Read Online The thirteenth tale by Diane Setterfield - Free Book Online Page A

all stories have beginnings, middles
and endings; it is having them in the right order that matters. That is why
people like my books.“
     
    She sighed and fidgeted with her hands. “I am going to answer
your question. I am going to tell you something about myself, which happened
before I became a writer and changed my name, and it is something for which
there exists a public record. It is the most important thing that has ever
happened to me. But I did not expect to find myself telling it to you so soon.
I shall have to break one of my rules to do it. I shall have to tell you the
end of my story before I tell you the beginning.”
     
    ‘The end of your story? How can that be, if it happened before
you started writing? “
     
    ‘Quite simply because my story—my own personal story—ended
before my writing began. Storytelling has only ever been a way of filling in
the time since everything finished.“
     
    I waited, and she drew in her breath like a chess player who
finds his key piece cornered.
     
    ‘I would sooner not tell you. But I have promised, haven’t I?
The rule of three. It’s unavoidable. The wizard might beg the boy not to make a
third wish, because he knows it will end in disaster, but the boy will make a
third wish and the wizard is bound to grant it because it is in the rules of
the story. You asked me to tell you the truth about three things, and I must,
because of the rule of three. But let me first ask you something in return.“
     
    ‘What?“
     
    ‘After this, no more jumping about in the story. From tomorrow,
I’ll tell you my story, beginning at the beginning, continuing with the middle,
and with the end at the end. Everything in its proper place. No eating. No
looking ahead. No questions. No sneaky glances at the last page.
     
    Did she have the right to place conditions on our deal, having
already accepted it? Not really. Still, I nodded.
     
    ‘I agree.“
     
    She could not quite look at me as she spoke.
     
    ‘I lived at Angelfield.“
     
    Her voice trembled over the place name, and she scratched
nervously at her palm in an unconscious gesture.
     
    ‘I was sixteen.“
     
    Her voice grew stilted; fluency deserted her.
     
    ‘There was a fire.“
     
    The words were expelled from her throat hard and dry, like
stones.
     
    ‘I lost everything.“
     
    And then, the cry breaking from her lips before she could stop
it, “Oh, Emmeline!”
     
    There are cultures in which it is believed that a name contains
all a person’s mystical power. That a name should be known only to God d to the
person who holds it and to very few privileged others. To pronounce such a
name, either one’s own or someone else’s, is to invite jeopardy. This, it
seemed, was such a name.
     
    Miss Winter pressed her lips together, too late. A tremor ran
rough the muscles under the skin.
     
    Now I knew I was tied to the story. I had stumbled upon the
heart the tale that I had been commissioned to tell. It was love. And loss. For
what else could the sorrow of that exclamation be but bereavement? In a flash I
saw beyond the mask of white makeup and the exotic aperies. For a few seconds
it seemed to me that I could see right into Miss Winter’s heart, right into her
thoughts. I recognized the very essence of her—how could I fail to, for was it
not the essence of me?
     
    We were both lone twins. With this realization, the leash of the
story tightened around my wrists, and my excitement was suddenly cut through
with fear.
     
    ‘Where can I find a public record of this fire?“ I asked, trying
not to let my perturbed feelings show in my voice.
     
    ‘The local newspaper. The Banbury Herald.“
     
    I nodded, made a note in my pad and flipped the cover closed.
     
    ‘Although,“ she added, ”there is a record of a different kind
that I can show you now.“
     
    I raised an eyebrow.
     
    ‘Come nearer.“
     
    I rose from my chair and took a step, halving the