The Cavendish Home for Boys and Girls Read Online Free PDF
Author: Claire Legrand
started to burn, the dog backed away, whining.
“Yes, that’s right, you’d better run away from me,” saidVictoria, and she kicked Mr. Tibbalt’s gate for good measure.
Finally, Victoria reached the end of the street, where the road curved and circled back. The mass of leaves holding her ribbon rushed into a gray brick wall with a black iron gate and crashed apart into whirling pieces.
Victoria stopped to find her breath. She peered past the gate’s iron curls of leaves and petals. Beyond the gate, a long drive wound back from the road into shadows and swaying tree branches. In front of the gate, white and yellow flowers bobbed in the wind. A brass plate on the wall read NINE SILLDIE PLACE and another, darker plate read THE CAVENDISH HOME FOR BOYS AND GIRLS .
A pale flicker caught Victoria’s eye—her ribbon, stuck in the brambles of a red-berried shrub near the gate. She grinned in triumph, bent to grab it, and heard someone say, “It looks like a tongue.”
Victoria froze. She turned and saw a man at the open gate. She blinked. The gate had been closed before, and she hadn’t heard it open, and there hadn’t been a man before.
“Excuse me?” she said.
The man smiled. He wore dark work clothes and held a rake in one hand. His brown hair was perfectly combed. His eyes moved quietly in place like he was seeing too many things at once.
“I said that it looks like a tongue. Don’t you think?” He took off one of his gloves, and clumps of dirt fell from it. His naked hand was large and white. He plucked the ribbon and held it out, towering over her. “Is it yours?”
Victoria snatched it from him, frowning. She should have been more polite, but she had tolerated enough strange people for one day, and this man was the strangest of all. It was something in the expression on his face, and how strangely he moved, and how the skin on his face and neck and hands bulged out all puffy.
“Yes, it’s mine,” she said. “I lost it in the wind.”
“The wind can be tricky,” said the man, smiling. “Especially this time of year.” He held out his ungloved hand. “I’m Mr. Alice.”
“It’s nice to meet—”
“And you’re Victoria.”
Victoria leaned in for a handshake and a demon dazzle so she could see just what, exactly, was going on with this man. But she couldn’t see anything except his darting eyes.
“How do you know who I am?” she said slowly.
“Oh, Mrs. Cavendish makes a point of knowing all the children in the area,” said Mr. Alice. “Professional interest, you know.”
Victoria pinched Mr. Alice’s hand and dropped it. Shehoped it hurt him. “Well, anyway. I have to go now. And thank you for getting my ribbon.” She started to walk away, smoothing her curls back into place.
“Maybe you can meet her someday,” Mr. Alice called out after her.
Victoria looked back. “Meet who?”
But Mr. Alice was gone.
The gate stood open. Victoria stepped closer and squinted beyond it. The pebbled drive circled back through a clean woodland park of oaks and pines and lampposts, already lit for the evening. At the end of the drive, far back in the estate, Victoria saw the faint shape of a wide, shallow house with three chimneys.
Victoria shivered. It’s just the wind , she scolded herself as the autumn chill swept her home. When she reached Three Silldie Place, she squinted back down the street. The Cavendish Home’s gate was now closed.
That night, as Victoria fell asleep, something tapped on her window. Her half-asleep mind imagined that the tapping came from the prongs of a rake, and she dreamed of gardens that came alive and had hands and mouths.
LAWRENCE DISAPPEARED THE NEXT DAY, TUESDAY, which had always been Victoria’s least favorite day of the week because it had no point to it. Monday was the beginning. Wednesday was the middle. Thursday was a prelude to Friday. Friday was the end. Saturday and Sunday were for studying, cleaning, getting ahead on everything, and
“Yes, that’s right, you’d better run away from me,” saidVictoria, and she kicked Mr. Tibbalt’s gate for good measure.
Finally, Victoria reached the end of the street, where the road curved and circled back. The mass of leaves holding her ribbon rushed into a gray brick wall with a black iron gate and crashed apart into whirling pieces.
Victoria stopped to find her breath. She peered past the gate’s iron curls of leaves and petals. Beyond the gate, a long drive wound back from the road into shadows and swaying tree branches. In front of the gate, white and yellow flowers bobbed in the wind. A brass plate on the wall read NINE SILLDIE PLACE and another, darker plate read THE CAVENDISH HOME FOR BOYS AND GIRLS .
A pale flicker caught Victoria’s eye—her ribbon, stuck in the brambles of a red-berried shrub near the gate. She grinned in triumph, bent to grab it, and heard someone say, “It looks like a tongue.”
Victoria froze. She turned and saw a man at the open gate. She blinked. The gate had been closed before, and she hadn’t heard it open, and there hadn’t been a man before.
“Excuse me?” she said.
The man smiled. He wore dark work clothes and held a rake in one hand. His brown hair was perfectly combed. His eyes moved quietly in place like he was seeing too many things at once.
“I said that it looks like a tongue. Don’t you think?” He took off one of his gloves, and clumps of dirt fell from it. His naked hand was large and white. He plucked the ribbon and held it out, towering over her. “Is it yours?”
Victoria snatched it from him, frowning. She should have been more polite, but she had tolerated enough strange people for one day, and this man was the strangest of all. It was something in the expression on his face, and how strangely he moved, and how the skin on his face and neck and hands bulged out all puffy.
“Yes, it’s mine,” she said. “I lost it in the wind.”
“The wind can be tricky,” said the man, smiling. “Especially this time of year.” He held out his ungloved hand. “I’m Mr. Alice.”
“It’s nice to meet—”
“And you’re Victoria.”
Victoria leaned in for a handshake and a demon dazzle so she could see just what, exactly, was going on with this man. But she couldn’t see anything except his darting eyes.
“How do you know who I am?” she said slowly.
“Oh, Mrs. Cavendish makes a point of knowing all the children in the area,” said Mr. Alice. “Professional interest, you know.”
Victoria pinched Mr. Alice’s hand and dropped it. Shehoped it hurt him. “Well, anyway. I have to go now. And thank you for getting my ribbon.” She started to walk away, smoothing her curls back into place.
“Maybe you can meet her someday,” Mr. Alice called out after her.
Victoria looked back. “Meet who?”
But Mr. Alice was gone.
The gate stood open. Victoria stepped closer and squinted beyond it. The pebbled drive circled back through a clean woodland park of oaks and pines and lampposts, already lit for the evening. At the end of the drive, far back in the estate, Victoria saw the faint shape of a wide, shallow house with three chimneys.
Victoria shivered. It’s just the wind , she scolded herself as the autumn chill swept her home. When she reached Three Silldie Place, she squinted back down the street. The Cavendish Home’s gate was now closed.
That night, as Victoria fell asleep, something tapped on her window. Her half-asleep mind imagined that the tapping came from the prongs of a rake, and she dreamed of gardens that came alive and had hands and mouths.
LAWRENCE DISAPPEARED THE NEXT DAY, TUESDAY, which had always been Victoria’s least favorite day of the week because it had no point to it. Monday was the beginning. Wednesday was the middle. Thursday was a prelude to Friday. Friday was the end. Saturday and Sunday were for studying, cleaning, getting ahead on everything, and