Just a little note I should have left earlier:
The Museum is temporarily closed while the curator goes for a little wander, but he will in the meantime be popping up at his home away from home, Hobo Diaries.
Friday, 22 May 2009
Thursday, 5 February 2009
The Music Box: Chapter Sixty-Eight
“Can I take Papa up a cup of tea?”
Isabelle turned at the sound of Emily’s voice. She would have preferred to keep an eye on her, but this seemed a perfectly reasonable request and she would have aroused suspicion by refusing.
“Sure darling, let me put one on.”
Isabelle placed the kettle over the fire to boil and pulled down the teapot from the shelf. Lifting two small spoons of tea from the tin in which it was kept, she watched the dried leaves tumble into the pot, hooked together until the water would tear them apart and swirl them around.
Once the tea was made she poured a cup for herself and one for Percy. Emily, who had been hovering close to her mother all this time, took one of the cups and placed it on a tray. Isabelle watched as she walked carefully across the kitchen and through the doorway, listening for her footfall on the stairs.
Letting out a deep sigh, Isabelle realised how tense she had been with Emily watching over her. Rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hands, she realised she could no longer face this alone – the time had come to talk to Percy about what was going on.
“I really should have taken that tea up myself,” she thought, kicking herself for letting Emily – she could not think what else to call her – go. Her mind was spinning too fast to make sense of anything, a barrage of thoughts and images passing by. Then, out of this spinning, blurring mess, a sound emerged. The high pitched laughter of the wolf, emerging from the fire, rang in her ears again, but this time his image aligned with a face long consigned to the faded memories of a former life. It was Aloysius.
Aloysius, who had helped her and Percy escape after the wolves had turned against them. Aloysius, who she now knew had been acting not out of a compassion he would have extended to anybody, but a specific desire to see her safe. Aloysius, who she had long since even ceased thinking about, as she moved on with her new life here by the sea, a life with no place for the fraught power struggles and endless dangers of the forest she had long left behind.
Aloysius, Isabelle realised, had returned to claim what he believed his rightful entitlement.
Isabelle turned at the sound of Emily’s voice. She would have preferred to keep an eye on her, but this seemed a perfectly reasonable request and she would have aroused suspicion by refusing.
“Sure darling, let me put one on.”
Isabelle placed the kettle over the fire to boil and pulled down the teapot from the shelf. Lifting two small spoons of tea from the tin in which it was kept, she watched the dried leaves tumble into the pot, hooked together until the water would tear them apart and swirl them around.
Once the tea was made she poured a cup for herself and one for Percy. Emily, who had been hovering close to her mother all this time, took one of the cups and placed it on a tray. Isabelle watched as she walked carefully across the kitchen and through the doorway, listening for her footfall on the stairs.
Letting out a deep sigh, Isabelle realised how tense she had been with Emily watching over her. Rubbing her eyes with the heel of her hands, she realised she could no longer face this alone – the time had come to talk to Percy about what was going on.
“I really should have taken that tea up myself,” she thought, kicking herself for letting Emily – she could not think what else to call her – go. Her mind was spinning too fast to make sense of anything, a barrage of thoughts and images passing by. Then, out of this spinning, blurring mess, a sound emerged. The high pitched laughter of the wolf, emerging from the fire, rang in her ears again, but this time his image aligned with a face long consigned to the faded memories of a former life. It was Aloysius.
Aloysius, who had helped her and Percy escape after the wolves had turned against them. Aloysius, who she now knew had been acting not out of a compassion he would have extended to anybody, but a specific desire to see her safe. Aloysius, who she had long since even ceased thinking about, as she moved on with her new life here by the sea, a life with no place for the fraught power struggles and endless dangers of the forest she had long left behind.
Aloysius, Isabelle realised, had returned to claim what he believed his rightful entitlement.
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
The Music Box: Chapter Sixty-Seven
Emily paused halfway up the stairs, in a panic of uncertainty. She could hear the sounds of domestic work being undertaken in the kitchen, so knew her mother was busy down there. She had seen her father at his study window only a few minutes earlier, but had trusted he would be there for a while. A moment ago, when she first approached the window, she had caught a glimpse of Crouch as herself just coming into the room.
A moment later and she would have been caught, but Emily felt she had ducked out of sight just before Crouch would have seen her. Peering carefully through the bottom pane, Emily saw herself reaching for a book, examining its cover and wiping traces of dust from the top of the pages. Seemingly happy with the choice, Crouch had turned to the door and left as quickly as he had appeared.
