books are surely for you, Wednesday.” Friday lifted out four thick, leather-bound volumes and handed them one by one to Wednesday, whose smile got bigger and bigger as the pile in her lap grew. Sunday tried not to be envious; Wednesday always let her borrow books from her library at the top of the tower.
Mama was the just-gracious-enough recipient of a large marble rolling pin, and Papa spared Friday lifting out his new sharpening stone and a bag of dark seeds. Saturday and Sunday received small silk bags with their names written on scraps of thick paper and tied to the closing ribbons. Sunday’s contained a wealth of shiny hairpins with tiny stars and insects and mythical creatures on them. Saturday’s clutch contained a beautiful brush and mirror set. The brush had an elegant ebony handle, and the mirror was silver, with intricately carved roses that stood out in relief on the back and sides. Each piece had words etched into it that might have been French, but Saturday didn’t leave the offending items visible long enough for Sunday to tell for sure. She shoved them both back into the silk bag and then sat on it. Despite Thursday’s good intentions and omniscient magic spyglass, she still labored under the impression that Sunday was a baby ... and that Saturday was a girl.
She had also apparently forgotten that the family was a sister short. Alone at the bottom of the trunk was one last long, thin, silk bag. The scrap of paper tied to this ribbon read MONDAY .
No one made a move to touch it.
Sunday was very young when she’d last seen her eldest sister, shortly after her marriage and before the Woodcutter family had moved into the towerhouse. Mama and Monday didn’t speak at all; while Sunday didn’t know the exact reason why, she could guess. Simply put, Mama was a very hard person to love. Her work ethic prescribed sweating and bleeding and earning ones riches rather than marrying into them and moving away at the first opportunity. Mama accepted Thursday’s gifts because Thursday had always been stubborn and defiant, mishearing Mama’s petty comments and scolding as professions of love. (The girls had learned a lot from Thursday about how to deal with their mother.) This gift for the outcast sister was just a further demonstration of that defiance. Odd and uncomfortable but definitely expected.
Monday was another story. She had traded her bride gift for her freedom and never contacted them again. The towerhouse had been the beginning and the end of Mondays generosity; Mama frowned upon charity just as she frowned upon everything else.
It was Wednesday who scooped the small bag out of the trunk. She put it in her pocket and, nice as you please, said, “Let’s hear the rest of the letter now, Papa.”
Sunday was as shocked by Wednesday’s ability to string together a coherent sentence as she was by Monday’s gift. As instructed, Papa retrieved the parchment from his pocket and resumed his reading.
“Every woman deserves something beautiful. My sisters are no exception. (Don’t scowl, Saturday. You might even thank me one day.) Friday, please don’t forget to make a dress for yourself.. I know how you are. Peter, I knew you would prefer to carve your own bow. Use Trix’s as a guide. Papa will help you.
I love and miss you all and think about you every day. Don’t worry, Mama: I don’t harbor the slightest notion of giving up my perfect home on the seas, where the stars fall straight into the water and the storms are so fierce that afterward you remember what a divine privilege it is to be alive. Dream of me, my beloved family, happy in my plundering and adventuring, for when the waves rock me to sleep tonight, I will be dreaming of you.
Give Monday my love.
Your favorite daughter and sister, Thursday”
3. Gifts Like Word
“G RUMBLE ? Are you here?” Bucket in hand, Sunday carefully liptoed around the crumbled pieces of the well. In the heat of the day, the rocks perspired more than Sunday
Mama was the just-gracious-enough recipient of a large marble rolling pin, and Papa spared Friday lifting out his new sharpening stone and a bag of dark seeds. Saturday and Sunday received small silk bags with their names written on scraps of thick paper and tied to the closing ribbons. Sunday’s contained a wealth of shiny hairpins with tiny stars and insects and mythical creatures on them. Saturday’s clutch contained a beautiful brush and mirror set. The brush had an elegant ebony handle, and the mirror was silver, with intricately carved roses that stood out in relief on the back and sides. Each piece had words etched into it that might have been French, but Saturday didn’t leave the offending items visible long enough for Sunday to tell for sure. She shoved them both back into the silk bag and then sat on it. Despite Thursday’s good intentions and omniscient magic spyglass, she still labored under the impression that Sunday was a baby ... and that Saturday was a girl.
She had also apparently forgotten that the family was a sister short. Alone at the bottom of the trunk was one last long, thin, silk bag. The scrap of paper tied to this ribbon read MONDAY .
No one made a move to touch it.
Sunday was very young when she’d last seen her eldest sister, shortly after her marriage and before the Woodcutter family had moved into the towerhouse. Mama and Monday didn’t speak at all; while Sunday didn’t know the exact reason why, she could guess. Simply put, Mama was a very hard person to love. Her work ethic prescribed sweating and bleeding and earning ones riches rather than marrying into them and moving away at the first opportunity. Mama accepted Thursday’s gifts because Thursday had always been stubborn and defiant, mishearing Mama’s petty comments and scolding as professions of love. (The girls had learned a lot from Thursday about how to deal with their mother.) This gift for the outcast sister was just a further demonstration of that defiance. Odd and uncomfortable but definitely expected.
Monday was another story. She had traded her bride gift for her freedom and never contacted them again. The towerhouse had been the beginning and the end of Mondays generosity; Mama frowned upon charity just as she frowned upon everything else.
It was Wednesday who scooped the small bag out of the trunk. She put it in her pocket and, nice as you please, said, “Let’s hear the rest of the letter now, Papa.”
Sunday was as shocked by Wednesday’s ability to string together a coherent sentence as she was by Monday’s gift. As instructed, Papa retrieved the parchment from his pocket and resumed his reading.
“Every woman deserves something beautiful. My sisters are no exception. (Don’t scowl, Saturday. You might even thank me one day.) Friday, please don’t forget to make a dress for yourself.. I know how you are. Peter, I knew you would prefer to carve your own bow. Use Trix’s as a guide. Papa will help you.
I love and miss you all and think about you every day. Don’t worry, Mama: I don’t harbor the slightest notion of giving up my perfect home on the seas, where the stars fall straight into the water and the storms are so fierce that afterward you remember what a divine privilege it is to be alive. Dream of me, my beloved family, happy in my plundering and adventuring, for when the waves rock me to sleep tonight, I will be dreaming of you.
Give Monday my love.
Your favorite daughter and sister, Thursday”
3. Gifts Like Word
“G RUMBLE ? Are you here?” Bucket in hand, Sunday carefully liptoed around the crumbled pieces of the well. In the heat of the day, the rocks perspired more than Sunday
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