside her that she wanted to run outside and hug every corner of the ugly building.
Lifting her gaze to the mantelpiece, Edie looked only briefly at the oval Victorian painting of the three sisters, before staring with fascination at the vases which stood upon either side. Never had she seen anything like the peacock feathers which those vessels contained and she quickly pulled a chair over to the fireplace to scramble up and snatch a handful.
‘Lor’!’ she exclaimed, shaking off the dust and holding the plumes up to the dim light. ‘They're lovely. Can I keep ‘em?’
‘They are yours already, Edith, dear,’ Miss Ursula replied. ‘Everything here is yours, you know that.’
Edie chuckled and gloated over the shimmering blues and greens, like a miser with his gold.
‘I never seen a bird with fevvers like this,’ she muttered. ‘Much nicer'n that big black ‘un last night.’
Miss Ursula smiled indulgently. ‘I really must get that fool of a caretaker to board up the broken windows,’ she said. ‘I cannot have the museum overrun with pigeons.’
‘Weren't no pigeon!’ Edie cried. ‘Were the biggest crow I ever saw. Bold he were too, chased me clean through the rooms downstairs and tried to bite he did.’
Hoisting the hem of her skirt, she pulled and twisted her hole-riddled stockings to show the others the raven's clawmarks.
‘Make a real good scab that will,’ she grinned. ‘I was gonna get me own back but the mean old bird took off before I could catch him.’
Miss Ursula's long face had become stern and her elegant
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