Read Online The Sport of Kings by C. E. Morgan - Free Book Online Page B

orchard, there’d been no one there at all, just empty ladders by the trees, staircases that went nowhere. She stood in the pleasing stillness for a moment, holding her empty glass, absorbing what was undeniably the amber beauty of the autumn day, and then, fatigued and finally easy because she was alone, she padded into the kitchen feeling almost pacified. There, dozens of apple baskets stunned the eye with their heaped red, and she heard herself sigh. Except she hadn’t sighed. There was a snuffling sound. She thought the boy was crying in the pantry, because he liked to hide there when he was upset, and she was always the one to find him, because she was always the one in the kitchen, though of course she never comforted him, just took him firmly by the elbow and delivered him to his empty-headed mother. Maryleen took a single step toward the pantry, which led off from the kitchen by the stove, and she knew, suddenly, exactly what she would find, because she sensed things, because her mind had been prepared by many novels that taught her everything she needed to know about the human sex impulse (a thing she wouldn’t learn from life, because she found men repugnant), and then there they were, Filip and the lady of the house, clutching at each other, the woman making hideous throat sounds against his mouth, probably because she was deaf—God, please don’t let that be a normal kissing sound—and with the negative of their black and white scorching her eyes, she fled from the kitchen on the balls of her feet, her white tennis shoes making nary a squeak, her hand smacked over her mouth. She fled around the side of the house, a bright red blooming through the smooth darkness of her cheeks, and, absurdly, in a panic, she crawled between a juniper bush and the side of the old house and sank down on her haunches there, hidden from sight. She breathed raggedly into her palm, leaning back against the bare bricks, her eyes wide. There she remained until her breathing returned to almost normal, though now her fury was risen like a fire that rages once the winds calm. When her legs had all but fallen asleep, she heard the boy walk by talking to himself, and then she could no longer stand the tingling in her legs; she crept out from the bushes, feeling absurd and looking around. There was no one to be seen. She coughed loudly as if in a fit, walking around to the kitchen door. She swooped up an empty apple basket in her hands and said “Lord!” loudly, for no discernible reason. Then she went on into the kitchen, allowing the door to clatter terribly behind her. No one was there. With nothing less than absolute fear, she walked into the pantry, but it was empty too, and she sagged against the wooden shelving closest to her, then reached out and touched the wavy glass of a bell jar, angrily mouthing her thoughts. She didn’t know how long she stood there before she heard the sounds of his feet, and she knew they were his because she’d memorized the family’s footfalls, the better to avoid them. She flung herself into the doorway of the pantry, her hands clutching the doorjamb on both sides. Her eyes were wide, sloe-deep with fury. Filip started when he saw her, when he saw her face.
    â€œGet in here!” she said, her voice brooking no alternative.
    Whether he was startled by her tone, or by the strange fact of youth wrangling age without reserve, he simply did as he was told and stood before her there in the pantry, looking down curiously with that diffident blankness she knew he’d earned by right of his skin, but which she had no sympathy for. Not today.
    She raised a straight, slender finger right up to his face. “You idiot!” she hissed.
    There was no change in his face, except his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, then he made a move to go, so she reached out and grasped up his shirtfront in her fist to pull him back around. Her grip was so hard it threatened the hold