Free The Painted Bridge by Wendy Wallace Page A

tongue. It was white and tasteless, different from London fog. It was different from sea fog too—thick and unmoving. Abse had agreed to her request for a walk in the grounds. She could go where she liked, he said, with a poor sort of laugh. Within reason. Lovely would follow behind.
    She walked along the gravel path at the back of the house, felt her way past the brickwork of a walled garden and arrived in front of a cottage, a curl of blue smoke from its crooked chimney pot merging with the white blanket that pressed down on the roof. A bird was calling somewhere nearby, making a high, harsh shriek that hurt her ears. She stopped to look at the cottage, leaning on its fence of wooden palings, peering toward the latticed windows for signs of normal life being lived by someone.
    “Hello?” she said, experimentally, keeping down her voice so Lovely shouldn’t hear.
    At the side of the cottage, something red appeared to turn in her direction.
    “Who’s that?” came a high, clear voice. Anna made her way up the path and saw the girl. She was younger than she’d realized, pale and graceful inside her cloak, her eyes large and serious under a high forehead. She was standing in front of an enclosure, a book balanced on a fence post beside her. On the other side of the woven fence was a large, grubby bird with a crest of small quills like pins on top of its head and a long ragged tail stretched out behind. The mud in its run was markedwith angular footprints and scattered with bits of what appeared to be dumpling.
    “Even he hates suet,” said the girl. “Peacocks usually eat anything.”
    “Is that what it is? A peacock?”
    “A silver peacock. That’s what my father calls it but it’s not really silver. More of a dirty white, don’t you think? Poor creature. I don’t know why he has to be penned in like this. It’s so unfair.”
    The girl held her hand over the fence, dropped another lump; the bird shifted backward on scaly feet.
    “My father’s afraid he’ll be eaten.”
    Anna cast a glance over her shoulder and Lovely clapped her hands, the sound muffled.
    “Come along, miss. Best get going,” she called.
    The girl picked up her book.
    “We can walk together.” She took Anna’s arm and they passed back down the path and set off across the grass that led to the field. Anna had a sense of unreality that she should be next to the girl, feeling the light grip of her fingers.
    “I’ve seen you from my window. What’s your name?”
    “Catherine Abse. I’m not allowed to talk to lunatics but you look alright.”
    “I’m Anna. Mrs. Anna Palmer. I’m not a lunatic. You must be Mr. Abse’s daughter?”
    “Yes. I suppose I must be.” Catherine let go of Anna’s arm and peered at her out of the vapor, her white face coming nearer. “How old are you? Let me guess. Twenty-seven.”
    “Twenty-four, if you must know. How old are you?”
    “Nearly sixteen. At what age should a girl marry, do you think?”
    “I’ve never thought it mattered much. Why? Do you intend to marry?”
    Catherine let out a noisy breath.
    “One day I might. Not many men would want to marry a girl from a loony house.”
    They continued toward the lake under looming trees, their top branches amputated by the fog. The grass was thick and soft along the edges of the mud path, wet with dew. The hem of Anna’s dress beganto slap at her ankles, dampen her stockings. She’d wanted to use the walk to find out if the high wall went all the way around the grounds of Lake House, whether the bridge and the gates were the only ways out, but the visibility was too poor.
    “Do you love birds? Is that why you come out to feed them? I’ve seen the ducks all coming to meet you.”
    “Not really,” Catherine said. “I can’t eat the food we have at home so I give it to the ducks. Most things stick in my throat. I can feel them choking me, even after chewing fifty times.”
    “Really? I would have thought that was impossible.”
    “Mother