The Weird Sisters - Eleanor Brown [125]
It was the most beautiful thing Rose had ever seen.
As though her body were no longer her own, she felt herself drawn toward the group, and when she stood in the back, at the end of their ranks, she dropped her backpack and slipped off her sandals and stepped into the motion flawlessly. Far away, the gentle hum of cars, of people. Here, only the wind and the sun on her bare arms and the quiet sound of her own breathing. They moved together, the movements of the students barely discernible from that of the teacher. Rose could feel the muscles in her legs stretching, the gentle quake of her shoulder muscles as she held out her arms, and she looked up into the wide expanse of sky and felt, for the first time in a long, long time, like she could fly.
TWENTY-ONE
In All’s Well That Ends Well, Helena, by curing the king with one of her deceased father’s potions, shows she is the heir to his talent. Or at least to his stock of potions. Did it bother our father that none of us was the heir to his? That after all those bedtime stories, plots thinly disguised, actual plays when we grew older, the amateur dramatics, the Pilgrimage, the notes left, the required recitations, the naming, for pity’s sake, none of us had fallen for the Bard as he had?
We are, in fact, grateful for it, not only because to follow in his footsteps, bearing his name, would have been both foolish and repeatedly painful, but because we do not want that kind of mania. And yet we have inherited it anyway, in tiny drops, his one obsession spread thin over the three of us. Rose’s passion for order. Bean’s for notice. Cordy’s for meaning. Are we not, in our own ways, just as tied to our quests as he to his? And are we not the fools in the situation, as at least his quest has the promise of some small remuneration?
Bean clicked up the pebbled stepping-stones toward Mrs. Landrige’s door. At the end of the day she could smell the must of the books on her clothes, and her hands had gone dry from touching paper, no matter how much lotion she used. At first the quiet had seemed claustrophobic. Upon her move to New York, she had been constantly aware of the sound. Even with the windows closed, the city hummed outside. Conversations, cars, sirens and crashes, horns, construction. She slept poorly for months until it became part of her, until she had to listen consciously to hear the cacophony. And now, back in the middle of nowhere, the stillness seemed alien.
The silence surrounding her forced her to confront things, to page through the history she had written for herself. It had changed nothing for her except to calm the rush of pain that followed when she remembered.
“Come in!” Mrs. Landrige called when she rang the bell. Bean smiled to herself. This was the safety of a small town; the open invitation to all, no locks, no barred windows, no alarm systems.
Bean entered. We had never visited her house when we were little. Like schoolchildren think of their teachers, we presumed that when we left the library, she winked out of existence, flickering back like an image on a television set when we saw her at church, or went back for more books.
Inside, it was dim and warm. Mrs. Landrige sat on an overstuffed sofa, plump and full as she was delicate and slender. Her feet were raised on a hassock, and a walker stood by the arm. A wicker bike basket festooned with plastic flowers hung over the front of the metal bars, and inside Bean could see a neatly folded newspaper.
“Bianca,” Mrs. Landrige said. “I’m so glad you could come. You’ll pardon me if I don’t get up.” She gave a small smile, her cheeks like withered apples.
“How are you?” Bean asked. Mrs. Landrige wore a dress, as always, but had forgone the panty hose for slippers. Her hair was done and she wore lipstick, creasing in the wrinkles on her lips.
The old woman waved a hand. “Old,” she said. “Go into the kitchen and get us some lemonade. There are some cookies in there, too. Dr. Crandall brought them by, so I don’t guarantee they’re