The Gallery of Lost Species by Nina Berkhout Read Free Book Online Page A

constellation of tiny squares of Venetian glass. Sea horses, falcons, dragons, and other mythical creatures sparkled in amber, turquoise, and bronze.
    The main and upper floors were crammed with medieval garb and Asian sculptures. But my father led me down to the basement level, where there were hardly any visitors. There he showed me collections of Roman glass and ancient coins and, finally, paperweights. We sat on a bench facing the wall of domed tops, each one uniquely faceted, etched, and coloured.
    In our quiet thinking time together, we shared a closeness that Con and Viv didn’t have with each other or with us. The one thing I lacked, which Viv had in common with my father, was her talent with the paintbrush. Yet I made up for this with my wit and collecting sensibilities.
    Henry and I were like bookends. We had the same appearance, personality, and interests. But our connection ran deeper than being carbon copies of one another. We were allied in our pact to create little asylums where we could—antique shops and museums being the perfect places to evade Con and Viv’s feuds. And like bookends, we reinforced the pulpy novellas that made up our family library, preventing the unit from toppling over.
    Plus, we couldn’t get close with Viv or Con no matter how hard we tried. We had that in common too.
    â€œSomeday maybe you’ll work in a place like this.”
    â€œI’d like that.”
    â€œGood, Boss. That’s good to hear.”
    â€œIt would be pretty to see a clown juggling these, don’t you think?”
    My father smiled. Then he checked his watch and said it was time to go back to the circus.
    *   *   *
    W E RETURNED TO find Viv in the lobby, enveloped in a cloud of lacquer that Constance was spraying onto her hair and her shimmering fur-lined gown. She was the personification of stardust. The costume cost two thousand dollars.
    Viv was covering her eyes and coughing.
    â€œ Enough, Constance.” Henry seized the can of hairspray from our mother. My sister smiled. She had her flipper in, so it was her phony smile. Her skin had gone from pasty to greenish.
    Constance handed her some Pixy Stix. Without blinking, Viv tipped her head back and poured the contents from the straws into her mouth. Her eyes watered as she swallowed the powdered sugar. “I don’t feel well,” she said.
    Names were already being called for glitz-wear. Constance escorted Viv down the corridor and we wished her good luck. As I followed Henry back to our seats, a girl covered in peacock feathers whispered to me as she passed, “Your mom’s demented.”
    It was a packed house. Families came from across the country, hoping to win the lavish prizes, including electronics, canopy beds, scholarships, and cash. There were no seats left, so we stood against the wall by the stage. Behind the curtain, Viv’s cramped feet were the only ones in pointe shoes.
    â€œNumber twenty-three, Vivienne!” chirped the announcer.
    My sister came out smiling. Her flipper was so white, she looked like a girl in a toothpaste commercial. I waved to her as she floated back and forth across the stage, pausing every so often in a new pose until, midway through her act, she lurched forward as if the wind had been knocked out of her.
    Viv threw up on her diaphanous dress and on the stage. She covered her mouth but kept vomiting. Terrified, she turned toward the curtain then back to the judges and the audience. Everyone stayed fixed in their seats. Even Constance froze backstage. Unassisted, my father rushed over, put his arms around her, and guided her offstage to the nearest washroom.
    It was the first pageant where my sister left without a crown, or even a consolation prize.
    Nobody talked the whole drive home. When Viv stormed to her room and slammed the door, my father said, “You’ve taken it too far, Constance. She’s not a trained monkey. She’s had