Miriam's Talisman (18 page)

Read Miriam's Talisman Online

Authors: Elenor Gill

Tags: #Fantasy

BOOK: Miriam's Talisman
3.09Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

‘I think this Malcolm shouldn't meddle with things that are beyond his understanding.' His voice was sharp and brittle.

At last he managed to free the chain. His mouth pressed against the nape of my neck. The fine hairs on my skin rose with his breath. Then the dress was undone and he slipped the soaked material down onto the floor, stepping back to look at me, his eyes unblinking. I could neither move nor speak, a small, helpless creature held fast in the gaze of a hunter.

‘There are plenty of towels. I can fetch more if you need them.'

‘Thank you, they'll be fine.' I made some meaningless gesture with my hands. His eyes were unwavering, but he said, ‘Would you like a drink?'

‘I think I've had quite enough alcohol for one night, don't you?'

We both laughed and the tension between us was broken.

‘I know, I'll make us some tea. I know how to do it.'

‘Yes, that would be nice.'

He darted away into the kitchen, a small boy on a vital mission.

Eventually I stopped shivering, curled up in Miriam's chair, the blanket tucked around me. The heat of the fire seeped through my skin and I stretched my toes out to meet the flames. The logs shifted with a loud crack, sending out a gasp of spark and ash. I had no desire to leave. The world outside the cottage had ceased to exist. It was part of some fantasy. The people I had left only a short
while ago had faded into some other world. Here I was real. I would be safe with Iolair, despite his strangeness. It occurred to me that he might be mentally unstable. But what did that mean, anyway? Paul thought I was coming apart at the seams. He'd virtually said as much.

‘Here, I've done it. Fresh tea!' He came bearing a tray to the rattle of spoons and the chinking of china. Descending gracefully onto the pile of cushions, his legs folding beneath him, he held it perfectly balanced. I recognised Miriam's favourite blue Delft teacups and there was a teapot with a knitted cosy.

‘I made sure the water was properly boiling and I warmed the pot like you're supposed to.'

‘Well done. Looks wonderful.'

‘Now, you take milk, don't you, but no sugar.'

I watched him pour. His pale hands moved with the deceptive grace of ballet dancers performing a
pas de deux
. For his own tea he took up the silver tongs and delicately pincered eight cubes. His fingers curved elegantly to stir the lumpy concoction. Then he spooned out two half-dissolved cubes and popped them into his mouth, crunching with mischievous relish. A minute trickle of syrupy tea ran between his lips. He flicked it back with the tip of his tongue. I laughed until my cup rattled in its saucer and I had to steady it with both hands. He smiled, delighted with himself.

‘I've amused you. I like to hear you laugh.'

‘This reminds me of when I was a child. On rainy days Miriam and I would have dolls' tea parties in front of this fire.'

‘You were a pretty child.'

‘How would you know? David said I was odd. I suppose
I must have been difficult—argumentative and defiant, or so I've been told. I drove Hannah to despair at times.'

‘Sounds rather like the way you behaved tonight.'

‘Oh, don't remind me. I was awful.'

‘If you were to tell the truth, you would say you thoroughly enjoyed it. Now don't deny it, you know I'm right. You should be yourself more often.'

‘That wasn't me. It wasn't, was it? And even if it were, I won't allow myself to behave like that again.'

‘Why not? I wouldn't mind.'

‘Yes, but you're not …'

‘I'm not Paul?'

‘People expect things of you.' I traced my finger around the china rim. ‘Love is such a temporary gift. So easily taken back. My father left. Now I've lost Paul. He'll send me away, I know he will. Just like Hannah sent Miriam away. That was all my fault too.'

I watched the flames dance across the logs and remembered another fire. I could still smell the charred paper and see the burning fragments tossed in the wind.

‘Strawberry jam on toast. With bananas.' It's my birthday and I can have anything I want for breakfast. ‘And lemonade. Please.'

Today all the usual rules get ignored and I can do whatever I like. Well, almost. And it's Saturday so I don't have to go to school. The breakfast table is littered with torn wrapping paper, and a half-circle of cards surrounds my plate, a wall marking off my special space. Lots of them had badges and I've pinned them all over my T-shirt: ‘9 today'
and ‘I am 9'. Next year it will be double figures and that's almost a teenager
.

David pretends to be unimpressed. ‘You're still my little sister. And you're still a pain in the butt.'

‘That's not true. Anyway, at least I don't play stupid football and I haven't got spots.'

‘Give it a rest, you two. Can't we have just one breakfast that doesn't turn into a battleground?'

Mum never eats breakfast. I think that's unfair because we have to. She just has coffee and cigarettes. I hate that smell. It gets all in her hair. My teacher, Miss Barnes, says smoking is very dangerous and you can die from it. Why does she have to puff it all over the table? If it goes in my food I might die
.

I wonder what it would be like to die young. It would be a great tragedy, of course. I would be draped all in white satin and carried in a glass coach pulled by six white horses. People would throw rose buds under the horses' hooves. Everyone would cry for weeks, especially David. He would realise how cruel he had been, but it would be too late by then. He would be so sorry that he would join a monastery and pray eighteen hours a day for the souls of lost children. She'd be sorry too. She'd have to devote her life to running an anti-smoking campaign as an act of penance. Or is that just if you're a Catholic?

‘Chloe. Wake up and eat your toast. David, I think your father's bringing the car around if you still want that lift.'

