drawer to the bottom. All magic was like that, she supposed: it came with an explanation.
She gave the middle drawer a wrench, not really expecting a jumble of surprises. The drawer came open, and she looked down at a pool of apple sauce.
* * *
T ime to make a full report to the PP. Tim snapped off a salute, and ran down the intel he had gathered from his recce.
Dad nodded. Usually, he barely took in Tim’s reports. Today, first day of the new mission, he paid attention.
‘There are no hostiles within the perimeter,’ Tim reported. ‘This is a safety zone.’
‘That’s good to know, Timmy.’
‘The IP is friendly.’
‘International pachyderms?’
‘Indigenous population.’
Dad flashed a proper smile. ‘Of course.’
‘I’ll run information-gathering sorties over the next week, so we know what animal life we’ve got around the place.’
‘Did you run across a little girl in a straw hat?’
‘No, PP. Should I have?’
Tim was genuinely puzzled.
‘Not really. You can stand down now, Timmy.’
Tim let his breath out and slumped a little.
‘You look tuckered out, soldier. Better hop off to the bathroom and get that camouflage off before the MP catches you. There’ll be an inspection later. Best not have dirt under the fingernails.’
Tim recognised Dad was playing along. The PP only half-understood the mission. Brass were like that everywhere, Tim supposed. But they were over him for a reason. His job wasn’t to question authority.
He made his way to one of the bathrooms.
He would be careful to look out for this little girl in a straw hat. She was probably not hostile, but he couldn’t be sure until he’d cleared her himself.
In the bathroom, he methodically cleaned his face, hands and arms. Then he changed into civvies.
* * *
H ow could that happen?
It wasn’t exactly apple sauce. There were pips and a stem in there, and shredded peel. She touched it, but didn’t dare taste. It was as if a whole apple had been put in a blender and given a couple of minutes.
A jumble of surprises?
She shut the drawer and pulled it out again.
Still apple sauce, but she found out why the drawer kept sticking. One last hanger-hook, broken off, was caught in the runner. It had come loose now and lay in the apple mess.
She looked in the top drawer. Still empty.
The bottom. No apples, no newspaper. A shiny copper coin. A 1948 half-penny. She shut the drawer and pulled it out again. No apples, no newspaper, no coin. A single, limp, white glove. She took it out and slipped it on. It was elbow-length, with a pearl button at the wrist. It felt warm, as if it had just been worn. She liked the glove. It was elegant, seemly, fitting, and it fitted.
She closed and opened the drawer again, hoping for a match. This time, there was a dried, pressed flower. A rose. That gave her pause. Rose was her middle name, and Vron’s. A word of power between them. When they signed messages ‘Rose’, it signified something of paramount importance. They had called their music venture Rose Records. She picked up the rose with gloved fingers.
It was as if she was being spoken to, with symbols. A very Vron-like way of going about things.
No. She was being silly. The chest must be a conjuring prop. There were hidden blades in the middle drawer, and a false back to the whole thing. When she opened and closed the drawers, she was tripping tiny levers, shifting objects around. It was no surprise Louise would have such a thing. She wrote about magic, so people would have given her magical presents. Had it been made for one of the television adaptations of Weezie?
She opened the top drawer, the one that always had the same thing, nothing. It did not disappoint her. She took the plastic bag of bent coat hangers and jammed it in. The bag barely fitted and she had to bend and break the hangers further, ripping the bag to uselessness, to get the tangle to lie flat enough for her to close the drawer.
She counted slowly up to
She gave the middle drawer a wrench, not really expecting a jumble of surprises. The drawer came open, and she looked down at a pool of apple sauce.
* * *
T ime to make a full report to the PP. Tim snapped off a salute, and ran down the intel he had gathered from his recce.
Dad nodded. Usually, he barely took in Tim’s reports. Today, first day of the new mission, he paid attention.
‘There are no hostiles within the perimeter,’ Tim reported. ‘This is a safety zone.’
‘That’s good to know, Timmy.’
‘The IP is friendly.’
‘International pachyderms?’
‘Indigenous population.’
Dad flashed a proper smile. ‘Of course.’
‘I’ll run information-gathering sorties over the next week, so we know what animal life we’ve got around the place.’
‘Did you run across a little girl in a straw hat?’
‘No, PP. Should I have?’
Tim was genuinely puzzled.
‘Not really. You can stand down now, Timmy.’
Tim let his breath out and slumped a little.
‘You look tuckered out, soldier. Better hop off to the bathroom and get that camouflage off before the MP catches you. There’ll be an inspection later. Best not have dirt under the fingernails.’
Tim recognised Dad was playing along. The PP only half-understood the mission. Brass were like that everywhere, Tim supposed. But they were over him for a reason. His job wasn’t to question authority.
He made his way to one of the bathrooms.
He would be careful to look out for this little girl in a straw hat. She was probably not hostile, but he couldn’t be sure until he’d cleared her himself.
In the bathroom, he methodically cleaned his face, hands and arms. Then he changed into civvies.
* * *
H ow could that happen?
It wasn’t exactly apple sauce. There were pips and a stem in there, and shredded peel. She touched it, but didn’t dare taste. It was as if a whole apple had been put in a blender and given a couple of minutes.
A jumble of surprises?
She shut the drawer and pulled it out again.
Still apple sauce, but she found out why the drawer kept sticking. One last hanger-hook, broken off, was caught in the runner. It had come loose now and lay in the apple mess.
She looked in the top drawer. Still empty.
The bottom. No apples, no newspaper. A shiny copper coin. A 1948 half-penny. She shut the drawer and pulled it out again. No apples, no newspaper, no coin. A single, limp, white glove. She took it out and slipped it on. It was elbow-length, with a pearl button at the wrist. It felt warm, as if it had just been worn. She liked the glove. It was elegant, seemly, fitting, and it fitted.
She closed and opened the drawer again, hoping for a match. This time, there was a dried, pressed flower. A rose. That gave her pause. Rose was her middle name, and Vron’s. A word of power between them. When they signed messages ‘Rose’, it signified something of paramount importance. They had called their music venture Rose Records. She picked up the rose with gloved fingers.
It was as if she was being spoken to, with symbols. A very Vron-like way of going about things.
No. She was being silly. The chest must be a conjuring prop. There were hidden blades in the middle drawer, and a false back to the whole thing. When she opened and closed the drawers, she was tripping tiny levers, shifting objects around. It was no surprise Louise would have such a thing. She wrote about magic, so people would have given her magical presents. Had it been made for one of the television adaptations of Weezie?
She opened the top drawer, the one that always had the same thing, nothing. It did not disappoint her. She took the plastic bag of bent coat hangers and jammed it in. The bag barely fitted and she had to bend and break the hangers further, ripping the bag to uselessness, to get the tangle to lie flat enough for her to close the drawer.
She counted slowly up to
Similar Books
