“About you,” Mrs. Grimthorpe replies, as her eyes narrow to pinpoints, sticking me to my place like a butterfly affixed to a board. “Mr. Grimthorpe and I have always maintained that bad habits can be broken, and that a mannered, well-educated child is preferable to a lazy ragamuffin.”
“R-A-G-A-M-U-F-F-I-N. Meaning: a gadabout?”
“Or a ne’er-do-well,” says Gran.
“The great unwashed,” Mrs. Grimthorpe adds with grave finality.
“What Mrs. Grimthorpe is saying,” Gran explains, “is that all children—and even adults—are capable of learning; it’s just that some need to learn in their own ways, and an institution, such as a school or other facility, is not the place for everyone.”
“But no person, be they adult or child, should waste a chance at betterment,” Mrs. Grimthorpe adds.
“Including you, Mrs. Grimthorpe?” I ask.
Mrs. Grimthorpe’s hands spring to her waist and her pointy elbows jut out dangerously. “I’ll have you know,” she huffs, “that there are two women standing before you who have sacrificed greatly for the betterment of a loved one, and someday, you will come to understand that, though it’s clear that at present your mind is so filled with childish poppycock there’s not much room for anything else.”
“What Mrs. Grimthorpe is trying to say,” Gran cuts in, “is that you did such a good job cleaning the silver yesterday that she, in her
Mrs. Grimthorpe’s face contorts as though paying me a compliment might very well send her into paroxysms. “We have a library upstairs,” she eventually says. “It is filled to the rafters with books. Mr. Grimthorpe and I have always maintained that books can rehabilitate anyone. I understand you enjoy reading.”
I nod repeatedly.
“Very well. From now on, you will polish and clean for half the day, and you will read for the other half. If you can’t attend school, then the least you can do is self-educate.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. It sounds too good to be true. I look at Gran for confirmation. She smiles and nods.
“Follow me,” Mrs. Grimthorpe says. “To the library.”
“Oh, I know where—” I stop myself just in time. “Yes, madam,” I say.
Mrs. Grimthorpe heads up the main staircase, which creaks and groans under every footfall. I trail close behind her. At the first landing, I look out the window and see the lady in blue walking toward the side of the mansion just as she did yesterday.
“Where’s her office?” I ask Mrs. Grimthorpe.
“Whose office?” Mrs. Grimthorpe asks as she pauses on the landing.
“Hers,” I say, pointing to the elegant lady in the blue kerchief and gloves pushing through the side door.
“That, young lady, is categorically and conclusively none of your business. Understood?”
In the interest of keeping the peace, I nod and keep my mouth firmly shut.
Mrs. Grimthorpe starts up the next flight of stairs and I follow behind her. Once we make it to the landing, we head down the long corridor that I’ve traversed on my own once before. The lights overhead track us as if by magic, turning on as we pass and illuminating the damask wallpaper. How strange that the pattern, which was full of watchful evil eyes the last time I was here, has transformed into a refined and pleasing paisley. We pass bedroom after bedroom after bedroom—but no office—until at last we’re standing at the threshold of the breathtaking library.
Mrs. Grimthorpe enters and pulls back the heavy velvet draperies from the long window on one wall. Daylight streams in and dust motes dance like sprites in the air. My eyes turn to the crack in the wall near the floor in front of me. There’s no light beam coming through today, and not a sound can be heard on the other side of the wall. For a moment, I wonder if my mind played tricks on me yesterday. Maybe there’s no troll after all. Maybe it was all a figment of my overactive imagination.
“What you are seeing in this library is one of the finest private collections of leather-bound rare editions you will ever encounter in the English-speaking world,” Mrs. Grimthorpe says. “Mr. Grimthorpe has personally studied every facet of every book in this room, and each one has inspired his literary pursuits. He is an erudite man who has earned his sterling reputation through serious scholarship. It is a privilege for a girl like you to even be allowed to step into a room like this. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I reply. “I understand.”
“Your grandmother seems to think you’re a gifted reader, though I suspect her of being prone to overweening filial blindness and general hyperbole.”
I scan the shelf on the wall in front of us for a dictionary in which I can look up several of the words Mrs. Grimthorpe just used. I spot one and reach for it.
“No!” Mrs. Grimthorpe snaps. The caustic force of her rebuke sends me hurtling backward.
