Free Paperquake by Kathryn Reiss Page B

"There aren't any steps!"
    "There were once, though." Her father kicked the old pieces of wood at his feet. "I'll go back up for a flashlight, and we'll check out what's in here." He hauled himself out of the cellar and looked back at her with concern.
    "Go on. I'm fine." Violet waited by the doorway in the rectangle of light from the little yard. She looked out at the trash cans and imagined instead a low stone bench. She looked at the cracked concrete and imagined instead green grass dotted with daisies. It could be such a beautiful garden, given a little love and a lot of time. A birdbath would look nice in the center, surrounded by rosebushes. She would sit out here and work on her needlepoint—
    Then her father returned with the flashlight. He jumped down into the cellar next to her and beamed the light into the corners. Immediately Violet could see that the large humps were piles of planks and bricks. The small humps were stacks of newspapers, yellowed and britde, tied with string. A brown leather suitcase, sticky with cobwebs, leaned against one stack. Everything was covered with the grime of years. As Greg swung the flashlight's beam in an arc, Violet caught her breath. There, to the left of the doorway they had fallen through, stood a stone garden bench. Fallen onto its side and covered with cobwebs was an ornate birdbath, intricately carved of stone.
    Violet could only stare in wonder. Then the light moved and the bench and birdbath vanished into darkness. Greg walked over and picked up one of the bundles of old papers.
    "Here, Baby. Will you hold the light while I toss this junk outside?" He passed her the flashlight and started heaving the newspapers up and out the door. "It's a fire hazard, having them down here. Hand me that old suitcase, too, will you? Wait—is it heavy? Don't strain yourself."
    The suitcase
was
heavy. "I want to look inside, Dad," Violet said.
    "Well, let's get it outside, first." Greg lugged the suitcase to the door and lifted it outside. "We can leave the bricks and boards for now, I guess," he said, flashing the light all around the small space again. Then he boosted Violet out of the cellar and climbed after her.
    Violet knelt on the concrete to examine the battered brown suitcase. Her heart was thumping rapidly in her chest. She knew, she just absolutely, positively knew for certain, there was something for her inside. She hesitated, wondering how to get rid of her father. She didn't want to share Hal more than she already had.
    But her father was kneeling by her side. He lifted the suitcase by its handle, fumbled with his fingers for the clasp, and the metal tabs popped open. "So much for stolen pirate booty, huh?" Greg laughed, lifting the lid. "It's not even locked."
    Violet leaned forward to see. Packets of old sales receipts held together with rubber bands filled the suitcase. Beneath them were ledgers—bound books full of handwritten numbers and lists. Greg removed one of the ledgers and flipped through the pages. "And I was hoping for gold and rubies! This is an account book for an old shop." He showed her the first page on which someone long ago had neatly penned
Albert Stowe, Milliner.
    "What's a milliner, Dad?"
    "Someone who makes hats. So this was a hat shop. And look at the date. 1903."
    "Wow, that's old." Violet reached for another ledger and opened it. "
Fourteenth June 1904,
" she read. "
Eighteen yards red silk ribbon. One-quarter inch, twelve bolts green satin cord. Twenty feathered birds in brown, ten in blue.
"
    "Why would a hat shop need birds?" she asked.
    "For the hats. You have no idea how elaborate fashionable women's hats were at the turn of the century." Her father laughed. "Feathers and ribbon and lace, little baskets of fruit and berries—and little stuffed birds galore. All piled a mile high."
    He stood up and dusted off his pants. "These things might be of interest to a historical society or maybe the library archives. I'll look into it later.