A Deadly Affection by Cuyler Overholt

used to wash his hair. I paused to examine the hoof and, deciding it was too small, drew a second line wider than the first. I pushed myself up on my hands to judge the result and heard Conrad’s soft grunt of approval.
    â€œAll right,” I relented. “You can fill in some of the sky. But only this part, right here.”
    He scuttled on elbows and knees to the box of wax coloring sticks Mama had brought back from France and returned with a blunted blue. We set to work, and were just applying the finishing touches when a flurry of gasps and cries from the hallway informed us that the flowers had finally arrived. A moment later, Mama burst into the drawing room, trailed by Katie and two of the maids, each carrying an enormous arrangement. I pulled my drawing from beneath Conrad’s hand and flipped it over as she bustled past, her hair flying in untidy wisps around her shirtwaist collar.
    She turned and scanned the room like a general surveying his battlefield. “Let’s see…that one right there, I think”—she directed the parlor maid, pointing to the round table—“and that one on the piano. No, wait: that one should go in front of the window. This one,” she said to Katie, who was straining under the weight of an enormous jardiniere, “should go on the piano.” She watched, fists on hips, as Katie slid the urn-shaped vase on top of the case. “Yes, perfect!”
    I eyed this last arrangement with interest. It was nearly as tall as my brother, an elaborate construction of twining greens and extraordinarily long-stemmed roses that curved languidly over the edge of the vase. So these were the flowers that had put my mother in such a dither of anticipation. My blood quickened as an idea began to take shape in my mind.
    â€œWhere do you want these little ones, ma’am?” asked the chambermaid from the doorway, holding three vases in her arms.
    Mama strode over to relieve her of one of the vases. “One on the hall console, I think, and two on the dining room sideboard. Here, I’ll show you. Eleanor, could you give us a hand?”
    Eleanor put down her needle with relief and followed them out.
    Conrad and I were alone in the drawing room. I got up and walked over to the piano for a closer inspection of the roses. They were as soft as velvet and perfectly shaped, as flawless as the special rosette trim in Mrs. Cunningham’s hat shop. I lifted one of the plump heads to my nose and breathed its intoxicating perfume as my idea burst into full form.
    I released the rose and dashed out of the room. Returning a few moments later with a pair of scissors, I approached the piano and examined the roses with a critical, artist’s eye. The differences were slight, but some of the blossoms looked plumper to me and a tiny bit more symmetrical. I snipped one of these off with several inches of stem and set it aside. Working slowly to avoid the thorns, I continued to cut one after another of the best heads until there was a good-sized pile on the piano top. I carried these back to my drawing place and set to work.
    I was lost in the requirements of color and composition when, some time later, my concentration was broken by my mother’s startled cry. “Genna! What have you done?”
    I looked up to see her standing beside the piano, staring at a trail of petals that led from the bench to my little hideaway. I was vexed that I’d been found out before my masterwork was complete, but disappointment quickly gave way to delicious anticipation. I jumped to my feet, holding up my drawing with both hands. I had punched the rose stems through the heavy paper and twisted them together underneath so that the precious flowers now formed a nearly full wreath around the horse’s neck. “Happy birthday, Mama!”
    â€œOh, Genna.” Her eyes were dark with disappointment.
    I lowered the drawing uncertainly to my side. “It’s not finished