perhaps he was up there now. Iâll go and find him. Iâll talk to him and thatâll cheer him up. He wonât mind. He canât. Heâs not working. She pushed back the bedclothes and put on her dressing-gown and slippers.
The silence in the house was so deep that Leonora could almost hear it as she tiptoed up the stairs. She looked down at her feet and not at the walls. The carpet here was a little threadbare, but that didnât matter because no one was allowed to come up to the Studio. The corridor leading to it had some paintings hanging on the walls, paintings which Daddy didnât really like, or he would have put them downstairs where everyone could see them. Leonora didnât stop to look at them, but made her way quickly to the baize curtain that hung across the Studio door.
She pulled it aside a little, turned the brass doorknob and stood for a moment on the threshold looking around her. In one of her books, there was a story about a magical country which had been frozen by a witchâs spellso that nothing could move and no one could speak. This room was like that. Leonora felt that if she put one foot in front of the other here, something would break, or crack or disappear.
Donât be silly, she said to herself. Thatâs a story. This is a real room in a real house. Itâs where I live. Thereâs no such thing as magic. Nothing bad is going to happen in my very own house.
The Studio was long and thin. There were canvases propped up facing the wall so that you couldnât see the pictures. The easel had nothing on it. Paints had dried to crusty flowers of colour on the palette. Leonora walked the length of the room, and went to stand at one of the windows. There were lots of windows up here; the biggest looked down on the garden and the lake, and she stared out of it, wondering if she could catch a glimpse of the swans. Her headache had come back, and she leaned her forehead against the glass. Her eyes filled with tears. Why am I not better? she thought. Nanny said I was getting better but now I feel bad again. Thereâs a ball of pain behind my eyes. Maybe if I go and sit down â¦
She stumbled to the chaise-longue that stood all by itself in the middle of the room and lay down on it. It was covered in pale green velvet, a colour Mummy used to call âeau-de-Nilâ. It was Mummyâs favourite, but Daddy said it was wishy-washy. Leonora wondered briefly why he hadnât chosen his best colour for something that was only meant for him to sit on.
She closed her eyes and the lump of pain in her head grew smaller, weaker. She put her hand in the narrow gap between the seat of the chaise-longue and its wooden frame, and something soft caught in her fingers. She sat up to investigate. A small piece of cloth. She could see a corner of it now, sticking out a little, a white triangle of lace. She pulled on it and recognized it at once. Mummy must have been up here to talk to Daddy, because thiswas one of her hankies. Leonora sniffed it and the tears sprang up in her eyes. Mummyâs smell. Lily of the valley, it was called, and all of Mummyâs clothes smelled like that. Used to smell like that. Tears ran down Leonoraâs cheeks but she couldnât use the hankie to wipe them away. It would get dirty and crumpled. She tucked the precious square into her pocket and used the sleeve of her dressing-gown to dry her eyes. There was something foggy and dark inside her whenever she thought of Mummy. It meant she couldnât properly bring her to mind; couldnât remember how she really used to be.
âWhat are you doing up here, Leonora?â said a voice and there he was, Daddy, filling the doorway with his body, making the room suddenly icy with his voice. Leonora wanted to run away, to disappear, to melt into the floorboards, because she could hear his anger. Daddy was always quiet, very quiet when he was angry, and everything he said took on a
The silence in the house was so deep that Leonora could almost hear it as she tiptoed up the stairs. She looked down at her feet and not at the walls. The carpet here was a little threadbare, but that didnât matter because no one was allowed to come up to the Studio. The corridor leading to it had some paintings hanging on the walls, paintings which Daddy didnât really like, or he would have put them downstairs where everyone could see them. Leonora didnât stop to look at them, but made her way quickly to the baize curtain that hung across the Studio door.
She pulled it aside a little, turned the brass doorknob and stood for a moment on the threshold looking around her. In one of her books, there was a story about a magical country which had been frozen by a witchâs spellso that nothing could move and no one could speak. This room was like that. Leonora felt that if she put one foot in front of the other here, something would break, or crack or disappear.
Donât be silly, she said to herself. Thatâs a story. This is a real room in a real house. Itâs where I live. Thereâs no such thing as magic. Nothing bad is going to happen in my very own house.
The Studio was long and thin. There were canvases propped up facing the wall so that you couldnât see the pictures. The easel had nothing on it. Paints had dried to crusty flowers of colour on the palette. Leonora walked the length of the room, and went to stand at one of the windows. There were lots of windows up here; the biggest looked down on the garden and the lake, and she stared out of it, wondering if she could catch a glimpse of the swans. Her headache had come back, and she leaned her forehead against the glass. Her eyes filled with tears. Why am I not better? she thought. Nanny said I was getting better but now I feel bad again. Thereâs a ball of pain behind my eyes. Maybe if I go and sit down â¦
She stumbled to the chaise-longue that stood all by itself in the middle of the room and lay down on it. It was covered in pale green velvet, a colour Mummy used to call âeau-de-Nilâ. It was Mummyâs favourite, but Daddy said it was wishy-washy. Leonora wondered briefly why he hadnât chosen his best colour for something that was only meant for him to sit on.
She closed her eyes and the lump of pain in her head grew smaller, weaker. She put her hand in the narrow gap between the seat of the chaise-longue and its wooden frame, and something soft caught in her fingers. She sat up to investigate. A small piece of cloth. She could see a corner of it now, sticking out a little, a white triangle of lace. She pulled on it and recognized it at once. Mummy must have been up here to talk to Daddy, because thiswas one of her hankies. Leonora sniffed it and the tears sprang up in her eyes. Mummyâs smell. Lily of the valley, it was called, and all of Mummyâs clothes smelled like that. Used to smell like that. Tears ran down Leonoraâs cheeks but she couldnât use the hankie to wipe them away. It would get dirty and crumpled. She tucked the precious square into her pocket and used the sleeve of her dressing-gown to dry her eyes. There was something foggy and dark inside her whenever she thought of Mummy. It meant she couldnât properly bring her to mind; couldnât remember how she really used to be.
âWhat are you doing up here, Leonora?â said a voice and there he was, Daddy, filling the doorway with his body, making the room suddenly icy with his voice. Leonora wanted to run away, to disappear, to melt into the floorboards, because she could hear his anger. Daddy was always quiet, very quiet when he was angry, and everything he said took on a
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