Wildwing Read Online Free PDF Page B

water, and run the iron across so steam rises, leaving the napkin smooth. That one day isn’t here, is it? I try to remind myself of all the things I should be glad of. An afternoon off every single week, and evenings off, and Sundays, too. How many working girls have that? And Mr. Greenwood telling me to take home slices of the cakes I bake him, giving me books to read, asking me what I think of them. Isn’t that worth something?
    I fold the napkin and set it down. Reach for another.
    And the money is good. I remember Mum’s face when I put the coins in her hand the first time, and her saying there’d be enough in a bit for nice fabric to make me a new dress, and not a maid’s navy blue. Isn’t that worth something?
    I pull a heavy red tablecloth out of the basket and start across the edge with long, even strokes, trying to match mybreath to the rhythm. The fabric softens under the iron. At first glance it looks plain, even boring; but then the light catches it at a certain angle, and suddenly I see roses, nothing but roses, that were hiding there all along.
    One last stroke and the tablecloth is perfect. I fold it several times and start to place it in the basket, but then I stop. This one should go right into the linen press so there’s no chance of a crease.
    I unplug the iron, drape the cloth over my arm, reach in my pocket for the jangle of keys, and start down the hall. Past the dining room (I’ll dust in there tomorrow, maybe bring in some flowers) and the drawing room (must wind that clock, and light a fire before I leave so it will be cozy when he comes home) and …
    And then I stop in front of the next door as if I’m seeing it for the first time. The door that’s always locked.
    I’ve seen how Mr. Greenwood looks the other way when he walks past, as if he can’t even bring himself to admit it exists. It’s his son’s room. It has to be. I can picture it so clearly, I might as well be looking through the door: a small bed, blanketed with fifteen years of dust; toys scattered across the floor as if the boy just ran out for a moment (a train, perhaps, its wheels mired in gray snowdrifts); and cobwebs draping everything like shrouds.
    All of a sudden, I want to see the mysterious room for myself.
    Whatever you do, don’t go in that room. That’s what Mrs. Beale said.
    But I’m sick of rules and restrictions. Sick of everyone telling me where I don’t belong.
    I hold the keys up in the dim light, searching for one I’ve never used before. There’s the key to the front door, the back door, the linen press. A heavy bronze clunker is too big. What if he’s gone and thrown the key away? But no sooner do I think that than the next one feels different in my fingers. The top is all old-fashioned curlicues; the teeth, long and jagged. I wiggle it into the lock, and it turns with a loud complaint.
    The door creaks open into darkness. The air is so musty and stale, it’s hard to breathe. Light, that’s what I need, and the window will be against the far wall. I walk over carefully, because the room is full of large, looming shapes, and I don’t want to knock anything over or trip on the toys. My outstretched hand finally touches velvet, and I pull.
    Sun bursts into the room, lighting great flocks of dust as they swoop from the curtains like frightened birds. I inhale a lungful of the stuff, and next thing I’m coughing and sneezing, my eyes watering so I can barely see. I rub my face onmy sleeve, and rub, and rub—blast! The tablecloth! Streaks of gray run across the red field like a muddy river. I’ll have to wash and iron it all over again.
    With a sigh, I lift my eyes to look at the room.
    In the light I see there’s no train, no toys, not even a bed. There’s no sign a little boy was ever here at all. The room is some kind of library. Books line the walls from floor to ceiling, their titles hidden by a whitewash of dust. More dust rimes a desk where papers are scattered like flotsam after a