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Authors: Jonathan Odell
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of that. Nor could she think about what would happen when the last of Becky’s dresses was drawn from the mahogany wardrobe. Instead Granada told herself: I belong in this dress, wearing these beautiful shoes, standing next to my mistress, warmed by the gentle sunshine of an early-spring afternoon. Why, she wondered, couldn’t one perfect moment such as this be woven into a warm blanket against any chill winds that might come? Perhaps it would last, after all.
It was an immense world, and right now Granada felt that she stood at the very heart of it, and she told herself again: This is where I belong.
CHAPTER 6
G ran Gran awoke the next morning in her chair, her body stiff. She looked down at Violet who slept serenely on her cot and knew right away that something had settled within the girl. Sure enough, over the hours that followed there were no screams, and the odd movement of her head had stopped. There was only deep, hard sleep, as if the girl were nestled in some healing cocoon of calm.
At last Gran Gran felt she could leave Violet’s side and lay herself down on the cot in the kitchen. She had barely shut her eyes when she fell into a black, dreamless sleep, and when she woke several hours later she realized that for the first time in ages the muttering voices had been absent. There was only the dark and the quiet, and she thought, if death were like this, then dying would not be so bad.
After another day, Gran Gran was able to get the girl to rise from her bed. She even began to take her meals at the table. But Violet had yet to utter a single word.
The old woman was patient. She had seen enough to know a body had to work this out on its own schedule.
Violet was so quiet during the day there were moments Gran Gran forgot the girl was nearby, until she looked around and found her standing close, studying the woman with those color-shifting eyes, her stare so penetrating it filled Gran Gran with a cold unease.
The old woman would take the girl by the shoulders and gaze deep into those fearsome eyes. “I can see, Violet. You still patching and knitting. That’s good. That’s real good. You doing what you got to do.”
Although Violet wouldn’t let Gran Gran out of her sight, neither did the girl ever touch the woman, and she flinched when the old woman forgot and reached for the child’s small, china-fine hands. In fact, Violet mostly kept them hidden—in a pocket, behind her back, or under the table.
She was giving off a second sign, Gran Gran figured, like the shaking of the head had been. Though the old woman could not get a feeling for the meaning, it wasn’t hard to venture a guess.
The old woman predicted the girl’s ailment would settle in her hands for a while before finally emptying out the tips of her fingers. When she had healed from the tribulation of her mother’s death, she would again be able to touch and in turn be touched by another.
CHAPTER 7
V iolet woke to the distant muttering of voices. This happened almost nightly since the day of her arrival, after the old lady had put out the light and gone to bed. As the girl did the other times, she carefully pushed back the covers and rose from her cot.
She had come to think that there might be other people living in this house, and at night they gathered in some room beyond the kitchen to talk with one another. Perhaps they knew the whereabouts of her mother.
She walked barefoot across the cold plank floor into the moon-drenched kitchen. The old woman lay snoring in the bed next to the boarded-over hearth. Too slight to call forth the creaking of the floorboards, Violet soundlessly crossed the room in the direction of the voices. They seemed to come from behind the far wall, where the tattered remnant of an old damask curtain hung. It was nailed up high and dropped nearly to the floor. On every other night, when she had gotten this far, the voices ceased. Tonight, they grew louder. Violet pulled back the drapery and there it was,
It was an immense world, and right now Granada felt that she stood at the very heart of it, and she told herself again: This is where I belong.
CHAPTER 6
G ran Gran awoke the next morning in her chair, her body stiff. She looked down at Violet who slept serenely on her cot and knew right away that something had settled within the girl. Sure enough, over the hours that followed there were no screams, and the odd movement of her head had stopped. There was only deep, hard sleep, as if the girl were nestled in some healing cocoon of calm.
At last Gran Gran felt she could leave Violet’s side and lay herself down on the cot in the kitchen. She had barely shut her eyes when she fell into a black, dreamless sleep, and when she woke several hours later she realized that for the first time in ages the muttering voices had been absent. There was only the dark and the quiet, and she thought, if death were like this, then dying would not be so bad.
After another day, Gran Gran was able to get the girl to rise from her bed. She even began to take her meals at the table. But Violet had yet to utter a single word.
The old woman was patient. She had seen enough to know a body had to work this out on its own schedule.
Violet was so quiet during the day there were moments Gran Gran forgot the girl was nearby, until she looked around and found her standing close, studying the woman with those color-shifting eyes, her stare so penetrating it filled Gran Gran with a cold unease.
The old woman would take the girl by the shoulders and gaze deep into those fearsome eyes. “I can see, Violet. You still patching and knitting. That’s good. That’s real good. You doing what you got to do.”
Although Violet wouldn’t let Gran Gran out of her sight, neither did the girl ever touch the woman, and she flinched when the old woman forgot and reached for the child’s small, china-fine hands. In fact, Violet mostly kept them hidden—in a pocket, behind her back, or under the table.
She was giving off a second sign, Gran Gran figured, like the shaking of the head had been. Though the old woman could not get a feeling for the meaning, it wasn’t hard to venture a guess.
The old woman predicted the girl’s ailment would settle in her hands for a while before finally emptying out the tips of her fingers. When she had healed from the tribulation of her mother’s death, she would again be able to touch and in turn be touched by another.
CHAPTER 7
V iolet woke to the distant muttering of voices. This happened almost nightly since the day of her arrival, after the old lady had put out the light and gone to bed. As the girl did the other times, she carefully pushed back the covers and rose from her cot.
She had come to think that there might be other people living in this house, and at night they gathered in some room beyond the kitchen to talk with one another. Perhaps they knew the whereabouts of her mother.
She walked barefoot across the cold plank floor into the moon-drenched kitchen. The old woman lay snoring in the bed next to the boarded-over hearth. Too slight to call forth the creaking of the floorboards, Violet soundlessly crossed the room in the direction of the voices. They seemed to come from behind the far wall, where the tattered remnant of an old damask curtain hung. It was nailed up high and dropped nearly to the floor. On every other night, when she had gotten this far, the voices ceased. Tonight, they grew louder. Violet pulled back the drapery and there it was,
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