Although unsure as to whether Crouch was going out to the hearth in the kitchen or up to her room, Emily knew she had to risk it. She had shivered with dread as she saw her mother and Crouch return home and knew that something terrible was going to happen if she didn’t act immediately.
As she pushed on the sides of the window, trying to open it as carefully as she could, Emily had cursed the wet weather that had swollen the frame. Hoping for a smooth slide open, she was furious at how much noise the window was making as it refused to let go of the frame. With a surrender that sounded to her like two trains at full steam running into each other, the window finally began shuddering its way up the frame. It still wasn’t wide enough for her massive frame to enter, so she gave it one last heave.
Sure it had been loud enough to alert the entire neighbourhood, Emily swallowed her breath and slid through the window, barely able to get Crouch’s shoulders through. Wriggling over the sill, she has used her hands to guide her body quietly to the floor. She didn’t want to make any more noise than she had to, but sensed leaving the window open was a bad idea. As gently as she could, and pleased to find it more willing to slide than at first, she pulled the window back into place, swinging the latch back to a locked position.
Walking over to the door – cursing under her breath when she crossed the creakiest section of the room, Emily had paused at the doorway. Her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps and she took a moment to try and get it under control.
Pushing open the door, she peered across to the open door to the kitchen. She could hear her mother working away busily and was pleased to see nobody was in sight of the doorway. Stepping slowly out into the hall, she had made her way slowly up the stairs, and it was here she now paused, ears straining to hear any movement from above. All seemed quiet. Wary of being caught out in the open like this, Emily took a deep breath and forced herself to put one foot in front of the other and not stop until she reached her room.
Closing the door behind her, Emily let out her breath and sighed with enormous relief. She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do, but felt she had at least a moment’s respite. With any luck her mother would be keeping Crouch busy in the kitchen, but she knew that would only be for so long. Peering around, she felt an uncanny sense of calm from these familiar surroundings. How long had it been since she had been here, safe in her little girl’s room? She realised that not only had she lost all sense of time – was it a day, a week, a lifetime? – but that she was seeing her room with new eyes, feeling suddenly too old for these lace trimmings, picture books and stuffed animals.
Her gaze had been scanning slowly around the room and now rested on her dresser, taking in the bag of lollies she knew must have come from Mr Pollock’s lolly shop – one of her favourite places in the world. Stepping closer her attention was captured by the mirror. She was mortified to be looking in and seeing Crouch look back, but forced herself to scrutinise her features more closely. She saw how old Crouch looked in the light that gently fell through the window, how his smooth skin was such a deeply pale, bloodless tone, as though he was a wax caricature of a creepy man.
His cruel lips were twisted into a tight sneer and his sharp nose seemed almost to have been sharpened as one might an arrow tip. His expansive brow sat under the rim of the hat, an ivory scar running down from the hairline to his jet black left eyebrow. She reached a finger up to trace its line, wondering who Crouch might have crossed too pick up such a souvenir. Looking now into his eyes, she was repulsed yet intrigued by their hollow depths, black tunnels that seemed to catch and swallow all passing light, letting nothing escape.
A scraping sound startled Emily out of her hypnotic swim in these inky pools. Percy must simply have been pushing his chair back in the study across the landing, but it reminded her she couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Her hand had idly found its way back into her coat pocket and Emily drew out the little blue bag with the liquorice that had come from her time in the music box.
Untwisting it, the task made quite difficult with her fingers now trembling quite badly, Emily drew out the pieces of liquorice within. Opening the lolly bag on the dresser, she drew out the pieces in there and popped them into her mouth, replacing them with those from the bag. Replacing the empty bag in her pocket, Emily turned to leave.
As she reached for the handle of her bedroom door, the knob began slowly to turn.
A moment later and she would have been caught, but Emily felt she had ducked out of sight just before Crouch would have seen her. Peering carefully through the bottom pane, Emily saw herself reaching for a book, examining its cover and wiping traces of dust from the top of the pages. Seemingly happy with the choice, Crouch had turned to the door and left as quickly as he had appeared.
Although unsure as to whether Crouch was going out to the hearth in the kitchen or up to her room, Emily knew she had to risk it. She had shivered with dread as she saw her mother and Crouch return home and knew that something terrible was going to happen if she didn’t act immediately.
