Read Online The Velvet Room by Zilpha Keatley Snyder - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Zilpha Keatley Snyder
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had a headboard of white leather, and the spread was white too, except for three huge yellow daisies. A thick rug of very pale yellow covered the floor. There was even a small white piano, and a table with a telephone.
Gwen brought bandages and a washcloth from the adjoining bathroom and, without seeming a bit squeamish, cleaned and wrapped the bloody knee. Robin was impressed. She wasn’t a bit sure she could do that without feeling a little bit sick. Then Gwen flopped down across the white bed with her chin in her hands.
There was the uncomfortable feeling that someone ought to say something, and it didn’t look as if Gwen were going to. “Do you play the piano?” Robin asked.
Gwen shrugged again. “I’m supposed to,” she said, “but I don’t much. Mother used to play, and she thinks I ought to. I hate it.”
“I used to play,” Robin said. “I liked it. At least I did then. Maybe I’d hate it too, now that I’m older.” She got up and hobbled over to the piano. In Fresno there had been an old piano that had been Dad’s. Robin had never had real lessons. Dad had taught her. He used to say that if he had half Robin’s talent, he’d never have given up his music. “May I try it?” Robin asked.
“Go ahead,” Gwen said.
Robin touched a few keys. The piano had a good sound, clear and true. A little shiver ran up Robin’s back. She sat down and played a scale. Her fingers were stiff and clumsy, and at first she was sure she had forgotten everything. But she hadn’t really, because in just a minute a tune began in her head and flowed down to her fingers. It had been one of her favorites. After the first few bars she remembered what it was: the minuet from Don Giovanni. Partway through she stumbled and stopped. The minuet was gone, but there was something else she used to play that was beginning to come back. Slow, dreamy music, beautiful and sad — a prelude by Chopin. It was wonderful to feel it coming back from somewhere deep, deep down. It had been so long forgotten. Robin finished the prelude and just sat, almost forgetting where she was, until Gwen said, “Hey! That was good. I couldn’t play that, and I’ve been taking lessons since I was six. Of course, I don’t practice much. In fact, sometimes I don’t practice at all.”
Robin got up from the piano. To her left the wall was lined with bookshelves. There were several sets of books in matching covers. She ran her hand over the stiff, shiny bindings. She sniffed. The books had a sharp new smell. “Do you like to read?” she asked.
“Oh, sometimes,” Gwen said. “But not much. And not that stuff. Do you?”
Robin copied Gwen’s shrug. “I read quite a bit,” she said.
Gwen got up and took a book off the little table by her bed. “Have you ever read this one?” she asked. The book was bound in leather with red and black trim. It was from one of the sets on the shelf. On the back it said Junior Classics, Vol. 9, Ivanhoe.
Robin took the book, and it fell open to page 10, where it had been lying on its face. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve read this one. Three times.”
“Hey, that’s great,” Gwen said. “Tell me about it. I mean, everything that happens, and who’s in it, and all that stuff.”
Robin sat down on the bed beside Gwen, and while she turned the pages and looked at the beautiful colored pictures, she began to tell all about gallant Ivanhoe and the lovely Rowena, tragic Rebecca, and the evil Brian de Bois-Guilbert. Gwen listened dutifully at first, screwing up her face in concentration. But after a while she really began to be interested. Her round eyes got rounder, and her mouth wasn’t quite shut. Encouraged by the effect of her storytelling, Robin played up the exciting and awful parts. When she got to the part about the madwoman Ulrica, Gwen took a deep breath. “Boy,” she said. “That’s terrific!”
When Robin finished, Gwen sighed. “It sounds great when you tell it, but it took me all month to
Gwen brought bandages and a washcloth from the adjoining bathroom and, without seeming a bit squeamish, cleaned and wrapped the bloody knee. Robin was impressed. She wasn’t a bit sure she could do that without feeling a little bit sick. Then Gwen flopped down across the white bed with her chin in her hands.
There was the uncomfortable feeling that someone ought to say something, and it didn’t look as if Gwen were going to. “Do you play the piano?” Robin asked.
Gwen shrugged again. “I’m supposed to,” she said, “but I don’t much. Mother used to play, and she thinks I ought to. I hate it.”
“I used to play,” Robin said. “I liked it. At least I did then. Maybe I’d hate it too, now that I’m older.” She got up and hobbled over to the piano. In Fresno there had been an old piano that had been Dad’s. Robin had never had real lessons. Dad had taught her. He used to say that if he had half Robin’s talent, he’d never have given up his music. “May I try it?” Robin asked.
“Go ahead,” Gwen said.
Robin touched a few keys. The piano had a good sound, clear and true. A little shiver ran up Robin’s back. She sat down and played a scale. Her fingers were stiff and clumsy, and at first she was sure she had forgotten everything. But she hadn’t really, because in just a minute a tune began in her head and flowed down to her fingers. It had been one of her favorites. After the first few bars she remembered what it was: the minuet from Don Giovanni. Partway through she stumbled and stopped. The minuet was gone, but there was something else she used to play that was beginning to come back. Slow, dreamy music, beautiful and sad — a prelude by Chopin. It was wonderful to feel it coming back from somewhere deep, deep down. It had been so long forgotten. Robin finished the prelude and just sat, almost forgetting where she was, until Gwen said, “Hey! That was good. I couldn’t play that, and I’ve been taking lessons since I was six. Of course, I don’t practice much. In fact, sometimes I don’t practice at all.”
Robin got up from the piano. To her left the wall was lined with bookshelves. There were several sets of books in matching covers. She ran her hand over the stiff, shiny bindings. She sniffed. The books had a sharp new smell. “Do you like to read?” she asked.
“Oh, sometimes,” Gwen said. “But not much. And not that stuff. Do you?”
Robin copied Gwen’s shrug. “I read quite a bit,” she said.
Gwen got up and took a book off the little table by her bed. “Have you ever read this one?” she asked. The book was bound in leather with red and black trim. It was from one of the sets on the shelf. On the back it said Junior Classics, Vol. 9, Ivanhoe.
Robin took the book, and it fell open to page 10, where it had been lying on its face. “Yes,” she said. “I’ve read this one. Three times.”
“Hey, that’s great,” Gwen said. “Tell me about it. I mean, everything that happens, and who’s in it, and all that stuff.”
Robin sat down on the bed beside Gwen, and while she turned the pages and looked at the beautiful colored pictures, she began to tell all about gallant Ivanhoe and the lovely Rowena, tragic Rebecca, and the evil Brian de Bois-Guilbert. Gwen listened dutifully at first, screwing up her face in concentration. But after a while she really began to be interested. Her round eyes got rounder, and her mouth wasn’t quite shut. Encouraged by the effect of her storytelling, Robin played up the exciting and awful parts. When she got to the part about the madwoman Ulrica, Gwen took a deep breath. “Boy,” she said. “That’s terrific!”
When Robin finished, Gwen sighed. “It sounds great when you tell it, but it took me all month to
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