Free Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 20 by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant
Authors: Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant
flashlight.
Mama, when I finally told her about the dark, wasn't afraid. She began to sing and didn't stop until it felt safe, until it was warm and liquid and almost right.
Now it is the terrible bright that keeps me awake and the dark follows me around everywhere anyway—muttering under my shoes, in the thin black line of the cracks in the plaster, inside the desk drawers. All this light has made it blacker than ever.
The bright I used to covet is now just hard and cold and never any comfort at all. I wonder if Winnie and Jack's Mama sings to them as I begin to hum the same lullaby she used to sing to me, long and low, but I can't remember the words so I make them up. Just before I drift off I realize the tune is still hers, but the words are Lao's strange sounds stuttering almost in time.
* * * *
"You don't have to steal books, you know. There's a library just down the street,” she says with that same indifferent roll of the eyes, and I feel the heat in my face that usually only happens when I'm scolded by Lao.
"I'm not stealing books,” I say with as much confidence as I can, but her eyes narrow. I have always been a terrible liar. Granddad says it's because I haven't practiced enough.
She reaches into my jacket pocket and extracts The Little Prince with a smug half-smile I imagine she uses a lot on Jack. Her eyebrows rise, head tilting slightly to the left as she appraises the book, and I recognize the look. Lao gets it sometimes when I surprise him by doing something right—the highest praise he ever gives. I don't have the nerve to tell her that I only wanted it to learn more about what princes do.
"I don't know why you're stealing books. You look rich to me.” And she is right. Princes are supposed to be rich, but the only money I ever have is the change I find on the street, or the few bills I've managed to steal from the help. They deserve it for never once speaking to me or looking me straight in the eye.
She is still studying me with her strange smile.
"Where's Jack?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.
Her smile fades. “At the doctor,” she says, and sits back down, placing The Little Prince on a stack of books.
"Is he okay?” I ask.
"He has acute nonlymphocytic leukemia,” she says in a cool, faraway voice that sounds like Mrs. Mowett when she talks about the week's menu.
"Oh. Is that bad?"
Her eyes narrow again as she studies me, and I know I have said the wrong thing. The very wrong thing. I feel stupid and nine years old all over again. “Yes. He might die.” There is a deep line now between her eyebrows. “He'll be here in a few minutes,” she says and returns to her books.
"I'm sorry,” I whisper, because I remember people saying that to Mama when my grandmother died and because for some reason I am. Sorry. But she doesn't hear me.
We sit there in silence for what seems like an hour and I check the clock to make sure it is only minutes, because even though Granddad is away the servants will tell on me if they notice I'm gone. She doesn't ever look up from her book and I have nothing to read, so I use Lao's observation techniques and list the important things about her: straight brown hair that is always a kind of controlled mess; dark brown eyes that flicker over the pages; no makeup; a mouth that betrays her severe concentration, lifting into tiny smiles and frowns as she reads. I stop when I realize these probably aren't the important things.
"You came back.” Jack's high-pitched voice cuts through my inventory and I turn to find him standing next to me. An older woman huffs, red-faced and frowning behind him. Maybe she is their mother.
"Sweetie, the doctor says you need to take it easy—” the woman begins, only to be interrupted by the girl I realize I still haven't officially met.
"It's okay. I can take care of him,” the girl says, and I understand immediately that this woman is not their mother. She is a Mrs. Mowett, or a nanny, only with smiles and hugs.
Mama, when I finally told her about the dark, wasn't afraid. She began to sing and didn't stop until it felt safe, until it was warm and liquid and almost right.
Now it is the terrible bright that keeps me awake and the dark follows me around everywhere anyway—muttering under my shoes, in the thin black line of the cracks in the plaster, inside the desk drawers. All this light has made it blacker than ever.
The bright I used to covet is now just hard and cold and never any comfort at all. I wonder if Winnie and Jack's Mama sings to them as I begin to hum the same lullaby she used to sing to me, long and low, but I can't remember the words so I make them up. Just before I drift off I realize the tune is still hers, but the words are Lao's strange sounds stuttering almost in time.
* * * *
"You don't have to steal books, you know. There's a library just down the street,” she says with that same indifferent roll of the eyes, and I feel the heat in my face that usually only happens when I'm scolded by Lao.
"I'm not stealing books,” I say with as much confidence as I can, but her eyes narrow. I have always been a terrible liar. Granddad says it's because I haven't practiced enough.
She reaches into my jacket pocket and extracts The Little Prince with a smug half-smile I imagine she uses a lot on Jack. Her eyebrows rise, head tilting slightly to the left as she appraises the book, and I recognize the look. Lao gets it sometimes when I surprise him by doing something right—the highest praise he ever gives. I don't have the nerve to tell her that I only wanted it to learn more about what princes do.
"I don't know why you're stealing books. You look rich to me.” And she is right. Princes are supposed to be rich, but the only money I ever have is the change I find on the street, or the few bills I've managed to steal from the help. They deserve it for never once speaking to me or looking me straight in the eye.
She is still studying me with her strange smile.
"Where's Jack?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.
Her smile fades. “At the doctor,” she says, and sits back down, placing The Little Prince on a stack of books.
"Is he okay?” I ask.
"He has acute nonlymphocytic leukemia,” she says in a cool, faraway voice that sounds like Mrs. Mowett when she talks about the week's menu.
"Oh. Is that bad?"
Her eyes narrow again as she studies me, and I know I have said the wrong thing. The very wrong thing. I feel stupid and nine years old all over again. “Yes. He might die.” There is a deep line now between her eyebrows. “He'll be here in a few minutes,” she says and returns to her books.
"I'm sorry,” I whisper, because I remember people saying that to Mama when my grandmother died and because for some reason I am. Sorry. But she doesn't hear me.
We sit there in silence for what seems like an hour and I check the clock to make sure it is only minutes, because even though Granddad is away the servants will tell on me if they notice I'm gone. She doesn't ever look up from her book and I have nothing to read, so I use Lao's observation techniques and list the important things about her: straight brown hair that is always a kind of controlled mess; dark brown eyes that flicker over the pages; no makeup; a mouth that betrays her severe concentration, lifting into tiny smiles and frowns as she reads. I stop when I realize these probably aren't the important things.
"You came back.” Jack's high-pitched voice cuts through my inventory and I turn to find him standing next to me. An older woman huffs, red-faced and frowning behind him. Maybe she is their mother.
"Sweetie, the doctor says you need to take it easy—” the woman begins, only to be interrupted by the girl I realize I still haven't officially met.
"It's okay. I can take care of him,” the girl says, and I understand immediately that this woman is not their mother. She is a Mrs. Mowett, or a nanny, only with smiles and hugs.