The Treasure of Maria Mamoun Read Online Free PDF

housekeeper left us a pan of cinnamon rolls in the fridge,” Celeste said. “They’re baking now. And the coffee was all set to brew. The smell woke me up!”
    â€œSo there is electricity.”
    â€œYes.” Celeste placed a mug of hot chocolate on the table beside Maria. “Hattie even bought groceries!”
    â€œWho’s Hattie?”
    â€œMr. Ironwall’s housekeeper.” Celeste held up the housekeeper’s note. “She says there’s only as much hot water as the woodstove heats up—apparently the pipes run through it somehow. Which might be a problem in August when we won’t want to light it because it will be too hot … but I guess we won’t want hot showers then anyhow.”
    Maria sat up with the quilt wrapped around her and looked about. Now, in the bright morning light, she could see their new home properly.
    The space was small—just one room really. Only the furniture defined the difference between the kitchen, living room, and dining room. Celeste could cook while Maria sat on the sofa, and no wall separated them. But instead of feeling crowded and jumbled, the design felt friendly and cozy. And, Maria thought, it was a fascinating room.
    The wood floor shone from years of polish. Crocheted blankets and embroidered pillows brightened every chair. The walls were painted sky blue and odd ornaments hung all about: shells, fish skeletons, glass globes, and other bits and pieces of weird stuff.
    Strangely enough, there seemed to be no TV. At least none that Maria could see. Just a fireplace where a TV should be. The mantel over the fireplace held more bric-a-brac: a stuffed parrot under a bell-shaped glass, a primitive drum of bark and skin, and a gourd carved with tiny pictures. A big, ugly painting of a ship in a storm loomed over the collection. Two mismatched, overstuffed chairs snuggled up to the fireplace. They looked perfect for curling up in on a rainy day. Each chair had a little table beside it for a snack and hot chocolate. Bookshelves lined two of the walls. Yellowing paperbacks, stacks of games, decks of cards, puzzles, and various other vacation pastimes crowded their boards.
    The curtainless windows opened up to gray fields and misty woods. Pieces of smoothly polished glass, shells, and other intriguing items littered the windowsills. Yet despite the clutter, nothing was dusty. Someone, most likely this Hattie person, had carefully taken down, cleaned, and replaced each item.
    â€œIt’s very nice here, Mama,” Maria said.
    â€œYes, chérie .” Celeste smiled. “Cozy.”
    In the back corner farthest from the kitchen, a black iron-lace stair spiraled up to the loft.
    â€œCan I go see the loft now?” Maria pointed to the spiral stair.
    â€œYes—just be careful and don’t touch anything. I haven’t had a chance to look at it myself.”
    Maria crept up the twisting stairs and through a hole in the ceiling. The loft was an attic, empty but for a few trunks and suitcases of varying age, an antique croquet set missing the red mallet and most of the wickets, and a wrought-iron daybed with a blue-striped mattress. On either side of the attic were circular windows of the sort found on boats—with one directly above the bed so that if you lay upon it, as Maria did now, you could see loads of sky. She knelt on top of the bed and peered out the window. More swaths of silvery-gray grass led to a huge white house. It was as big as a castle, with columns in front and row upon row of windows. The driveway from their cottage to the mansion ended in a circle with an ornate marble fountain in the center. Maria couldn’t tell whether it had water. Behind the mansion lay the ocean. It was the color of steel and whipped with white waves.
    She squinted and pushed her forehead against the cool glass. Farther off, a dock jutted into the sea, and a boat bobbed alongside. It had two poles rising from