Angel in Scarlet Read Online Free PDF

lazing on the front steps and waved her tail idly as I passed. Snug, comfortable, mellow with age, the house seemed to welcome me as I stepped inside the shadowy front hall with its worn oriental carpet, murky mirror and worn but lovely rosewood table.
    I heard Janine and Solonge talking as I passed the parlor on my way to the kitchen in back of the house. Marie was at the counter, wearing a dark garnet silk dress and a black apron. She was kneading dough, intent on her work, her lips pressed tightly together. There was a wonderful smell of spices and freshly baked bread. Three golden-brown loaves were cooling on a rack placed on the window ledge. Marie might be testy and shrewish, but she was a marvelous cook, preparing the fanciest meals with little or no visible effort. Grand pastries. Delicious sauces. Not for us the bland meat and vegetables that sustained the rest of the village. I set the basket of eggs down. Marie turned, scrutinizing me with those shrewd yellow-green eyes.
    Tall and bony, my stepmother had faded orange-blonde hair that had once been a lustrous red-gold, worn atop her head in a stack of waves with short, curly ringlets spilling over her brow. Her thin, sharp-featured face was invariably painted, and the cosmetics she skillfully—and generously—applied only stressed her years, the blue-gray lids and rouged cheekbones and scarlet lips giving her the somehow pathetic look of all middle-aged women who strive to look younger. It was a harsh, waspish face, the glittering eyes alive with bitter discontent. Marie longed for London, longed for activity, longed to be among people who could help her daughters get ahead, but in eleven and a half years she had been unable to pry my father away from his snug nest here in the country.
    â€œYou took your time about it,” she snapped, eyeing the eggs.
    â€œI hurried as fast as I could,” I lied.
    â€œAnd you’ve torn your dress! Another expense. Climbing trees again, I suppose. Running wild through the woods like a red Indian, always covered in dirt, scratches on your knees—I despair! I despair!” She shook her head, the dangling jet earrings she always wore swaying to and fro. “Don’t run off again,” she cautioned. “I’ll be needing you to set the table in half an hour or so.”
    Got off lucky, I did. That tongue of hers wasn’t nearly as scathing as usual. It wasn’t that Marie was vicious—she wasn’t, nor was she particularly malicious—but I was merely someone whose presence she tolerated, without affection, without interest, a nuisance to be endured as she endured the dreariness of country life. Marie gave an exasperated sigh and turned back to her dough, and I scurried out of the kitchen, snatching an apple off the counter as I did so, relieved she hadn’t bombarded me with questions. I moved back down the hall and peered into the parlor where my stepsisters were idly chatting, Solonge standing at the window, Janine stretched out on the sofa as was her wont, a glossy light-blue box of bonbons beside her.
    Ordinarily being plain wasn’t so bad. Most of the time I didn’t think about it, but when I was in the presence of two exquisite creatures like my stepsisters, I was painfully aware of my mousy-brown hair, my too large mouth and the light freckles scattered across cheekbones that were much too high. I couldn’t help feelin’ gawky and awkward with those two so lush and opulent, so sleek and lovely. Solonge was only fifteen, but she already had a body that made all the boys pant and a face usually referred to as piquant. Her hair was a glistening pale red-gold, tumbling to her shoulders in thick, glossy waves. Her eyes were a lively hazel, more green than brown, her nose a dream, her mouth perfect, pink as a rosebud. Solonge had freckles, too, but hers were pale gold and only made her face all the more enchanting. She reminded me of some gorgeous, vivacious