‘Oh, right. Is my sports shirt dry? Right, thanks Mum. See you later.'

‘Enjoy your game, love.'

David heads for the door. He takes a sharp yank at my hair as he passes
.

‘See you later. Have a nice birthday, monkey.'

‘Ow! Stupid football.'

We're alone now. She sighs and lights another cigarette as if his teasing were all my fault. Actually the jam and banana mixture doesn't taste quite as good as I thought it would. But I'm going to eat it anyway
.

‘Well, Chloe, what would you like to do now? Miriam won't be here for another hour or so.'

My grandmother has promised to take us out to lunch. A real grown-up restaurant with wine and everything. I don't suppose Hannah will let me have wine, though Miriam might be able to persuade her. But I'll be able to choose anything off the menu. I wonder if it will be in French. Young ladies learn to read French menus at finishing school and which knife to use for what and all that sort of stuff. If I came from a very aristocratic family, I'd have to know all that so I could capture the heart of a wealthy European Count. He'd beg me to marry him and I'd save my family from the disgrace of genteel poverty and my aged grandfather could retain his family seat. I wonder where they keep the family seat? I suppose it would be in the drawing room. Unless we lived in a castle, then it would in the top room of the highest tower …

‘Chloe, I realise it's difficult for you, but do you think you could stay tuned to this world for a few minutes. I said, What shall we do now?'

As birthday girl I have certain privileges, like not having to wash up, so the rest of the morning is mine to do whatever I please
.

‘I think I'll paint something for Miriam.'

‘Fine, well you'd better do that in your room.'

She is suddenly busy at the sink. The plates seem to be
making a lot of noise. They do that when she's annoyed
.

David did give me a present, so I suppose he must like me a bit really. A big box of paints and a pad of white paper. That's the best so far, but I know Miriam's will be even better. Not like the Barbie doll Mum gave me. Oh, it's all right I suppose. She's dressed in a pink ballgown so she could be a princess. I'll call her Amaryllis and make up a play about her. She can be under a spell. That awful plastic garden gnome can be the wizard. Silly-looking thing. Real gnomes don't look a bit like that. Amaryllis is being held in the tower of an ancient castle. Miriam will help me act it out. I know, I'll paint a picture of the castle for her. Better not tell Mummy about Amaryllis, though. She likes things to be what they're supposed to be. She gets angry when I change them
.

There, it's finished. Just let the paint dry. There's a dragon curling its tail round the bottom of the tower. I'm not sure about the wings, how they are supposed to fold. I'll ask Miriam, she knows all about dragons. I must clean the paintbrush before I put it back in the box. I run it under the tap until the water runs clear, then wipe it carefully on a tissue, smoothing the hairs into a fine point. The little squares of colour shine like bright gemstones. A treasure chest
.

Was that a car? Yes, it's Miriam. I'm running down stairs so fast I almost trip over my feet. Then I'm out through the front door and I'm swept up in a cloud of pale blue muslin and the lovely jasmine smell of her perfume
.

‘Happy birthday, my Little Wren! Are you taller? Yes, I'm sure you've grown an inch overnight.'

She's so beautiful, her long red hair tumbling down her back and her skirt almost sweeping the ground. There are rows of shiny beads around her neck and that silver charm she always wears. Her earrings jingle when she laughs. That's how I want to look when I grow up. But I don't think I'll ever be so elegant. Anyway I'll be too short, just like my mother. She says Miriam dresses like a leftover hippie and that it's about time she learned to act her age
.

I think she's jealous
.

Miriam is reaching into the back seat of the car and bringing out a parcel, then an envelope, which she balances on top. I have to pretend I don't know they're for me. It's polite. We walk her up the driveway, Mummy on one side and me on the other, crunching through the pebbles. A sharp stone has found its way inside my sandal and is digging into my foot with every step. I can't stop to take it out now
.

Miriam tosses her hair back and places the parcel in the centre of the kitchen table. It's something special, I know it, and she knows I'm going to love it. I can tell by the way her eyes are crinkled. The envelope is a sort of mottled yellow. It's always good manners to open the card first, even though you're dying to get at the wrapping paper. I wriggle my finger into the gap and tear. No, not a birthday card. It's more like a sort of postcard. It's the picture of Oberon and Titania by Joseph Paton. I've seen it in one of Miriam's big glossy art books. She's written a special message on the back. I'll keep it on my dressing table. Perhaps I can copy some of the figures with my new paints
.

Now the parcel. I've never had a present wrapped like this before. It looks too special to spoil but Miriam is impatient for me to open it. It's quite heavy. Not paper, but gold foil
wrapping with diagonal stripes of emerald green. A huge butterfly bow made from gold satin ribbon sits on top. I take one end and pull gently. It's so smooth that it slips through my fingers. This time I give it a definite tug and like magic it unravels and the wrapping wafts down onto the table. Oh, that smell. The dry spicy smell of new leather. Inside is a dark green box. Is it a box? More like a small, leather bookcase. It matches the row of books; there are seven of them. They look just like her own books, the ones she wrote. The lettering is golden, all curly tails and pointed lines. I think it's what they call gothic. I run my fingers over the deep embossing. I can almost read it by touch:
The Chronicles of Narnia.

Other books

Wild Roses by Deb Caletti
The Time Sphere by A.E. Albert
The Perfect Clone by M. L. Stephens
The Deal by Elizabeth, Z.
Space Cadet by Robert A Heinlein