Cat in Glass Read Online Free PDF Page B

Harry’s gone now, too. He died last year from a heart ailment he never knew he had. As for me, I am left to carry on alone, since I never married. Though suitors courted me aplenty in my youth, none of them had what I was looking for—a certain unthinking impartiality, the ability to stand outside life’s complications and laugh at them.
    I never saw Clotaire again after that fateful morning. He disappeared with even more elegance than a puff of smoke. Sometimes, sitting here on the porch, remembering the old days, I long for one more glimpse of those robin’s-egg eyes set so perfectly in that strong, tan face. I long to tell him that I understand things better now, understand about all the drunken Fathers, and all the Henriettas, and all the children who would be so fierce without them. In the best of all possible worlds, I would die with the scents of lightning and peppermint in this tired old nose. So I keep watch, and hope for one last look at Clotaire’s balloon.

THE LILY AND THE WEAVER’S HEART
    W hen one-eyed Jacinth was ten years old and had just begun to weave tapestries, her mother took her and her two sisters to see the young men of Aranho set off in search of lilies. Jacinth pressed close to her mother as they stood in the noisy crowd at the edge of the village. Sunshine fell down like golden thread from a cloudless summer sky, and the thick grass of the meadows lay heavy with morning dew. Even the straw roofs of the houses and shops seemed bright and magical as Jacinth watched the parade ofAranho’s tall, handsome youths. Some of them had hair the color of flax, and others had hair as dark as ravens’ feathers. Some sported the soft beards of early manhood, and others had shaven chins. They carried pouches of fragrant bread at their belts, and their knives and bows flashed gaily as they passed. They walked with their shoulders swaying, like men who are glad to be off and expect to return triumphant.
    As she watched, Jacinth thought of the tapestry that hung unfinished on her loom at home. She had already woven into it a picture of her father grinding flour at his mill. Now she wondered if she could add this street, and the stone cottages, and the lines of proud young men striding away on their adventure.
    Jacinth’s older sister, Wynna, rose on her tiptoes, lifting both hands in the air. “There goes Sten!” she cried. “I see him!” Then louder, “Good luck, Sten. Bring me a lily. I’ll be waiting.”
    From the far edge of the passing ranks, Jacinth could just make out a strong, tan arm waving in reply.
    “What does a lily look like?” she asked, for in fact she had never seen one, and now she wondered if the lilies themselves could also be added to the scene in the tapestry.
    “A lily looks like a bell,” said her mother. “A very beautiful bell, yellow as fire or ripe peaches or the sun when it rises.”
    Jacinth frowned, trying hard to imagine such a flower. “Why does Wynna want Sten to bring her one? Just because it’s pretty?” she asked.
    Wynna looked down at her and smiled and ruffled her hair. “It’s more than that,” she said. “You’ll find out someday.”
    But Jacinth’s other sister, Noa, who was fourteen and jealous of Jacinth’s weavings, grinned wickedly and said, “No you won’t. You’ll never find out, old one-eye, because you’re ugly, and nobody will ever want to bring
you
a lily!”
    Jacinth ran her fingers across the familiar smooth skin where her left eye should have been. She remembered how her own reflection had made her run screaming from the still water of the millpond the first time she had seen it. And she knew Noa was right. She was ugly, and all the best things in the world, even flowers, were reserved for the beautiful. She bolted, covering her terrible face with her arms, heedless of her mother and Wynna as they cried, “Come back! Noa didn’t mean it.”
    Jacinth ran alone through the deserted streets. The tears in her single eye dimmed the