Neferet's Curse: A House of Night Novella (House of Night Novellas) Read Online Free PDF

the foyer.
    “I can tell you are a young woman of excellent character,” Mrs. Armour said as I woodenly led her into Mother’s parlor. “I am sure we will get on well together, just as your mother and I did.”
    I nodded and agreed and let the old woman talk on and on about the importance of women of means being united in their dedication to improving the community through volunteer service.
    In the weeks that have followed, I have come to realize how ironic it was that Mrs. Armour, who lectured unendingly about the importance of the unity of women, has become one of the main instruments in isolating me from other women my age. You see, Evelyn and Camille have not called again to ask that I bike with them. Evelyn has not called on me at all since that morning. Camille, well, Camille was different. It would take more to lose her as a friend, much more.
    *   *   *
    March passed into April —the winter chill was tempered by a spring that came with light, reviving showers. My life has aligned itself into a numbing rhythm. I run the household. I volunteer at the wretched Market Hall, feeding the poor while I nod and agree with the old women who surround me when they drone on and on about how, because the spotlight of the world would shortly be on us and the World’s Fair, we must use our every resource to change and shape Chicago from a barbaric gathering into a modern city. I have dinner with Father. I watch, and I have learned.
    I learned not to interrupt Father. He liked to speak while we ate dinner. Speak—not talk. Father and I did not talk. He spoke and I listened. I wanted to believe that my taking Mother’s place in the household and at dinner was honoring her memory, and at the first I did believe it. But soon I began to see that I was not doing anything at all except providing the vessel into which Father poured his vitriolic opinion of the world. Our nightly dinners were a stage for his soliloquy of anger and disdain.
    I continue to secretly water Father’s wine. Sober, he was abrupt, overbearing, and boorish. Drunk, he was terrifying. He did not beat me—he has never beaten me—though I almost wish he would. At the very least that would be a sure and outward sign of his abuse. What Father does instead is burn me with his eyes. I have come to loathe his hot, penetrating gaze.
    Though how can that be? And, better asked, why? Why did I come to loathe a simple look? The answer, I hope—I pray, will unravel here, in the pages of this journal.
    *   *   *
    Camille visited , though less and less often. The problem wasn’t that our friendship had ended. Not at all! She and I were still as close as sisters when we were together. The problem was that we were less and less able to be together. Mrs. Armour and Father decided that I must continue Mother’s work. So I ladled soup to the miserably starving and handed out clothing to the stinking homeless three days per week. That left a mere two days out of the five, when Father worked, for Camille and I to visit. And for me to escape, though it has become more and more clear to me that escape is not possible.
    I tried to get away from Wheiler House and to call on Camille as I had before Mother’s death. I attempted this four times; Father thwarted me each time. The first time, leaving late for his banking duties, Father spied me as I was hurrying away astraddle my neglected bicycle. He didn’t come into the street to call me back. No. He sent Carson after me. The poor, aged valet had turned red as a ripe apple as he’d jogged along South Prairie Avenue to catch up with me.
    “A bicycle is not ladylike!” Father had blustered when I’d reluctantly followed Carson home.
    “But Mother never minded that I rode my bicycle. She even allowed me to join the Hermes Bicycle Club with Camille and the rest of the girls!” I’d protested.
    “Your mother is dead, and you are no longer one of the rest of the girls .” Father’s eyes had traveled from my gaze