The Rose Master by Valentina Cano Read Free Book Online Page B

circumstances,” I did not think anyone would mind if I took matters into my own capable hands. As I’d planned the day before, I headed to the sitting room to begin.
    The winter dawn was just tapping on the windows, giving the room an eerier look than on the previous afternoon. The white sheets seemed to glow, to have life. I frowned and yanked the first sheet off. The urge to sneeze gripped my throat, and I pinched my nose to wait for it to pass.
    The revealed armchair was quite beautiful, a matching set to the dark pieces I’d seen the day before. I traced the pale, yellow designs on the cushion; most likely gold thread.
    I moved through the room, snatching every sheet off until they were all piled up in one corner, a great mound of cotton snow. Much better. The wooden chair and sofa limbs were dull with age, but if I’d had my proper supplies, I would have scrubbed them back to what I knew would be sparkling life. Unfortunately, the most I could settle for was to wipe them with a moist cloth.
    I started with the largest piece, the sofa, and worked clockwise around the room. I allowed my hands to take over, to explore and get acquainted with the grain of the wood, the curve of the legs, the delicate carvings that required steady hands and careful care. And, as always happened while I cleaned, my thoughts stilled and quieted.
    Minutes passed in absolute silence, internal and external, before my right hand came across an anomaly on one of the armchairs. I found my fingers hesitating over a corner of the wooden panel. Four deep gashes carved into the chair in almost perfect slices, done with only the sharpest of objects. For some reason, I did not want to touch them again, nor even look at them if I could avoid it.
    This is silly, Anne , I told myself. You’re going to have to touch this chair for many years to come, so better get used to it.
    Perhaps, but I didn’t have to do it right that minute. I moved back and turned to the last bit of furniture—a side table. As I shifted my head, I heard a soft chuckle, hoarse and deep. I stood still and held my breath, but I could not hear anything else. My heart was pounding all along my ribcage as I turned around to face whoever was in the room.
    There was no one.
    The sound had been so close to my ears, it would have been impossible for the person to move out of the room with such speed without a sound.
    I stepped into the hallway, but there was nothing different; the rising sun still poured through an empty corridor. I frowned.
    “Now you’re hallucinating. Wonderful.” I shook my head. It must have been my imagination.
    Just in case, I grabbed the broom and cloths and moved to the dining room. There’d be plenty of time for the sitting room when the rest of the household woke. There was nothing to fear, I knew that. But I wasn’t dumb, either.
    Soon enough, the meager household rose. I was halfway through scrubbing the dining room table when I heard Dora laughing, an echo that reached me all the way from the kitchen. The laughter soon unwound itself and became a few choice curse words, followed by the sharp smell of burnt bread. I hesitated. I could go assist Dora, but I feared she’d be insulted at my sailing in, efficiency personified, to rescue her from her mediocre skills.
    But I also did not want to eat burnt bread.
    I wiped my hands and went to the kitchen. There were smoke circles around Dora’s head while she attempted to salvage some of the bread slices from a sure death.
    “Dora, stop. You’ll burn yourself,” I said.
    She turned. A soot smudge trailed down her already sweating face. “I hate throwing food away. It’s just a disgrace! I can’t even manage toast!”
    I moved her aside, grabbing the large fork that punctured the piece of bread over the fire. The particular slice in question looked like fireplace scraps. Probably tasted like it, too.
    “Look, I’ll show you. There’s nothing to it once you see it.”
    I cut some new slices, making