Blackbriar by William Sleator

her hands together. “At last I can see ! Now I can really begin to cook again. Danny, hang the lamp on that hook over the stove.”
    He scraped an old wooden rocking chair from a corner, balanced on it, swaying, and slipped the shiny metal handle of the lamp over the blackened hook sticking out of the wall. He jumped down and surveyed the kitchen as he dragged back the chair. It was like a different room, bright and cheerful now, larger than the dim, cramped space it had been before.
    “Thank you so much,” Philippa said to Lark. “It changes my whole state of mind to have a decent place to cook.”
    Danny went upstairs to make Lark’s bed, and Lark brought in the Aladdin lamp and the little stove. She and Philippa began preparing the food.
    Philippa didn’t seem very eager to talk to Lark, and they worked in silence until finally Lark said, hesitantly, “You really are lucky to be living here, you know.”
    “Yes, it’s really too bad about this place,” Philippa said, sticking little slices of garlic into a large hunk of red meat. “I mean, it would be such a divine place to live if it weren’t for this mysterious business. And I had thought that it would be good for Danny to live in a place like this. He’s hardly ever been in the country in his life.”
    “I’m sure it will be good for him,” Lark said eagerly, scraping the last bit of peel off her second potato. She chopped it in half and dropped it into a saucepan filled with water, then quickly started on another. “He’s quite skinny and pale; kids need to live where they can be outdoors. I think it’s terribly unhealthy to grow up in the city. My father is always saying how much better it is to live here than in London. He says it’s much easier to concentrate and work hard, and that his paintings have more to them than the ones he did in London.”
    “Oh, so your father’s a painter, is he?” Philippa sounded bored, as if she were making an effort to think of something to say. “What are his paintings like?”
    “Oh, I don’t know, they’re hard to describe. They’re abstractions . . . I guess I don’t understand them.” There was another silence. “But sometimes he does sketches of people,” Lark said quickly, obviously making an effort to keep the conversation going, “like some of the old men in the tavern, and those are wonderful. They’re really alive.” She put down the knife and the potato and began gesturing with both hands. “And they look just like the people they’re supposed to be. But the great thing about them is that they also show what my father thinks of the person, and what his personality is like.” She began peeling again, then smiled to herself. “Sometimes we have arguments about them, because he has different feelings about people than I do. I mean sometimes he’ll show somebody looking kind of sly, who I think is just thoughtful, or he’ll make somebody look dumb and gossipy who really just likes to talk. And I always say, ‘But so-and-so isn’t like that,’ and he just says, ‘My pen never lies,’ or something else grand and pompous. He’s just teasing then, but I really think he does have a kind of black view of most people. Sometimes I wonder if he’s a . . . what’s the word?”
    “Misanthrope, do you mean?”
    “Yes, I guess so.”
    “Hmmm,” Philippa said. She set the meat into a large roasting pan and, grunting genteelly, slid it into the oven. “I’m just guessing about how hot this oven is,” she went on. “It seems slow enough for the meat to be juicy and rare, but I’m going to have to remember to keep checking it. Now, how are the potatoes coming?”
    “I’ve just finished them. You’re sure this isn’t going to be too much? Ten potatoes is a lot for three people.”
    “Oh, no, that certainly isn’t too much. In fact, I wonder if it’s going to be enough. I adore potatoes myself, and Danny likes them too, and I’m sure you have a healthy appetite. Potatoes are very