As she pushed on the sides of the window, trying to open it as carefully as she could, Emily had cursed the wet weather that had swollen the frame. Hoping for a smooth slide open, she was furious at how much noise the window was making as it refused to let go of the frame. With a surrender that sounded to her like two trains at full steam running into each other, the window finally began shuddering its way up the frame. It still wasn’t wide enough for her massive frame to enter, so she gave it one last heave.
Sure it had been loud enough to alert the entire neighbourhood, Emily swallowed her breath and slid through the window, barely able to get Crouch’s shoulders through. Wriggling over the sill, she has used her hands to guide her body quietly to the floor. She didn’t want to make any more noise than she had to, but sensed leaving the window open was a bad idea. As gently as she could, and pleased to find it more willing to slide than at first, she pulled the window back into place, swinging the latch back to a locked position.
Walking over to the door – cursing under her breath when she crossed the creakiest section of the room, Emily had paused at the doorway. Her breath was coming in short, shallow gasps and she took a moment to try and get it under control.
Pushing open the door, she peered across to the open door to the kitchen. She could hear her mother working away busily and was pleased to see nobody was in sight of the doorway. Stepping slowly out into the hall, she had made her way slowly up the stairs, and it was here she now paused, ears straining to hear any movement from above. All seemed quiet. Wary of being caught out in the open like this, Emily took a deep breath and forced herself to put one foot in front of the other and not stop until she reached her room.
Closing the door behind her, Emily let out her breath and sighed with enormous relief. She still wasn’t sure what she was going to do, but felt she had at least a moment’s respite. With any luck her mother would be keeping Crouch busy in the kitchen, but she knew that would only be for so long. Peering around, she felt an uncanny sense of calm from these familiar surroundings. How long had it been since she had been here, safe in her little girl’s room? She realised that not only had she lost all sense of time – was it a day, a week, a lifetime? – but that she was seeing her room with new eyes, feeling suddenly too old for these lace trimmings, picture books and stuffed animals.
Her gaze had been scanning slowly around the room and now rested on her dresser, taking in the bag of lollies she knew must have come from Mr Pollock’s lolly shop – one of her favourite places in the world. Stepping closer her attention was captured by the mirror. She was mortified to be looking in and seeing Crouch look back, but forced herself to scrutinise her features more closely. She saw how old Crouch looked in the light that gently fell through the window, how his smooth skin was such a deeply pale, bloodless tone, as though he was a wax caricature of a creepy man.
His cruel lips were twisted into a tight sneer and his sharp nose seemed almost to have been sharpened as one might an arrow tip. His expansive brow sat under the rim of the hat, an ivory scar running down from the hairline to his jet black left eyebrow. She reached a finger up to trace its line, wondering who Crouch might have crossed too pick up such a souvenir. Looking now into his eyes, she was repulsed yet intrigued by their hollow depths, black tunnels that seemed to catch and swallow all passing light, letting nothing escape.
A scraping sound startled Emily out of her hypnotic swim in these inky pools. Percy must simply have been pushing his chair back in the study across the landing, but it reminded her she couldn’t afford to waste any more time. Her hand had idly found its way back into her coat pocket and Emily drew out the little blue bag with the liquorice that had come from her time in the music box.
Untwisting it, the task made quite difficult with her fingers now trembling quite badly, Emily drew out the pieces of liquorice within. Opening the lolly bag on the dresser, she drew out the pieces in there and popped them into her mouth, replacing them with those from the bag. Replacing the empty bag in her pocket, Emily turned to leave.
As she reached for the handle of her bedroom door, the knob began slowly to turn.
Tuesday, 13 January 2009
The Music Box: Chapter Sixty-Six
Helping Emily remove her coat, Isabelle saw how soaked her daughter had become from their dash home through the rain.
“You can take those sweets up to your room for later Emily – I want you in some new clothes as quickly as you can, then back down here before the fire so you can dry out.”
Clutching her bag of lollies from Mr Pollock’s seemingly endless selection, Emily headed silently up the stairs towards her room. Isabelle took off her own coat and decided the rest of her clothes had been adequately protected from the rain, so headed into the kitchen to begin her preparations for the evening meal.
While the outing had fallen short of what she had hoped, Emily did at least seem a little happier than she had been. She had seemed less excited to have been in Mr Pollock’s store than Isabelle had expected, but had seemed quite grateful to have been allowed to choose a bigger bag of sweets than usual.
Stoking the still glowing embers of the earlier fire, Isabelle was again whisked back to that experience under the tree – the strange little man, the laughing wolf, the fear that ran through her veins like the freezing river that had tumbled her along. It had all felt so real, so much more vivid a part of her memory than any dream ever could.
