small to be an adult's house. Sturdy yet whimsical, it looked more like a playhouse built for a child by a wealthy, doting father, the chocolate-brown shutters stenciled with cupids, the door carved with the signs of the zodiac. Dovecotes cut in the shape of rabbits and squirrels adorned the steep, peaked roof, but she could see no pigeons roosting there. Nestled among the trees, the cottage looked like an illustration from a book of Grimm's fairy tales, as cozy as a childhood memory.
She stepped onto the porch, where a single wicker rocking chair creaked in the breeze through the sighing pines. A broad-brimmed straw bonnet hung from a peg on the wall beside an umbrella with an ebony handle. The birdhouse swinging from the eaves was an exact copy of the cottage, right down to the tiny rocking chair on its porch. She gripped the brass knocker on the cottage door and let it fall with a sharp clap. With a flurry of wings, a crow that had been plundering the birdhouse darted away.
She waited. Listened. No answer. She knocked again.
No sign of life. Only the flicker of the gas flame in the coach lamp at the threshold. She tested the door with her toe, and it creaked open.
Inside the cottage, under the low-beamed ceiling, night had already fallen. Heavy lace curtains veiled the windows, smothered the air in their shroud. It felt as if it had been night here for years. 'Miss Grace?' she called, but not too loudly, suddenly unsure whether it had been right to barge in like this. A grandfather clock ticked in the stillness, its pendulum missing every third beat, like a failing heart. She called again, and was relieved when there was no answer.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she could make out the flocked wallpaper, a love seat covered in blue velvet, with wooden legs carved into lions' paws, and two matching wing chairs, their lace antimacassars yellow with age.
And everywhere - on bookshelves and table tops and inside display cases - were fragile porcelain figurines: Royal Doulton clowns and children with soulful eyes, Toby mugs winking and leering, and a white unicorn like the one she had seen in a Cybis ad in the New Yorker. A handful of clay animal figurines, evidently made in Arts and Crafts, nestled among them, horribly crude by comparison.
7 could eat you upV
The shrill voice startled Cassie, and she spun around.
'Cassandra Broyles!' A figure hunched motionless in the shadows before the cold hearth, like one more porcelain figure too fragile to touch. With an electric hum, the wheels of her chair began to turn and it rolled slowly towards Cassie. 'You look just like your mother!'
Cassie was astounded. How could the old lady know her name? She had said it with a sigh of satisfaction, as if relieved to see a long-lost friend after a painful separation. 'Miss Grace?'
A brittle laugh from the wheelchair. 'You expected Casmaran's Directress to be young, fast on her feet, did you?'
'No, I. . .'
'Not to worry. I have everything well under control. Delegation of authority, that's the key. My counselors are first-rate. But then, why shouldn't they be? They were Casmaran campers, every last one of them!'
Cassie felt ashamed of herself for having been frightened. Miss Grace was ancient, and a cripple. It had been cruel of the campers to make fun of her. 'I wanted to thank you,' * she said. 'For letting me in so late, I mean. I know you turn f down a lot of girls, and . . .'
'It was my pleasure, child.' She chuckled. 'I knew that we ■ would get you at Casmaran sooner or later.'
The wheelchair rolled over a floor switch and a fringed Tiffany lamp on a side-table blinked on. Cassie could see : Miss Grace more clearly, her skin almost transparent, a thin ; membrane revealing veins and arteries beneath it, like ! frayed wiring, her dark red lipstick outlining lips that had all j but vanished with age. A hairnet as fine as a spiderweb held f her silken-white chignon in place, and the robe wrapping i her frail body was
She stepped onto the porch, where a single wicker rocking chair creaked in the breeze through the sighing pines. A broad-brimmed straw bonnet hung from a peg on the wall beside an umbrella with an ebony handle. The birdhouse swinging from the eaves was an exact copy of the cottage, right down to the tiny rocking chair on its porch. She gripped the brass knocker on the cottage door and let it fall with a sharp clap. With a flurry of wings, a crow that had been plundering the birdhouse darted away.
She waited. Listened. No answer. She knocked again.
No sign of life. Only the flicker of the gas flame in the coach lamp at the threshold. She tested the door with her toe, and it creaked open.
Inside the cottage, under the low-beamed ceiling, night had already fallen. Heavy lace curtains veiled the windows, smothered the air in their shroud. It felt as if it had been night here for years. 'Miss Grace?' she called, but not too loudly, suddenly unsure whether it had been right to barge in like this. A grandfather clock ticked in the stillness, its pendulum missing every third beat, like a failing heart. She called again, and was relieved when there was no answer.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she could make out the flocked wallpaper, a love seat covered in blue velvet, with wooden legs carved into lions' paws, and two matching wing chairs, their lace antimacassars yellow with age.
And everywhere - on bookshelves and table tops and inside display cases - were fragile porcelain figurines: Royal Doulton clowns and children with soulful eyes, Toby mugs winking and leering, and a white unicorn like the one she had seen in a Cybis ad in the New Yorker. A handful of clay animal figurines, evidently made in Arts and Crafts, nestled among them, horribly crude by comparison.
7 could eat you upV
The shrill voice startled Cassie, and she spun around.
'Cassandra Broyles!' A figure hunched motionless in the shadows before the cold hearth, like one more porcelain figure too fragile to touch. With an electric hum, the wheels of her chair began to turn and it rolled slowly towards Cassie. 'You look just like your mother!'
Cassie was astounded. How could the old lady know her name? She had said it with a sigh of satisfaction, as if relieved to see a long-lost friend after a painful separation. 'Miss Grace?'
A brittle laugh from the wheelchair. 'You expected Casmaran's Directress to be young, fast on her feet, did you?'
'No, I. . .'
'Not to worry. I have everything well under control. Delegation of authority, that's the key. My counselors are first-rate. But then, why shouldn't they be? They were Casmaran campers, every last one of them!'
Cassie felt ashamed of herself for having been frightened. Miss Grace was ancient, and a cripple. It had been cruel of the campers to make fun of her. 'I wanted to thank you,' * she said. 'For letting me in so late, I mean. I know you turn f down a lot of girls, and . . .'
'It was my pleasure, child.' She chuckled. 'I knew that we ■ would get you at Casmaran sooner or later.'
The wheelchair rolled over a floor switch and a fringed Tiffany lamp on a side-table blinked on. Cassie could see : Miss Grace more clearly, her skin almost transparent, a thin ; membrane revealing veins and arteries beneath it, like ! frayed wiring, her dark red lipstick outlining lips that had all j but vanished with age. A hairnet as fine as a spiderweb held f her silken-white chignon in place, and the robe wrapping i her frail body was
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