"Understood," Brice said. "I know I'm speaking for both of us when I say we don't see it that way, Celeste. You're not eighteen yet, and we don't want to see you tossed about from one agency to another."
"Exactly," Pru said, standing. "I'll get our dinner under way. I'm sure you're starving."
"I know I am," Brice said.
"Which is nothing new," Pru told me.
I liked them both immediately. It reinforced my faith that I would be comfortable and safe here, for a little while at least.
"Can I help you with dinner?" I asked.
"No, go on. Let Brice get you settled in."
"Sure," he said. "I'll show you upstairs. Which room, Pru?"
"The one on the right when you go up is the nicest," she suggested.
"Right, right," he said.
I stood at the foot of the stairway and looked up after he had taken the first few steps. A torrent of memories rained down upon me, the most shocking and traumatic being the sight of Betsy Fletcher crumbled at the base of the stairway, her neck broken in the fall. It had been forever imprinted in my mind.
"Are you all right?" Brice asked.
"Yes," I said. "Just a little tired, I guess."
"Sure you are," he said. "You rest up. Don't worry about helping with dinner. We've got it down to a science. She cooks, and I do everything else. C'mon," he urged, and I followed him up the stairs and to the room on the right, which had been my room what seemed now more like a hundred years ago than eleven.
They had painted the walls and redone the floors. There was a pretty queen-size bed with pink and white pillows and comforter, a matching dresser, and to the left, a small vanity table with an oval mirror that swung back or forward.
"Some of our old furniture," Brice said, "but the mattress is quite recent."
"It's very nice," I told him.
He put my suitcase by the closet door.
"Get some rest. I'll call you when we get ready to eat."
"Thank you," I said.
I was tired, so tired I was afraid I'd fall asleep for the rest of the night if I did lie down and close my eyes. Instead, I found myself drawn to the small stairway that led up to the turret room. Once again, I hesitated, the memories flashing over my eyes like miniature bolts of lightning. How many times had Noble carried me up and down
those stairs?
I took a deep breath and ascended. The door was unlocked. For a moment I stood there with my hand on the knob, debating whether or not I should continue to open it. Perhaps I was rushing back too quickly. Even if that were so, I couldn't help but do it.
The room looked so much smaller to me now. There was more old furniture in it and more cartons piled up, even against the two windows. There was barely any room to navigate too far into it, but I managed to squeeze past lamps, mirrors, and two dressers to reach the center, where I had spent endless hours reading my picture books, coloring, or sleeping on Noble's lap while we waited for whomever had come to the house to buy herbal medicines to leave. This was before anyone knew I existed.
I lowered myself to the small clear space and sat on the floor, my eyes closed, remembering, drawing up images from my past as if I were panning gold out of a stream. I heard a Mozart sonata and recalled discovering a music box that intrigued both Noble and myself, but I also remembered Mama's fear and anger at our playing with it. It was gone after that, and no one would talk about it.
So much of my early life was truly like a knotted ball of string, difficult to unravel so it would make sense.
I leaned against an old dresser and folded my arms under my breasts, keeping my eyes closed as I whispered for Noble, for those comfortable, happy times when I felt loved and secure, even cloistered and hidden, in this small room. I didn't mind whispering. I didn't mind cloaking myself in shadows. It was truly as if I knew it would all change for the worse when I was brought out and into the light.
"Celeste!" I heard, and opened my eyes. I realized I had dozed off. "Celeste?"
I stood up quickly and stepped out of the turret room. Brice was at the foot of the short stairway.
"Oh, I . . . just . ."