white, without knocker or other adornment, opened just as they reached it. A woman of indeterminate years, dressed in somber grey, ushered them inside.
“You will be Madame Lissagaray and Monsieur Mukerji,” she said in a voice unaccustomed to disagreement. “Come this way.”
The entry hall was spacious, but empty. A filigreed staircase led up to the next floor. The woman led them past it, to the first door on the left. Here a young man dressed in equally somber attire stood still as if molded in stone. At their approach he shifted, and opened the door deftly and with a minimum of movement. The woman halted, nodding that they were to enter. On the stairs behind, a flicker of movement betrayed a grey-garbed girl going about some task in efficient silence.
Entering, they found themselves in much brighter surroundings. A broad window overlooking the street, shaded by a thin curtain, let in light from the outside.
But the immediate sensation was of flowers turning to the sun: as Chryse and Sanjay halted, seven heads turned to peruse them.
Chryse’s first thought was: This is worse than the doctor’s office. But as the eldest of the seven rose, she realized that it was nothing of the sort.
The eldest was a young woman scarcely younger than Chryse herself—she laid down a skein of knitting on a neat sidetable and came forward. Her face bore a certain vague familiarity, as if Chryse had seen her once in a crowd and then forgotten. Behind her, six females ranging in age down to girlhood set aside their tasks—here a book, there embroidery, farther back a careful sheet of calligraphy—and examined the couple with alert and interested faces. All bore that stamp of familiarity, unplaceable and mysterious. They wore neat, conservative gowns in pleasant but not overwhelming colors.
“How do you do?” The eldest extended a hand to shake with both husband and wife. “Mama is indeed expecting you, but I fear it will be a few minutes. I am Ella. Would you like tea?”
“Thank you,” Chryse managed.
“Chasta,” said Ella, waving them towards seats. “Please pour for our visitors.”
A younger woman, with an adolescent face but a woman’s confident gaze, rose and poured two cups of tea into plain but finely-made porcelain. Two girls, scarcely younger, identical in face but mercifully not in clothing, each took a cup and saucer and brought them forward to Chryse and Sanjay. They presented the tea with neat curtsies.
“Very good, dears,” said Ella with an amused smile. “Madame, Monsieur, let me present the family, although I fear you will not be able to keep so many names straight all at once.” She smiled again. She was fair, light-browed and light-eyed, bearing herself with that air of assurance that eldest children often have.
“Sara is after me.” The young woman holding the embroidery nodded. She had a plump face, evidence of enjoyment of the more sensuous pleasures of food and drink, and an expression of great good nature; even her hair, much the color of Chryse’s, bore some suggestion either of ripe corn or of gold. “And Chasta next, sort of.” Chasta was darker-haired than her elder sisters, as if their fairness was being slowly diluted with some Eastern strain. “And the twins, Helena and Ursula.” The twins had deep brown hair, and Chryse saw that while one had highlights in her hair that lightened towards gold, the other had coloring that shaded towards black. “And Nora our scholar.” There was a slight giggle among the sisters. Nora, just into adolescence, had a serious, dark-complexioned face that must have seen a good deal of sun, and hair of deepest brown. “And finally, Willa.” This youngest girl was barely out of childhood. She was quite dark, in stark contrast to the pale, fair looks of her eldest sibling.
“You are all Madame Sosostris’s daughters,” said Chryse, trying not to make it sound like a question.
“Of course,” replied Ella. “All seven of us.”
Sanjay set
“You will be Madame Lissagaray and Monsieur Mukerji,” she said in a voice unaccustomed to disagreement. “Come this way.”
The entry hall was spacious, but empty. A filigreed staircase led up to the next floor. The woman led them past it, to the first door on the left. Here a young man dressed in equally somber attire stood still as if molded in stone. At their approach he shifted, and opened the door deftly and with a minimum of movement. The woman halted, nodding that they were to enter. On the stairs behind, a flicker of movement betrayed a grey-garbed girl going about some task in efficient silence.
Entering, they found themselves in much brighter surroundings. A broad window overlooking the street, shaded by a thin curtain, let in light from the outside.
But the immediate sensation was of flowers turning to the sun: as Chryse and Sanjay halted, seven heads turned to peruse them.
Chryse’s first thought was: This is worse than the doctor’s office. But as the eldest of the seven rose, she realized that it was nothing of the sort.
The eldest was a young woman scarcely younger than Chryse herself—she laid down a skein of knitting on a neat sidetable and came forward. Her face bore a certain vague familiarity, as if Chryse had seen her once in a crowd and then forgotten. Behind her, six females ranging in age down to girlhood set aside their tasks—here a book, there embroidery, farther back a careful sheet of calligraphy—and examined the couple with alert and interested faces. All bore that stamp of familiarity, unplaceable and mysterious. They wore neat, conservative gowns in pleasant but not overwhelming colors.
“How do you do?” The eldest extended a hand to shake with both husband and wife. “Mama is indeed expecting you, but I fear it will be a few minutes. I am Ella. Would you like tea?”
“Thank you,” Chryse managed.
“Chasta,” said Ella, waving them towards seats. “Please pour for our visitors.”
A younger woman, with an adolescent face but a woman’s confident gaze, rose and poured two cups of tea into plain but finely-made porcelain. Two girls, scarcely younger, identical in face but mercifully not in clothing, each took a cup and saucer and brought them forward to Chryse and Sanjay. They presented the tea with neat curtsies.
“Very good, dears,” said Ella with an amused smile. “Madame, Monsieur, let me present the family, although I fear you will not be able to keep so many names straight all at once.” She smiled again. She was fair, light-browed and light-eyed, bearing herself with that air of assurance that eldest children often have.
“Sara is after me.” The young woman holding the embroidery nodded. She had a plump face, evidence of enjoyment of the more sensuous pleasures of food and drink, and an expression of great good nature; even her hair, much the color of Chryse’s, bore some suggestion either of ripe corn or of gold. “And Chasta next, sort of.” Chasta was darker-haired than her elder sisters, as if their fairness was being slowly diluted with some Eastern strain. “And the twins, Helena and Ursula.” The twins had deep brown hair, and Chryse saw that while one had highlights in her hair that lightened towards gold, the other had coloring that shaded towards black. “And Nora our scholar.” There was a slight giggle among the sisters. Nora, just into adolescence, had a serious, dark-complexioned face that must have seen a good deal of sun, and hair of deepest brown. “And finally, Willa.” This youngest girl was barely out of childhood. She was quite dark, in stark contrast to the pale, fair looks of her eldest sibling.
“You are all Madame Sosostris’s daughters,” said Chryse, trying not to make it sound like a question.
“Of course,” replied Ella. “All seven of us.”
Sanjay set
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