The Number 7 Read Online Free PDF

leave.
    â€œShe said it reminded him of his sister.” Rosemary folded her arms and smiled encouragingly at the two of us.
    â€œI didn’t know Dad had a sister.” Dad leaned in close, squinting at the canvas, as if waiting for the girl to turn around. What was she looking at?
    â€œAnd a brother, apparently. Though your mom requested that I never ask him about them,” Rosemary gently rubbed her right earlobe. “I’ve always wondered what it is she sees,” she sighed looking deeply into the painting. “Isn’t it strange it spoke to you, too, Louisa? Of all the paintings up here, you picked that one.”
    â€œLou’s always been one for the macabre,” Dad smiled, turning around to tousle my hair. I moved away from his beneath his hand.
    â€œOh, would you call it macabre? I’ve always found it rather peaceful,” Rosemary said with reassurance. “Louisa, what do you think?”
    I didn’t know how to answer. There was something dreadful there. Yes, I agreed with Dad. But what was it?
    â€œDad, it’s getting late—” Greta called over to us, literally tapping her foot.
    Rosemary grinned as if waiting for me to answer, but I couldn’t. Or, I wouldn’t. I shrugged my shoulders and went to join Greta at the door. Dad and Greta were already outside while I still struggled with a mitten. I turned around to tell Rosemary good night, but I stopped when I saw her face had turned dark and serious. Her eyes narrowed and looked desperate as they focused on me. I was suddenly frightened of her.
    â€œLouisa,” she spoke in a voice so low only I could hear her. “You’re a Pisces—I could spot you from a mile away. There’s something about you coming here. Something about that house.” She pointed a long finger up the hill. “I don’t know what it is. All I can tell you is that you need to be patient. You’re going to need to do something; I don’t know what. But it’s important you’re here. You need to be patient and you need to listen .” She paused, and I didn’t know whether I should run or ask her more. Before I had the chance to do either, her gaze softened and a friendlier expression returned. “Let me know if you need anything, okay? I really adored your grandmother. She’d want me to look after you.”
    I mumbled “G’night” and ran into the darkness to catch up with the rest of my party, wondering what, exactly, she knew that I didn’t.

VI.
    In the dim light of the dark evening, Grandma’s portrait looked longer than before. I stared up at her through the doorframe as we took off our jackets in the mudroom. We were intruding in her space.
    â€œWhat was that about, Dad? About me being macabre?” I questioned, offended, still staring up at Grandma’s countenance. Her eyes leered down at me with condemnation.
    â€œOh, I don’t know,” he sounded a bit apologetic. “Maybe that was the wrong word. What I meant was perceptive.”
    â€œBut you said ‘macabre,’” I challenged.
    â€œA slip of the tongue,” he explained.
    â€œFrom the English professor?” I scowled.
    Greta walked straight through the foyer. Had she ever noticed the painting before? How could she miss it? The portrait of the mistress of the house? The eyes that seemed to follow my every move?
    â€œThat wasn’t there when I was growing up,” Dad gestured, following my gaze. “But it doesn’t surprise me she had one commissioned. She was always a bit traditional in that way. And proud.”
    â€œWas that why you stopped talking? Her pride?” I turned and faced him head on wanting so badly for him to tell me the story. “Or yours?”
    â€œMaybe,” he murmured retreating into the parlor. He wasn’t ready.

    Greta and I hadn’t expected Dad to make us start school so soon, much less on the Monday before