The Singing Fire Read Online Free PDF Page B

In the garden with its brick wall covered by ivy, it didn’t matter if Emilia was a bit cold in her fall coat. A thrush was singing, a squirrel chittering, the ghost rustling the branches of the apple tree, all perfectly peaceful while Emilia cut out a string of paper dolls.
    “Look!” she called up to the ghost of the first wife, unfolding the paper dolls. She knew the paper dolls were simple, but she was only nine years old. Next year she’d be able to make paper-cuts of roses and trees like Mama. The ghost of the first wife nodded in approval. Shenever spoke. Probably the dead couldn’t speak because they didn’t have real bodies. But they listened all the time, and really, as long as a ghost could nod or shake her head, she was just as pleasant as half the guests that Father invited for dinner. He never came into the garden. The only door was through the kitchen, and he wouldn’t lower himself to be seen there.
    “I don’t think Father will be mad tonight, do you?” Emilia asked the first wife, folding the paper for another set of dolls. She’d make boy dolls this time. Maybe she’d show Father. She would say these were her half brothers. She carefully traced the tall hats, thinking that Father would be in a good mood and he would smile as she unfolded the paper dolls.
    The ghost of the first wife came down from the tree and sat beside her on the grass as if she’d like to put her arm around Emilia. But there wasn’t any need for that. Emilia was a lucky girl, being both pretty and clever. Mama always said so. Mama said that Emilia would not make the same mistakes she had. “When Father sees the boy paper dolls, he’ll kiss my cheek and give me a coin,” Emilia said to the first wife. “Don’t you think so?”
    The ghost of the first Mrs. Rosenberg shook her head. She was making a wreath out of fallen leaves. Gold leaves and red, and flowers that blew over the wall for the first wife’s use.
    “Maybe you’re right,” Emilia said. “Kisses are for babies.” Perhaps he would be in a good mood and not throw the soup today. Yesterday they’d had beet borscht. When the soup hit the wall, it had left a red stain. The maid had scrubbed and scrubbed, Mama too. But there was still a pink mark, and Father was angry that his hard-earned money would have to be thrown out on painters. From now on there would be only chicken soup in the house, he said. Mama loathed cooked chicken. It looked too much like a living thing.
    Her mother opened the kitchen door. She was dressed for cooking, with an oversize apron from collar to hem. The cooking wasn’t going well. Emilia knew it because Mama’s cheeks were red and she was wearing the cameo brooch. Mama always wore the cameo when she was feeling wobbly. “What are you doing, Emilia?”
    “Cutting paper dolls.” Mama made beautiful paper-cuts, scenes of trees and flowers and sea animals riding waves. Father said that sheshould stick with playing the piano—paper-cuts were usually made by men to mark the eastern wall for prayer or decorate windows for festivals—but Father didn’t refuse to hang them, because Mama’s paper-cuts were so admired by his friends. “Well, come inside and have your lesson,” Mama said. “The German Bible is still on your desk, waiting for you to get past Adam.”
    The house was large. It had guest rooms and a library, where Father met with editors and other intelligent people, but Mama taught Emilia her lessons at a desk in the kitchen. Under the calendar on the left wall, there was a pine cabinet full of books and next to it a sewing chest without a single needle or spool of thread but everything you’d need for cutting beautiful scenes out of paper: the board, the small knife, paper and ink of many hues, stencils of trees, roses, eagles, lions.
    “Mama, isn’t the brisket done?” Emilia asked as she came into the kitchen. The maid was peeling potatoes, and something smelled burnt.
    Her mother poked at the meat with a silver