The Dark Stairs R/I by Betsy Byars Page A

for looking after Tarot.
    â€œNo,” Herculeah had said. “I like feeding him. It’s no trouble at all.”
    â€œI want to pay. You do me a big favor. Here, take it. Go on. Take.” She held out some money.
    â€œNo. Oh, I have an idea,” Herculeah had said. “Give me a reading. I want to know if I’m going to get an A on my English test tomorrow.”
    â€œI thought you didn’t believe in readings,” Madame Rosa said with a smile that showed her long teeth. Her dark, gray-streaked hair was held back with golden combs.
    â€œWell, I do and I don’t,” Herculeah said.
    â€œWhich? You do? You don’t?”
    â€œWell, if you tell me I’m going to get an A, then I’ll probably work real hard and I will get one. So go ahead. Read the future.”
    She held out her hands, palms up. Madame Rosa leaned over them. Herculeah could smell the scent of herbs and foreign perfume.
    Madame Rosa put her hands under Herculeah’s. Her touch was light, but it seemed to offer strong support. Herculeah understood why people trusted Madame Rosa’s advice.
    â€œAh,” she said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI see a very long lifeline.”
    â€œWhat else?”
    â€œI see a boy who is in love with you—two boys, one dark, one fair.”
    â€œMadame Rosa, all I’m interested in right now is my English grade.”
    â€œI do see a letter—perhaps it stands for a grade. We can never be sure.”
    â€œWhat is the letter?”
    Herculeah really did not believe in palm readings and crystal balls, yet for some reason, she felt an excitement. It was like being part of a soap opera.
    â€œIt is—” She paused. “I must look more closely.”
    â€œWhat letter, Madame Rosa? I’m getting serious about this.”
    â€œWe cannot rush the future.” Madame Rosa had bent closer. “Ah, it is becoming clearer, clearer. It is an A. See?”
    With one finger Madame Rosa drew a capital A on Herculeah’s palm. Then she deftly slipped the bills on the open hand and closed Herculeah’s fingers around them.
    â€œThat wasn’t fair,” Herculeah had said.
    As she stood in the living room, she realized that was the last time she had seen Madame Rosa. She had stood right here between the parrot stand and the huge old buffet that held pictures of Madame Rosa’s relatives. “All dead but one—no, I forget to count myself,” she had once said. “All dead but two.”
    Again Herculeah felt a chill, and she pulled on her sweater. “Madame Rosa?” Where could she be?
    She glanced in the small parlor where Madame Rosa gave her readings. The round table in the center of the room was draped with a black cloth, and a large, gold-edged book lay open upon it. The heavy curtains were drawn in this room, too.
    Herculeah moved back through the living room and into the hall. Her feeling of unease grew. The house had never been so silent, so filled with dread.
    â€œMadame Rosa?”
    She walked back into the kitchen. She smelled something burning and she went to the stove. A pot of some kind of liquid had boiled away. Perhaps, she thought, Madame Rosa had been disturbed in the middle of cooking something. Perhaps she had rushed out, leaving the front door open and ... Herculeah’s thoughts trailed off.
    She turned off the burner and shifted the pot. She opened the door to the backyard and peered out. There was no one in sight.
    She moved through the hall, checking the rooms on either side as she went—the downstairs bedroom, the library, the sunroom, the bathroom. All were empty.
    She paused at the foot of the stairs. Again she called, “Madame Rosa?”
    She glanced at the coatrack beside the door. Madame Rosa’s long, black cloak hung there. Madame Rosa never went out without that cloak. Even in the summer, she wore it slung back over her shoulders. Madame Rosa had not gone out of this