A Pretty Mouth by Molly Tanzer Read Free Book Online Page A

hoarsely. “Drive ‘round, Bill, so I may get inside and see the place.”
    “Go through the front doors, Miss Burchell,” urged Bill.
    This drew a laugh to my lips, and I wiped my eyes. “I am no lady, and certainly not the lady of the house. Drive ‘round, the servants’ door was always good enough for me.”
    “No, Miss. You’re here as our guest now, after all.”
    I knew that tone, and it meant no arguing, so I thanked Bill and hopped down from the haywain. I was seized with a girlish fancy to take the steps two at a time as I had always used to do, but I only managed a few such leaps before my corset prevented further exertion. Thus I was sweaty-faced and breathing hard when I threw open the door—and saw the foyer for the first time in ten years.
    The floorboards groaned under my shoes as I entered, and the high ceilings amplified the echoes of both footfall and wood-creak. The first thing I noticed was that the watery light spilling in from the door was hazy with little swirling motes of dust. My hasty entrance had stirred the air more than it had been in some time. Indeed, filth and grime lay thick on every surface, and I was overwhelmed by the smell of mold. When I looked up, I saw the chandelier was missing more than one pendalogue, and the candle-cups did not look like they had held tapers in recent memory.
    I could not move for astonishment. I remembered this room as a bright and welcoming space; recalled the sound of my guardian’s laughter as he would chase me, shrieking, through the hallways, much to the displeasure of the housekeeper, Lizzie, who said I should grow up wild.
    Shouting and stomping startled me out of my reverie. It was a man’s voice I heard coming from the interior of the house—and all of a sudden there was a tall, thin fellow with messy black hair and bulging eyes at the top of the front staircase, then galloping down it! He was too busy howling at the top of his lungs to notice me.
    “Bill! Lizzie! Anyone! The old bastard is in need of something, but I cannot understand his infernal mumblings!”
    It was such an excellent entrance that upon recollection, I cannot help but now contemplate how I will translate it into my narrative of Camilla’s coming-of-age:
    I have no words to express my surprise when I saw that Laurent was all grown up! Pale of skin and darkly handsome, his face held a haughty, cruel expression that checked my first impulse to rush into his arms and demand a longed-for kiss from my oldest, dearest friend in the world. How serious he looked! His black coat and trousers would have been better suited for a funeral in London than his ancestral country home. Still, I blushed to see him—and felt a blush where not three hours ago I had been brought to the golden threshold of love by the gamahuching of Mr. Reeves. I never thought I would see my cousin in such a light—and yet …
    But of course, my Camilla has her memories of Laurent to contrast with the man she meets upon arriving at The Beeches, as I think I shall call her former home. (“A Camilla Among The Beeches” sounds like an excellent title to me—we shall see what Susan thinks.) I, however, had never before laid eyes upon Orlando Vincent. My first impression was of a flustered wretch of about my own age, clad in a wrinkled suit, and waving his arms about and carrying on in a dreadful manner. I could see how someone might mistake him for the Ghast o’the Hills—if one were inclined to see ghosts and spirits everywhere, that is.
    “Why Mr. Vincent, I declare!” cried Lizzie, stepping into the dusty foyer, drying her hands with a dingy rag. How old must she be now, I wondered? Always slender and tall, she was now made all of angles, and her impressive mane of dark hair was now a lustrous gray—handsome, to be sure, but no longer youthful. “And here’s our Chelone! Why, just look at you, grown! I’m surprised at you, Mr. Vincent. Let the young lady come in and rest herself before alarming her