Precious Things Read Online Free PDF

excess.
    There. It was finished.
    Standing up, Aimée noted the numbness creeping along her thighs. She arched her back like the stray black cat that hung around the kitchens, mewling for scraps before being shooed away. She remained bent for a good few moments, teasing out the ache in her shoulders and neck by stretching further with each outward breath. She shook herself like a wild, free creature, then picked up the ornate collar with its glinting beads. She crossed over to the fireplace and lifted her handiwork up to her throat. Moving her head from side to side before the massive gilt mirror hanging above the mantelpiece, Aimée saw how the collar sparkled and shone in the lamplight. Originally she’d imagined a beaded ruff of sorts, a glittering adornment she could wear in place of jewels. Her father had kept all of her mother’s jewellery after her death. Aimée had no idea what he’d done with it, but he hadn’t offered any of it to her – not even when she’d become engaged. Not the rings, necklaces and bracelets, not even Maman’s braided hair locket.
    Yet in the late afternoon light, the finished collar looked different from the way she’d imagined it. Studying it now through half-closed lids, Aimée imagined the collar to be a brace or a trap, teeth sprung closed about her neck, choking out her breath. At the same time it was spectacular – her finest work yet. Shards of light reflected in the diamantes and beads as she moved, caressing the pearly surfaces. Glowing against the pale skin of her neck, it seemed to illuminate her from within.
    It’s beautiful , Aimée thought. Which is more than can be said for me .
    Feeling suffocated by the weight of the collar all of a sudden, she cast it on the mantel and instead examined herself in the mirror: the sharp nose set above thin lips, the bones jutting out from beneath her bodice. At least her skin was blessedly clear, if a little sallow. So plain , apart from around the eyes , she thought. Certainly my best feature. Not as pretty as hers, but with that same sloe-eyed shape. Not for nothing was she called Amandine . . .
    Aimée could still see Maman – those eyes, such mesmerising eyes – regarding her, but the smoke-haired beauty of her memories was long gone. Now she was just a shadow, flitting at the edges of her consciousness. Aimée’s memories of Maman had faded when Father had removed her portrait from the hall. Had he destroyed it? Aimée never dared ask, much as she would have liked to hang it in her room. She had only been five when her mother died. Old enough to remember, but still too young to make any sense of it. She hadn’t been able to comprehend the finality of death, asking Nounou incessantly when her mother would be coming back home.
    The old familiar ache constricted in her chest. How different things might have been had Maman lived. What advice would she have given her for her marriage? Maman would never see her as a grown woman, never know what it was like to hold grandchildren in her arms. Aimée closed her eyes against tears.
    I may be plain , she thought, snatching up the collar again and moving away from the mirror, but I’m clever with needle and thread, and sharper in more ways than they realise. Maman was too. Nounou had toldher the stories. Beloved old Nounou, who had been Maman’s nanny once too. How her mother had had so many suitors, but had chosen Father over all the men who pursued her. She admired Father’s keen intelligence, Nounou said, shaking her head sadly.
    Aimée longed to ask more about her parents, about what they’d been like when they were young, but the old woman had been gone for many years now. Aimée had been thirteen when Nounou had left, relinquishing her to Father’s sole care. She had felt the loss like a sharp blow, and had found herself grieving two parents – Maman and Nounou. She had never known such emptiness.