Free Flowers in the Attic by V.C. Andrews Page B

cover up your mistakes, if you make any.”
    Chris read: “Conclusion, and this is not a do or a don’t, just a warning. She’s written: ‘You may rightly assume that I will add to this list from time to time as I see the need arise, for I am a very observant woman who misses nothing. Do not think you can deceive me, mock me, or play jokes at my expense, for if you do, your punishment will be so severe that your skins, and your egos, will bear lifetime scars, and your pride will go down in permanent defeat. And let it be known from now on, that never in my presence will you mention your father’s name, or refer to him in the slightest way, and I, myself, will refrain from looking at the child who resembles him most.’ “
    It was over. I flashed Christopher a questioning look. Was he inferring, as I was, what that last paragraph implied—that for some reason our father was the cause of our mother being disinherited, and now hated by her parents?
    And did he infer, too, that we were going to be locked up here for a long, long time?
    Oh, God, oh God, oh God! I couldn’t stand even a week!
    We weren’t devils, but most certainly we weren’t angels, either! And we needed each other, to touch, to look at.
    “Cathy,” said my brother calmly, a wry smile cocking his lips while the twins looked from one to the other of us, ready to mimic our panic, our joy, or our screams, “are we so ugly and without charm that an old woman who very obviously hates our mother, and also our father, for some reason I don’t know, can forever resist us? She’s a fake, a fraud. She doesn’t mean any of this.” He gestured toward the list, which he folded and flung away toward the dresser. It made a poor airplane.
    “Are we to believe an old woman like that, who must be demented, and should be locked up—or should we believe the woman who loves us, the woman we know and trust? Our mother will take care of us. She knows what she’s doing, on that you can depend.”
    Yes, of course, he was right. Momma was the one to believe in and trust, not that stern old crazy woman with her idiot ideas, and her gunshot eyes, and her crooked, knife-slashed mouth.
    In no time at all the grandfather downstairs would succumb to our mother’s beauty and charm, and down the stairs we’d trip, dressed in our best, wearing happy smiles. And he’d see us, and know we weren’t ugly, or stupid, but normal enough to like a little, if not a lot. And perhaps, who knows, maybe someday he might even find a little love to give to his grandchildren.

The Attic

    T he morning hour of ten came and went.
    What remained of our daily ration of food, we stored in the coolest spot we could find in the room, under the highboy. The servants who made the beds, and tidied up in the upstairs rooms of other wings, must surely have departed for lower sections, and they would not see this floor again for another twenty-four hours.
    We were, of course, already tired of that room, and very eager to explore the outer confines of our limited domain. Christopher and I each caught hold of a twin’s hand, and we headed silently toward the closet that held our two suitcases with all the clothes still inside. We’d wait to unpack. When we had more roomy, pleasant quarters, the servants could unpack for us, as they did in movies, and we could take off outdoors. Indeed, we wouldn’t be in this room when the servants came in on the last Friday of the month to clean. We’d be set free by then.
    With my older brother in the lead, holding onto the small hand of my younger brother so he wouldn’t trip or fall, and with me close at Cory’s heels, as Carrie clung to my hand, we headed up the dark, narrow, steep steps. The walls of that passageway were so narrow your shoulders almost brushed them.
    And there it was!
    Attics we’d seen before, who hasn’t? But never such an attic as this one!
    We stood as if rooted, and gazed around with incredulity. Huge, dim, dirty, dusty, this attic