Free Silver Wattle by Belinda Alexandra Page A

at the other end and I knew the route there by heart. But I would need light to negotiate the attic stairs. I searched about for a candle, found one in the dresser drawer and lit the wick.
    There were no ghosts in the hall and I crept towards the attic stairs. I passed Milosh’s bedroom and heard him sigh. A glimmer of light flickered beneath the door. He must be reading in bed, I thought. I held my breath and prayed that no creaking floorboards would betray me.
    The room felt closed when I entered it. My candle gave only a small circle of light but I dared not turn on the switch as the new electric globe was twice as bright as those downstairs and Milosh might notice it if he left his room to go to the bathroom.
    The chest was still there but where was the key? I searched the drawers of Father’s desk and under the rug but had no luck finding it. I heard the door to Milosh’s room open then shut. I froze to the spot, listening for further sounds. But then I heard his feet on the floorboards and realised he had not left his room. I felt under the chest and found only cobwebs, then around the inkstand. My fingers touched the thin metal barrel of a key and I grasped it with triumph. I tried it in the lock. It fitted.
    I lifted the lid gently so it would not make any noise. The smell of wool rose up from the chest and then a sweet smell too. I recognised it as rosemary. Father used to drink an infusion of it every morning. He believed it improved his memory. He also laid a sprig of it on Mother’s pillow on their anniversary each year, as a symbol of his fidelity. Mother had tucked sachets of the herb around the sides of the chest. I held up the candle so I could see better, careful not to drop wax onto Father’s uniform. I saw an envelope addressed to Aunt Josephine lying on top of Father’s coat. The handwriting was Mother’s. I picked up the envelope and found another one for Uncle Ota beneath it.
    The sound of footsteps on the attic stairs jolted me. I tucked the letter in my hand into my nightdress, closed the chest and blew out the candle. I had just slid behind the armoire when the door opened and Milosh crept in, holding a lamp.
    I wondered if he had been disturbed by sounds in the attic and if he would smell the lingering scent of wax from the candle. Fortunately, the room held such a mixture of odours—dust, wood, musty cloth—they must have masked the wax for Milosh seemed unaware of my presence. I had closed the chest but had left the key in the lock, and the letter for Uncle Ota was still lying on top of Father’s uniform. For a moment, I had an urge to reveal myself and make up some excuse for being in the attic, but something in the set of Milosh’s face stopped me. I was not sure if it was a trick of the light but the contours of his cheeks and chin looked sharper than usual.
    He did not turn on the electric light, but placed the lamp on Father’s desk and began searching through the drawers. I realised that he had not come because he had heard a noise but rather to look for something when he thought we were all asleep.
    When Milosh did not find what he was searching for in the desk, he turned to the shelf and leafed through the books. After the bookshelf yielded nothing of interest, he looked at the chest. My heart skipped a beat when he opened the lid, then picked up the lamp so that he might see more clearly into it. He discovered the letter and ripped open the envelope.
    Milosh showed no emotion while reading the letter. I was surprised that he could read correspondence from his late wife to the brother of her first husband so impassively. I understood little of men and women then, but knew enough to realise that men could be jealous. Milosh studied the letter like someone committing facts to memory for an examination. Every so often he would look up, his lips moving as if he were taking particular note of a place or name. When he had finished reading, I hoped he would discard the letter, but he