artwork, and an elaborate dresser trimmed in brass. I shut the door without going in — looked like a bunch of stuff that Sammy could easily break.
The final room in the wing occupied its entire end, from the riverside to the front. It was mostly empty, with a rich, patterned parquet floor — I guessed it was a ballroom. At one end, there was a little fenced-in area that I assumed kept the musicians safe from the whirling dancers. The far wall was all French doors that led to a brick porch and stairs beyond.
The empty echoiness of the room got me to wondering if I could make myself see something from the past — if I could summon it up at will. While Sammy spun in tight circles in the center with the evident purpose of making himself dizzy, I went over to touch the gate to the musicians’ area. I gripped the wood until it was pressing a pattern in my flesh, bent my head and concentrated, and heard, saw —
Not a thing. I finally let go, feeling a little ridiculous. How do psychics do it? I wondered. It was not much of a gift if I couldn’t even control when it happened. If it ever happened again.
I shrugged and twirled back across the floor toward Sam in a remembered step from second-grade ballet, imagining the music of a waltz. I hit the light switch and reached for the door handle —
And a golden glow blazed behind me. Real music replaced my imagined notes, together with the sounds of feet sliding across the floor, of dozens of people talking. I turned around to see a dance, a ball in full progress, with women in hooped dresses all doing the exact same steps opposite a line of men in tailed jackets. An echo , I thought, surprised and pleased. I found one.
My eyes were drawn to a pretty girl in palest pink with ivory skin and hair almost black. She looked — familiar. A relative? She might have been one of my distant grandmothers. This isn’t so bad , I thought, isn’t so frightening. It was, in fact, something like magic, like being in a movie, and I stood, caught by it, enchanted, until I heard my little brother’s voice.
“Wake up, Sarah. I want to go.”
Then the vision of pastel dancers disappeared like a TV set shutting off, and the room returned to darkness. I felt a little disappointed; I wanted it back. Which made me smile at myself. When the echoes didn’t involve a crazy woman screaming at you in a pitch-black attic, they were pretty okay. Interesting.
“Fine, Sam, let’s go.”
As I followed my little brother down the hall, I was humming a snatch of music that I had never heard before, music that had not been played inside those walls for centuries.
The girl in the mirror had a pleasant face surrounded by ringlets of darkest brown. She — I — caught up a stray lock with a hairpin and nodded at my reflection, satisfied. I exited my room and knocked on the next door down the hall. “Are you in there?”
“Sarah-Louise! Come in.”
The boy sat at a table spread with tools and pieces of wood. He brushed glue on a dovetailed edge that he fitted to the exactly obverse dovetails of another piece. His face was pale and hollowed. My brother. Matty.
“Dearest,” I said. “You should not be working.”
“I am all done with the hard work, Sarah,” he said. “Now I have only the pegging and gluing to finish.”
“Do it tomorrow, or next week, when you are feeling stronger.”
He smiled and shook his head. “You and I must not pretend with each other. We must always be truthful.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. I wiped them angrily. “Forgive me.”
“Sit. Help me. I want to finish this thing. I want people to see it a hundred years from now and say, ‘What a clever young man he must have been.’ You shall have it and you shall keep your most valued treasures in it and always think of me.”
“Yes,” I said with tight huskiness, as I — she — sat down to help her brother.
He smiled and touched her hand. “Sarah.”
“Sarah.”
I could hear Sammy’s voice from
The final room in the wing occupied its entire end, from the riverside to the front. It was mostly empty, with a rich, patterned parquet floor — I guessed it was a ballroom. At one end, there was a little fenced-in area that I assumed kept the musicians safe from the whirling dancers. The far wall was all French doors that led to a brick porch and stairs beyond.
The empty echoiness of the room got me to wondering if I could make myself see something from the past — if I could summon it up at will. While Sammy spun in tight circles in the center with the evident purpose of making himself dizzy, I went over to touch the gate to the musicians’ area. I gripped the wood until it was pressing a pattern in my flesh, bent my head and concentrated, and heard, saw —
Not a thing. I finally let go, feeling a little ridiculous. How do psychics do it? I wondered. It was not much of a gift if I couldn’t even control when it happened. If it ever happened again.
I shrugged and twirled back across the floor toward Sam in a remembered step from second-grade ballet, imagining the music of a waltz. I hit the light switch and reached for the door handle —
And a golden glow blazed behind me. Real music replaced my imagined notes, together with the sounds of feet sliding across the floor, of dozens of people talking. I turned around to see a dance, a ball in full progress, with women in hooped dresses all doing the exact same steps opposite a line of men in tailed jackets. An echo , I thought, surprised and pleased. I found one.
My eyes were drawn to a pretty girl in palest pink with ivory skin and hair almost black. She looked — familiar. A relative? She might have been one of my distant grandmothers. This isn’t so bad , I thought, isn’t so frightening. It was, in fact, something like magic, like being in a movie, and I stood, caught by it, enchanted, until I heard my little brother’s voice.
“Wake up, Sarah. I want to go.”
Then the vision of pastel dancers disappeared like a TV set shutting off, and the room returned to darkness. I felt a little disappointed; I wanted it back. Which made me smile at myself. When the echoes didn’t involve a crazy woman screaming at you in a pitch-black attic, they were pretty okay. Interesting.
“Fine, Sam, let’s go.”
As I followed my little brother down the hall, I was humming a snatch of music that I had never heard before, music that had not been played inside those walls for centuries.
The girl in the mirror had a pleasant face surrounded by ringlets of darkest brown. She — I — caught up a stray lock with a hairpin and nodded at my reflection, satisfied. I exited my room and knocked on the next door down the hall. “Are you in there?”
“Sarah-Louise! Come in.”
The boy sat at a table spread with tools and pieces of wood. He brushed glue on a dovetailed edge that he fitted to the exactly obverse dovetails of another piece. His face was pale and hollowed. My brother. Matty.
“Dearest,” I said. “You should not be working.”
“I am all done with the hard work, Sarah,” he said. “Now I have only the pegging and gluing to finish.”
“Do it tomorrow, or next week, when you are feeling stronger.”
He smiled and shook his head. “You and I must not pretend with each other. We must always be truthful.”
Tears welled up in my eyes. I wiped them angrily. “Forgive me.”
“Sit. Help me. I want to finish this thing. I want people to see it a hundred years from now and say, ‘What a clever young man he must have been.’ You shall have it and you shall keep your most valued treasures in it and always think of me.”
“Yes,” I said with tight huskiness, as I — she — sat down to help her brother.
He smiled and touched her hand. “Sarah.”
“Sarah.”
I could hear Sammy’s voice from
Similar Books
