Free Alma by William Bell

card from Clio and put it under his pillow and was astounded by what happened. But the narrative, Alma realized, was already far too long.
    Alma and Miss Lily talked together every time Alma came to do her copying. They discussedbooks and stories and history and myths and fables. Miss Lily gave pointers to Alma to improve her calligraphy, and Alma found that uncial was Miss Lily’s favourite hand also.
    “Do you know, Alma,” Miss Lily mused on one of these occasions, “I think that in a former life you must have been a scribe. I can imagine you scraping vellum, mixing inks, shaping quills. You have books in your soul.”
    Alma didn’t know what to say to that. She wasn’t quite as frightened by Miss Lily as she used to be. Still, she decided not to ask what vellum was. She’d look it up when she got home.
    Then one day Alma was copying a short note. “Dear Mr. Tyler,” it said. “Many thanks for your kind wishes on my seventieth birthday. It was so kind of you to send me the lovely crystal ashtray.”
    Oh, no, Alma thought. I missed her birthday! When her duties were completed, she ran home, and as soon as her mother stepped into the apartment, she bubbled, “I missed Miss Lily’s birthday! It was her seventieth. That’s a special one, isn’t it?”
    “For heaven’s sake, Alma, can’t you for once let me get into the room before you bowl meover with words?” Clara complained, pulling off her waitress apron. She wore a uniform to work now, a green dress with a frilly white apron.
    “Can I use some of the money I earn to buy her a present?” Alma went on. “I know her birthday’s gone by, but still, Miss Lily has lent me a lot of books and she—”
    “Slow down, girl,” Clara begged. “Of course you can buy her a present. That’s sweet of you.”
    “Can I go to the gift shop on Grafton Street? Can I go now?”
    “That place charges too much, Alma.”
    “Well, could I go and look?”
    “Don’t be late for supper.”
    Alma spent ages in the gift shop, perusing the crystal, pottery, blankets woven from mohair and wool, bowls fashioned from exotic woods, jewellery and candlesticks of softly glowing pewter. It was the quilts she liked best, hand-stitched and vibrating with colour, but the prices were far, far beyond what she could pay. And then, as she turned to go, she spied a small pillow propped on an antique wooden chair by the door. The pillow, too, was quilted, and the quilter must have lived in Charlotte’s Bight, because the little scenes depicted in thedesign made up of small squares were familiar to Alma: the lighthouse on East Point, the shells you could find on Little Harbour Beach on any summer’s day, a dory cresting a wave, gulls and ships and more. And in the background the quilter had stitched the outline of a lady’s slipper. Alma bought it with shaking hands, and raced home.
    On Saturday morning, Alma surprised Miss Olivia by asking her, “Before I start work, may I speak to Miss Lily?”
    Miss Olivia’s thick eyebrows rose as she touched her beads and eyed the package Alma carried. “I’ll see,” she said, and she went down the hall and tapped lightly on the study door.
    A few minutes later, Alma stood in the study, with Miss Olivia behind her, watching as Miss Lily struggled with the pink ribbon around the box. Miss Olivia moved toward the chair.
    “Let me help you, Mother.”
    “I can manage,” Miss Lily snapped, dropping the ribbon and, using her stiff red fingers like spades, sliding them under the tape holding the sea-blue wrapping paper, creating a ragged tear. Alma waited as Miss Lily then struggled with the box, a scowl on her face, her lips pressedtogether in frustration. With a snap, the tape parted and Miss Lily raised the lid.
    “I’m sorry it’s late, Miss Lily,” Alma said. “Happy birthday. It’s from my mother and me.”
    Sometimes, in the sky over the harbour, Alma would watch as the west wind pushed the heavy grey rain clouds away, allowing a bar