A Drowned Maiden's Hair by Laura Amy Schlitz Page B

explain it. That was part of being perfectly good. But Samm’l’s doubts were catching. He had seemed convinced that there was something sinister about being a secret child. Maud wanted to prove him wrong.
    Accordingly, she began to search. She knew not to ask questions, but she eavesdropped whenever she could. She discovered that one of the empty rooms on the third floor had a broken shutter: if she squatted down eye level to the break, she could look out the window.
    She saw nothing that seemed strange to her. The little town of Hawthorne Grove appeared sunny and prosperous. She saw horses and carriages, the ladies with their parasols, the gentlemen returning home in the evening. Enviously, she watched the children: the boys who ran races, the girls who walked arm in arm. It occurred to Maud that she missed being with other children. She had never been popular with girls her own age, but it was odd, living in a world of old ladies.
    Maud spied when she dusted the parlor. She pored over the family photograph album, noting that the child Hyacinth had been irresistibly pretty, while her sisters — Judith and Victoria were at least ten years older — were only so-so. She scrutinized the books in the locked bookcases, observing that a depressing number of volumes were devoted to the subject of God and the spiritual life.
    There was only one conclusion that Maud was able to draw from the Hawthorne parlor, and it was an unwelcome one: the Hawthorne sisters were not as rich as she had thought. The parlor, so rich and imposing at first glance, showed signs of age. The heavy curtains were stiff with dry rot, and the upholstery of the chairs was riddled with tiny rents, as if someone had pierced them with a dagger. The garden was overgrown. The Hawthorne ladies kept no carriage and no servant but Muffet. They were sparing with coal.
    Maud puzzled over these economies. She wondered why, if the Hawthorne sisters were in need of money, they had chosen to adopt a child. She estimated the price of her dresses and books, and she realized that she had cost the sisters nearly thirty dollars on the very first day. It was a shocking sum of money to waste. Maud remembered what Hyacinth had said: she was going to help them with their work. What kind of work would require the help of a secret child?
    Pondering these questions, Maud grew reckless. On an afternoon when the sisters had set off for a concert, she determined to search their bedrooms. As Judith had taught her, she removed her boots and descended the stairs in stocking feet. The room closest to the stairway was Judith’s. Maud hesitated only a moment before going in.
    Judith’s room was large and dim. The curtains were drawn and the wallpaper was olive green. The four-poster bed with its matching dresser was carved walnut, glossy and nearly black. A portrait of a stern-faced gentleman hung over the mantel. Maud knew from the photograph album that it was the Hawthorne sisters’ father. Cowed by his disapproving glare, Maud hastened to the next room.
    Hyacinth’s bedroom was the most beautiful room in the house. It had a freshness that the other chambers lacked: the colors were lighter and the furniture less heavy. The two armchairs before the fireplace were cozily padded, with slender legs that ended in little gold claws. Everything, from the curtains at the window to the canopy over the bed, was dainty and new. Maud took a nostalgic peep into the jewel box and proceeded to open the drawers of the dressing table. Handkerchiefs, gloves, fans . . . There was an ivory powder box with a swansdown puff, a silver lorgnette, and a bottle of scent. Maud stroked the powder puff over her face, eyed the results in the mirror, and rubbed the powder onto her sleeve. It would be agreeable to linger and play with Hyacinth’s things, but she had no idea how long the sisters would be gone. She replaced the powder box and tiptoed out of the room.
    Victoria’s room was the least tidy of the three