She knew it must have something to do with Emily, the way she had been behaving. ‘She’s not been herself at all’, murmured Isabelle, and she was so shocked at what a voice in the back of her mind then said that she fell into the nearest seat, catching her breath in her chest.
“It’s not Emily,” the voice had offered.
That was it. No explanation, no introduction, gone as soon as it had come. But it was crystal clear and so simply put that Isabelle was struck to the very heart of her knowing.
“It’s not Emily.” But how could that be? Of course it was Emily. Yet, somehow, her heart of hearts knew it was not. Her senses were deceiving her, everything she knew had somehow been turned on its head, yet there was such a strong sense of, what was it, relief? As though this impossible thought, once uttered, suddenly made sense of everything – explained Emily’s strange behaviour, her own sense of unease, the strange encounter and its cryptic message.
Putting aside the grotesque impossibility of such a revelation, Isabelle tried to think how it could be so, and what it could mean. She concentrated on when her feelings of uneasiness had begun. Ever since Emily had been late home from her visit to her young friend’s, Tabitha Tibbits, Isabelle had been uneasy. It’s true that being quite so late was out of character for Emily, but it must have been something more than that. Since then, Isabelle realised, she had been entirely out of sorts. She hadn’t slept properly, her nerves were more delicate than she was used to, and Emily had simply not seemed herself.
It’s not Emily. It was so simple, so straightforward, so – she realised – obvious. It still didn’t make sense, but that wasn’t enough to bring any further doubt. Now that she had made up her mind, Isabelle felt an incredible weight drop away. This burden had been oppressing her for days and now sloughed off, a snake relieved to have shed its too small skin.
Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Isabelle considered the situation. Upstairs, in one room, was her husband, Percy Button, no doubt lost in his writing and oblivious to the entire situation. In another room, somebody who to all intents and purposes appeared to be her daughter, her beloved Emily, but was not.
And here, in the kitchen, the fire before her crackling in its newly awaken state, the orange shadows flickering against her closed eyelids, Isabelle sat, helpless in the face of her revelation.
“Are you okay?”
Isabelle jumped at the sound of Emily’s voice, her eyes flying open to find her barely three feet away.
“I, I was just a little tired from our outing,” Isabelle stammered. “I was just enjoying some of the warmth in here – it was so cold out there.”
Isabelle put on a smile, not wanting to show any signs of concern she would have to explain any further. Her mind was ticking over too quickly, but never settling on anything that pointed to what her next step should be.
“Why don’t you grab a book and spend some time in here Emily, keep your mother company while I do some chores?”
“Sounds lovely, I’ll just go grab something.”
Emily was soon back and Isabelle watched as she took a seat, opening the leather-bound book on her knees. The sound of the water with which she had filled a pot coming to a boil brought her attention back to her duties. She went about her ordinary business of the day, distracted by the Emily issue but also keen to avoid the impression that anything was amiss.
After a few minutes this way Isabelle’s ears – sharpened by the tenseness of her mind, heard a scraping sound. Her eyes darted over to Emily, but she hadn’t appeared to hear anything. The sound had come from the front room - ordinarily she would have gone in to check, to see if it was Percy wanting something or simply her imagination, but this time something was holding her back.
There it was again – the sound of wood scraping against wood. This time Emily looked up.
“It must be your father after a book,” Isabelle said. “We’ll leave him to it, when he’s this hard at work there’s no point distracting him, he’ll hardly take in anything we might even say!”
Emily smiled and returned to her book. Isabelle’s heart began to thump as she heard the creak she knew came from the floor of the front room when anybody walked near the window. Worried Emily might take any more interest, she made sure she made plenty of noise of her own, jumbling around cutlery and rattling a stack of plates.
As the stairs creaked, then stopped, creaked, then stopped, Isabelle’s pulse thumped in her ears. She felt a hot flush hit her neck and face and the sickening burst of adrenaline flood her tensed body.
If she had misjudged, she had made a terrible mistake.
“You can take those sweets up to your room for later Emily – I want you in some new clothes as quickly as you can, then back down here before the fire so you can dry out.”
Clutching her bag of lollies from Mr Pollock’s seemingly endless selection, Emily headed silently up the stairs towards her room. Isabelle took off her own coat and decided the rest of her clothes had been adequately protected from the rain, so headed into the kitchen to begin her preparations for the evening meal.
