White Crow by Marcus Sedgwick Read Free Book Online
Authors: Marcus Sedgwick
methods to me. We talked, nay, argued for an hour and more and then with a curse, he threw his hands in the air, would speak no more, and took me by the hand.
Holy God!
What I saw!
For when our speaking came to a close, Dr Barrieux led me into the darkest bowels of Winterfold Hall, and there I beheld the dreadful apparatus with which our voyage will be made.
1798, 9m, 19d.
Last night I was plagued by night terrors. I scarce ever saw myself so weak and bereft as this night, and I could find no rest.
I rose at four in the morning, abandoning the torture of my bed, and stumbled into the night, and the fresh air revived my senses.
Deciding me to take a walk, I wandered the streets of
Winterfold, and before I knew it, my feet were leading me to the Hall.
As I approached, I saw why they had led me there.
Despite the hour, a candle burned in a room on the ground floor, at the side of the house. I know this room to be the doctor’s study, and I made my way to the window and peered in.
There sat the doctor, poring over some accounts I fancied. I tapped on the window and far from seeming surprised, the doctor turned his head, squinted, then lifted a hand and beckoned me in.
I met him at the kitchen door and he led me into the drawing room, where the remains of a fire glowed in the grate.
I beheld the doctor. A man of forty or fifty years on the earth, I could not tell which. His wig sat on the desk before him, and now I saw that he still owned a fine head of black hair, but peppered through with grey, as of one who has seen the troubles of the world. His skin is pallid, yet smooth, and I suppose he has kept indoors for most of his time. He has a fine nose, and strong eyebrows, and his stare is most fixed.
He poured me a glass of port, and another of the same for himself, and bid me sit at the fireside.
I did as I was invited, and suddenly, with one sip of the drink at this early hour, began to feel the weariness within me. But the doctor was speaking, speaking of matters both great and small. He spoke of his life, and I tried to heed him, but it became hard to distinguish wakefulness from sleep, and I drifted in and out of the room, my mind like a phantom in the dark.
He spoke of his time in Paris. He had not been born there, but in some place to the south, a place of sunflower fields and walnut trees, he said, but I do not remember if he gave it a name. As a young man he studied natural philosophy, and his studies brought him inevitably to the great city of Paris, with all its philosophers, thinkers, poets, painters, musicians and lovers.
He sampled some of each.
I had grown extreme drowsy, but I know he was speaking of things close to him. All I can recall, is this. He got up from his chair, and went to a table in the corner of the room, returning with a small pair of portraits, two ovals in one frame. Though my ears seemed to have closed down, my eyes beheld a young woman, and a little girl. The woman was beautiful, with curling tumbling black hair, and the complexion of milk. She gazed from her portrait as if amused by something.
In the other half of the frame sat the young girl. She is perhaps eight, a frail and weak-looking thing.
They are mother and daughter, it is clear, and I did not perceive what the doctor was telling me, but he leaned over the chair in which I sat, holding out the portraits, urging me to look.
Then I saw that tears were freely running down his face.
One fell from the doctor’s cheek to mine, and I wiped it away.
He said one word, of French, and it is a word that even I know.
- Mort!
Tuesday 27th July
R ebecca and Ferelith swim and sunbathe, sunbathe and swim all afternoon. The sun is unrelenting, the sky is blue from one horizon to the other, the waves shush on the shingle, the tide slowly, slowly edges in, then by mid afternoon halts and starts its retreat.
A group of three boys loiter nearby. They’re a little older than the girls, and Rebecca is relieved that Ferelith covers
Holy God!
What I saw!
For when our speaking came to a close, Dr Barrieux led me into the darkest bowels of Winterfold Hall, and there I beheld the dreadful apparatus with which our voyage will be made.
1798, 9m, 19d.
Last night I was plagued by night terrors. I scarce ever saw myself so weak and bereft as this night, and I could find no rest.
I rose at four in the morning, abandoning the torture of my bed, and stumbled into the night, and the fresh air revived my senses.
Deciding me to take a walk, I wandered the streets of
Winterfold, and before I knew it, my feet were leading me to the Hall.
As I approached, I saw why they had led me there.
Despite the hour, a candle burned in a room on the ground floor, at the side of the house. I know this room to be the doctor’s study, and I made my way to the window and peered in.
There sat the doctor, poring over some accounts I fancied. I tapped on the window and far from seeming surprised, the doctor turned his head, squinted, then lifted a hand and beckoned me in.
I met him at the kitchen door and he led me into the drawing room, where the remains of a fire glowed in the grate.
I beheld the doctor. A man of forty or fifty years on the earth, I could not tell which. His wig sat on the desk before him, and now I saw that he still owned a fine head of black hair, but peppered through with grey, as of one who has seen the troubles of the world. His skin is pallid, yet smooth, and I suppose he has kept indoors for most of his time. He has a fine nose, and strong eyebrows, and his stare is most fixed.
He poured me a glass of port, and another of the same for himself, and bid me sit at the fireside.
I did as I was invited, and suddenly, with one sip of the drink at this early hour, began to feel the weariness within me. But the doctor was speaking, speaking of matters both great and small. He spoke of his life, and I tried to heed him, but it became hard to distinguish wakefulness from sleep, and I drifted in and out of the room, my mind like a phantom in the dark.
He spoke of his time in Paris. He had not been born there, but in some place to the south, a place of sunflower fields and walnut trees, he said, but I do not remember if he gave it a name. As a young man he studied natural philosophy, and his studies brought him inevitably to the great city of Paris, with all its philosophers, thinkers, poets, painters, musicians and lovers.
He sampled some of each.
I had grown extreme drowsy, but I know he was speaking of things close to him. All I can recall, is this. He got up from his chair, and went to a table in the corner of the room, returning with a small pair of portraits, two ovals in one frame. Though my ears seemed to have closed down, my eyes beheld a young woman, and a little girl. The woman was beautiful, with curling tumbling black hair, and the complexion of milk. She gazed from her portrait as if amused by something.
In the other half of the frame sat the young girl. She is perhaps eight, a frail and weak-looking thing.
They are mother and daughter, it is clear, and I did not perceive what the doctor was telling me, but he leaned over the chair in which I sat, holding out the portraits, urging me to look.
Then I saw that tears were freely running down his face.
One fell from the doctor’s cheek to mine, and I wiped it away.
He said one word, of French, and it is a word that even I know.
- Mort!
Tuesday 27th July
R ebecca and Ferelith swim and sunbathe, sunbathe and swim all afternoon. The sun is unrelenting, the sky is blue from one horizon to the other, the waves shush on the shingle, the tide slowly, slowly edges in, then by mid afternoon halts and starts its retreat.
A group of three boys loiter nearby. They’re a little older than the girls, and Rebecca is relieved that Ferelith covers
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