Free The Jewel and the Key by Louise Spiegler Page A

comforted.
    In the dazzling sunlight, Frida's face was pale. Grubby, too. Addie noticed that there were grease stains on her dress.
    â€œToo bright.” She squeezed her eyes shut again. “The light’s picking holes in my head.”
    Addie got up and pulled the drape across the windows just enough to shade the girl from the glare.
    â€œThat’s better.” She pressed her hand to her forehead, then suddenly jerked herself up. “Papa ... I didn’t see my father. I didn’t give him the slippers. It’s so cold in the jail. All that time waiting, and I didn’t even give him the slippers.”
    â€œYour dad’s in jail?” Despite herself, Addie felt shocked.
    â€œNot that he oughtta be.” Frida's weak voice mustered a defensive tone, but her eyes teared up. “He said a man got a right to shout about things that aren’t right and not get arrested. But he was.”
    â€œPeople are getting arrested? At the demonstration?”
    â€œDidn’t you know?”
    Addie swallowed and shook her head. How could Mrs. Turner be so excited about getting people to go to the march when here was this girl with her head cut and bleeding and her dad in jail?
    Reg returned, carrying a china pitcher. He’d flung a towel over his arm like a waiter in a fancy restaurant. “What’s this? Tears? Ah, no, no, no, mademoiselle! No tears in the Powell Luxury Sanatorium!” He put the pitcher on the table and filled one of the glasses with a flourish. “There you go, Miss...”
    â€œShe said her name’s Frida.”
    â€œMiss Frida, get that down while the nurse gives you your horse pills.” He turned to Addie, who pressed two tablets into the girls hand. “Dr. Wald's coming. He says she probably has a concussion. If she falls asleep, we should wake her after a bit and ask her name, who’s the president, questions like that.”
    Somewhere in the house a door slammed.
    â€œReg!” a musical voice called. “Are you home? More guests for dinner. And the cook’s day off! Be a sport and help me rustle up provisions. Where are you?”
    Reg opened the door to the hallway. “Back here,” he called softly.
    A click-clack of high heels approached.
This must be Becky Powell,
Addie thought.
The Becky Powell Mrs. T. was so concerned about.
    â€œYou could run down to Paulson's. Its not too late to roast a few chickens. Though what we’ll do for dessert...” Her words trickled to a halt as she approached the doorway. “Reg? It’s dark as the witch’s glen in here! What’s going on?”
    A tall, slender woman with dark brown hair drawn back into an elaborate twist appeared in the doorway. Her face was delicate, and she wore a white blouse, a slim gray skirt that fell to midcalf, and a short, tailored black jacket. She glanced from the girl on the couch to Addie and finally to Reg, her light brown eyes curious and benevolent.
    Addie stared at those eyes, and a chill feathered down her neck.
    As Reg told his mother what had happened, her face filled with concern. She opened a closet, pulled out a folded quilt, and tucked it around Frida, who was dozing off.
    Addie watched as Mrs. Powell moved around the room with such grace and certainty. Feeling Addie’s gaze, the woman turned and looked at her—I
ooked at her with both eyes clear and focused
—and smiled. She said something about how lucky Reg was to have her help, then shook her hand when Reg introduced her. Addie tried to smile back, but she couldn’t.
    Something was wrong. There was no way this woman was sick or blind.
    â€œI’m sorry,” she said awkwardly. “I think I’ve made a mistake. The person I’m supposed to be checking on is blind. Or partially blind, or something. Mrs. Turner wanted me to make sure she was all right.” Addie shook her head in confusion. “She said her name was Mrs. Powell.