While the outing had fallen short of what she had hoped, Emily did at least seem a little happier than she had been. She had seemed less excited to have been in Mr Pollock’s store than Isabelle had expected, but had seemed quite grateful to have been allowed to choose a bigger bag of sweets than usual.
Stoking the still glowing embers of the earlier fire, Isabelle was again whisked back to that experience under the tree – the strange little man, the laughing wolf, the fear that ran through her veins like the freezing river that had tumbled her along. It had all felt so real, so much more vivid a part of her memory than any dream ever could.
She knew it must have something to do with Emily, the way she had been behaving. ‘She’s not been herself at all’, murmured Isabelle, and she was so shocked at what a voice in the back of her mind then said that she fell into the nearest seat, catching her breath in her chest.
“It’s not Emily,” the voice had offered.
That was it. No explanation, no introduction, gone as soon as it had come. But it was crystal clear and so simply put that Isabelle was struck to the very heart of her knowing.
“It’s not Emily.” But how could that be? Of course it was Emily. Yet, somehow, her heart of hearts knew it was not. Her senses were deceiving her, everything she knew had somehow been turned on its head, yet there was such a strong sense of, what was it, relief? As though this impossible thought, once uttered, suddenly made sense of everything – explained Emily’s strange behaviour, her own sense of unease, the strange encounter and its cryptic message.
Putting aside the grotesque impossibility of such a revelation, Isabelle tried to think how it could be so, and what it could mean. She concentrated on when her feelings of uneasiness had begun. Ever since Emily had been late home from her visit to her young friend’s, Tabitha Tibbits, Isabelle had been uneasy. It’s true that being quite so late was out of character for Emily, but it must have been something more than that. Since then, Isabelle realised, she had been entirely out of sorts. She hadn’t slept properly, her nerves were more delicate than she was used to, and Emily had simply not seemed herself.
It’s not Emily. It was so simple, so straightforward, so – she realised – obvious. It still didn’t make sense, but that wasn’t enough to bring any further doubt. Now that she had made up her mind, Isabelle felt an incredible weight drop away. This burden had been oppressing her for days and now sloughed off, a snake relieved to have shed its too small skin.
Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, Isabelle considered the situation. Upstairs, in one room, was her husband, Percy Button, no doubt lost in his writing and oblivious to the entire situation. In another room, somebody who to all intents and purposes appeared to be her daughter, her beloved Emily, but was not.
And here, in the kitchen, the fire before her crackling in its newly awaken state, the orange shadows flickering against her closed eyelids, Isabelle sat, helpless in the face of her revelation.
“Are you okay?”
Isabelle jumped at the sound of Emily’s voice, her eyes flying open to find her barely three feet away.
“I, I was just a little tired from our outing,” Isabelle stammered. “I was just enjoying some of the warmth in here – it was so cold out there.”
Isabelle put on a smile, not wanting to show any signs of concern she would have to explain any further. Her mind was ticking over too quickly, but never settling on anything that pointed to what her next step should be.
“Why don’t you grab a book and spend some time in here Emily, keep your mother company while I do some chores?”
“Sounds lovely, I’ll just go grab something.”
Emily was soon back and Isabelle watched as she took a seat, opening the leather-bound book on her knees. The sound of the water with which she had filled a pot coming to a boil brought her attention back to her duties. She went about her ordinary business of the day, distracted by the Emily issue but also keen to avoid the impression that anything was amiss.
After a few minutes this way Isabelle’s ears – sharpened by the tenseness of her mind, heard a scraping sound. Her eyes darted over to Emily, but she hadn’t appeared to hear anything. The sound had come from the front room - ordinarily she would have gone in to check, to see if it was Percy wanting something or simply her imagination, but this time something was holding her back.
There it was again – the sound of wood scraping against wood. This time Emily looked up.
“It must be your father after a book,” Isabelle said. “We’ll leave him to it, when he’s this hard at work there’s no point distracting him, he’ll hardly take in anything we might even say!”
Emily smiled and returned to her book. Isabelle’s heart began to thump as she heard the creak she knew came from the floor of the front room when anybody walked near the window. Worried Emily might take any more interest, she made sure she made plenty of noise of her own, jumbling around cutlery and rattling a stack of plates.
As the stairs creaked, then stopped, creaked, then stopped, Isabelle’s pulse thumped in her ears. She felt a hot flush hit her neck and face and the sickening burst of adrenaline flood her tensed body.
If she had misjudged, she had made a terrible mistake.
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