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on a year now. Come in, dear.”
Arthur’s shoulders collapsed. The case at his feet had no home.
There was no one to pass it along to, no one left to inherit the curse
of knowledge that had orphaned him. He drifted inside, pulled in
the flour-wake of Mrs. Johnson’s path. He was not free of it, then.
And, even worse, now he had no path, nothing to keep him going,
no goal.
Everything hurt much, much more.
“Make yourself comfortable, dear. I won’t be a few minutes.”
Mrs. Johnson’s assured steps into the kitchen were a well-masked
retreat, and he wondered at how careful she was to hide what she
was really feeling. Was she trying to protect him?
Hopeless.
The room he was in had two sofas, light blue with lace doilies
on the arms, and a table between them. He didn’t want to sit. His
hand hovered over the case. He’d leave.
“. . . will not make excuses for you again! If you don’t do your
own chores, so help me, I’ll —”
Two teen girls, nearly mirror images of each other, stumbled
to a shocked stop after entering the room. Both gaped at him.
The taller of the two wore her dress with an apron pinned
precisely in front. Her face was round, her dark eyes solemn and
piercing over a button nose and full lips. Everything about her was
neat and marble, save a single curl that had escaped her cotton cap.
The shorter girl took nearly the same features and managed to
look wild and fey. Her cheeks were pink and flushed, her eyes
bright with mischief, her blouse untucked from her skirt. One
stocking bunched around the top of her scuffed black shoe. Her
hair, however, was perfectly pinned back beneath a blue ribbon.
“Who are you?” the shorter girl asked, chin tipped up and eyes
