Troubling a Star by Madeleine L'Engle Read Free Book Online Page B

go.”
    I went out to the kitchen. Cook had never referred to the letter I had given him, or to his extraordinary reaction, and I did not feel I could ask him about it.
    â€œCookie,” I said, “can Aunt Serena go out?”
    He turned to me questioningly. “She does go out, and fairly frequently, to the hairdresser, her lawyer, and so forth.”
    â€œWhat about the evening?”
    â€œShe no longer enjoys evening functions.”
    â€œWhat about Thanksgiving? Do you think she could come to us for Thanksgiving? We don’t eat dinner till evening, because Mother usually has a solo in church, and she doesn’t like to be rushed about cooking. This year we’re celebrating my birthday, and I’d love it if Aunt Serena could be there. Would it be too much for her?”
    Cook thought for a moment, rubbing his hand slowly over the bald top of his head. “I think it might be a good thing. Ask your father, and let him make the decision. He’s the one who could convince her.”
    Â 
    He did, to my joy.
    Aunt Serena seemed really pleased at the idea, and she said that, like John, she would save her birthday present for me till then.
    I went out to the kitchen. Cook, Stassy, and Owain were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and talking, but greeted me smilingly.

    â€œIt was a good day when Master—when Mr. Adam brought you here,” Owain said. “Madam was losing interest, and now it’s back.”
    Stassy said, “She can’t read as much as she used to, despite what she calls her new eyes. She’s had time on her hands.”
    Cook nodded. “We were worried about her loss of joie de vivre. She used to do a great deal of entertaining, and the house was always full. But she’s at an age when many of her contemporaries are dead.”
    â€œI’m glad she’s coming for my birthday party,” I said. “It won’t really be a party, just my family and Aunt Serena, but John will be home. I guess my best birthday present is my driver’s license.”
    Owain asked, “You won’t be needing me to drive you home anymore?” He did not look pleased.
    â€œOh, yes. I mean, I’ll still be getting off the school bus in Clovenford, and we don’t have an extra car, anyhow. But I’ll be able to run errands for Mother and do things like that.”
    â€œGood, then,” Owain said.
    â€œI’m going up to the attic. Aunt Serena said to tell you we’d have tea a little later, when I come down, if that’s okay.”
    I left the sweet-smelling warmth of the kitchen and went up to the attic and sat on the green sofa and wrote Aunt Serena a poem. Poetry had not been flowing that early winter, but finally words came. I looked out the attic window at the great maples. Their last leaves were slowly drifting down, and their bare branches darkened the sky. I didn’t do any homework that afternoon, just spent time on the poem, and then copied it in my best italic writing.

    In winter structure is revealed.
Water and rock, root and tree
In summer are by green concealed.
Now bare branches reach out free
To lean against the snowy sky.
Your structure, too, shows through the skin,
And wisdom is uncovered in your face.
When I am with you, then I can begin
To learn from all your years of grace.
You touch me even when I’m bruised
And bathe me with your quiet gaze.
And somehow, too, I am transfused
By love’s accepting, warming ways.

    It was getting dark; the days in November were shorter and the nights longer. Cook had plugged in an old bridge lamp for me, but the shadows in the attic seemed to draw in closer, and I knew it was time to go downstairs, have a cup of tea with Aunt Serena, and tell Owain I was ready to go home.
    But I wasn’t ready. Not quite.
    I picked up Adam II’s journal.

    We are all awed by the proliferation of diatoms in these frigid waters, which is, Tim remarked, to