Free Dollenganger 01 Flowers In the Attic by V. C. Andrews Page A

in case they fail, so don't think something as weakly motivated as his heart can fail a man made of steel."
Wow! A man of steel to make the opposite bookend to his wife. His eyes must be gray, too. Flint, hard, steel-gray eyes-- for, as our very own mother and father had proved, likes do attract.
"Twenty:"--read Christopher--"you will not jump, yell, shout, or speak in loud voices so the servants below can hear you. And you will wear sneakers and never hard-soled shoes.
"Twenty-One: you will not waste toilet tissue, or the soap, and you will clean up the mess if you clog up the toilet bowl so it overflows. And if you put it out of order, then it will stay that way until the day you leave, and you will use the chamberpots that you will find in the attic, and your mother can empty them for you.
"Twenty-Two: the boys will wash their own clothes in the bathtub, as will the girls. Your mother will take care of the bed linens and the towels you use. The quilted mattress covers will be changed once a week, and if a child soils the covers, then I will order your mother to bring you rubber sheets to use, and thrash severely the child who cannot be toilettrained."
I sighed and put my arm about Cory who whimpered and clung to me on hearing this. "Ssssh! Don't be afraid. She'll never know what you do. We'll protect you. We'll find a way to cover up your mistakes, if you make any."
Chris read: "Conclusion, and this is not a do or a don't, just a warning. She's written: 'You may rightly assume that I will add to this list from time to time as I see the need arise, for I am a very observant woman who misses nothing. Do not think you can deceive me, mock me, or play jokes at my expense, for if you do, your punishment will be so severe that your skins, and your egos, will bear lifetime scars, and your pride will go down in permanent defeat. And let it be known from now on, that never in my presence will you mention your father's name, or refer to him in the slightest way, and I, myself, will refrain from looking at the child who resembles him most.' "
It was over. I flashed Christopher a questioning look. Was he inferring, as I was, what that last paragraph implied--that for some reason our father was the cause of our mother being disinherited, and now hated by her parents?
And did he infer, too, that we were going to be locked up here for a long, long time?
Oh, God, oh God, oh God! I couldn't stand even a week!
We weren't devils, but most certainly we weren't angels, either! And we needed each other, to touch, to look at.
"Cathy," said my brother calmly, a wry smile cocking his lips while the twins looked from one to the other of us, ready to mimic our panic, our joy, or our screams, "are we so ugly and without charm that an old woman who very obviously hates our mother, and also our father, for some reason I don't know, can forever resist us? She's a fake, a fraud. She doesn't mean any of this." He gestured toward the list, which he folded and flung away toward the dresser. It made a poor airplane.
"Are we to believe an old woman like that, who must be demented, and should be locked up--or should we believe the woman who loves us, the woman we know and trust? Our mother will take care of us. She knows what she's doing, on that you can depend."
Yes, of course, he was right. Momma was the one to believe in and trust, not that stern old crazy woman with her idiot ideas, and her gunshot eyes, and her crooked, knife-slashed mouth.
In no time at all the grandfather downstairs would succumb to our mother's beauty and charm, and down the stairs we'd trip, dressed in our best, wearing happy smiles. And he'd see us, and know we weren't ugly, or stupid, but normal enough to like a little, if not a lot. And perhaps, who knows, maybe someday he might even find a little love to give to his grandchildren.

The Attic
    The morning hour of ten came and went. What remained of our daily ration of food, we stored in the coolest spot we could find in the room,