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It was curious. It had obviously been
written by some person other than Bella, the author of the diary. Maggie had always
assumed that the diary had been a very private thing; that she shared its
exclusivity and sense of dark secrets only with its author. Here also
were the first signs of the diarist's distress.
She closed the book and helped Sam to put on his coat.
Ash was fascinated by the diary. He ordered Maggie to
make coffee while he leafed through its pages. Sam was allowed to play on the
floor with the doll. " Dwale ," he said,
"is an old witchy word for deadly nightshade.
You know, belladonna."
"That's why Bella says it has her name."
"Deadly is right. Don't be tempted to
try any of this. There are easier ways to cure a headache. But who is this
mysterious A.?"
"I don't know. She keeps cropping up,
doesn't she? I can't tell if she's a friend or an enemy."
"That's right. Bella seems uncertain
about it herself. I get the impression Bella is always looking over her
shoulder at A. There are some interesting recipes in here. Would you mind if I
copied them?"
Maggie did mind. She prickled. "No. Go ahead."
"Maybe you wouldn't mind lending it to me for a while."
She felt, not for the first time, the
thrill of possessiveness. "No. That's not possible."
Ash looked up from the pages and into her
eyes. "Not even for one night?"
"It's not possible."
Something told him not to push the matter.
He nodded. "I'll make some notes. If that's all right by
you."
They chatted about the contents of the diary as Ash
scribbled down some of the formulae. Much was already familiar to him, but one
or two concoctions took him by surprise. "Bella was into listening to the
wind. Have you tried it?"
"I have," said Maggie.
He looked up again. "Tell me about it."
Sam was happily playing on the
floor with his puppet. He wasn't dextrous enough to manipulate the strings, but
he cheerfully dragged the wooden doll across the floor and gave it a
half-formed voice. The doll told him it was sleepy, so he laid it on the floor
beside him and felt sleepy himself. He could hear his mother and Ash murmuring
at the back of the shop. Their soft, lilting voices retreated slowly, grew
muffled and far-off, and the distance between him and them seemed to expand.
Their presence diminished and grew cloudy, and his eyelids became heavy.
His arm holding the doll lifted slowly into the air.
The strings were held taut, the doll's feet lightly brushing the floor. He felt
a slight tug on the strings, and then another tug, in the direction of the
door. The door stood ajar. Sam looked up at the tiny, silent bell. Then he
looked out of the door and saw her.
It was the old woman. The old lady
who had stolen the doll from him last time they came in here. She was outside
on the catwalk, squatting, her back to the painted
safety railings. She was looking directly at him. She held out her hand with
her index finger crooked toward him. She made a trigger movement with her
finger, and the puppet strings went taut again, and tugged in her direction.
Sam looked from the puppet to the old woman. She repeated the gesture, and the
doll seemed to want to walk toward her. Dragging the puppet, Sam left the shop
and walked over to her. The sound of shoppers' activity on the level below
echoed strangely in his ears. Sounds, shouts became frozen.
Her eyes seemed washed out, only
vestigial traces of hazel colour remaining. She waited until Sam approached
her; then she moved her outstretched finger to her nose and pressed it. Her
tongue shot out. Sam giggled. Then she grabbed the loose flesh under her chin,
tugged it, and her tongue disappeared back into her mouth.
"Can you do it again?"
said Sam.
She did it again. Sam was
enchanted. Then the old woman straightened her back, beckoned him to follow
her, cocked her leg over the safety railings, and jumped.
They were four levels up. Sam leapt
at the railings and pressed his head to them. Down at ground level he could
It was curious. It had obviously been
written by some person other than Bella, the author of the diary. Maggie had always
assumed that the diary had been a very private thing; that she shared its
exclusivity and sense of dark secrets only with its author. Here also
were the first signs of the diarist's distress.
She closed the book and helped Sam to put on his coat.
Ash was fascinated by the diary. He ordered Maggie to
make coffee while he leafed through its pages. Sam was allowed to play on the
floor with the doll. " Dwale ," he said,
"is an old witchy word for deadly nightshade.
You know, belladonna."
"That's why Bella says it has her name."
"Deadly is right. Don't be tempted to
try any of this. There are easier ways to cure a headache. But who is this
mysterious A.?"
"I don't know. She keeps cropping up,
doesn't she? I can't tell if she's a friend or an enemy."
"That's right. Bella seems uncertain
about it herself. I get the impression Bella is always looking over her
shoulder at A. There are some interesting recipes in here. Would you mind if I
copied them?"
Maggie did mind. She prickled. "No. Go ahead."
"Maybe you wouldn't mind lending it to me for a while."
She felt, not for the first time, the
thrill of possessiveness. "No. That's not possible."
Ash looked up from the pages and into her
eyes. "Not even for one night?"
"It's not possible."
Something told him not to push the matter.
He nodded. "I'll make some notes. If that's all right by
you."
They chatted about the contents of the diary as Ash
scribbled down some of the formulae. Much was already familiar to him, but one
or two concoctions took him by surprise. "Bella was into listening to the
wind. Have you tried it?"
"I have," said Maggie.
He looked up again. "Tell me about it."
Sam was happily playing on the
floor with his puppet. He wasn't dextrous enough to manipulate the strings, but
he cheerfully dragged the wooden doll across the floor and gave it a
half-formed voice. The doll told him it was sleepy, so he laid it on the floor
beside him and felt sleepy himself. He could hear his mother and Ash murmuring
at the back of the shop. Their soft, lilting voices retreated slowly, grew
muffled and far-off, and the distance between him and them seemed to expand.
Their presence diminished and grew cloudy, and his eyelids became heavy.
His arm holding the doll lifted slowly into the air.
The strings were held taut, the doll's feet lightly brushing the floor. He felt
a slight tug on the strings, and then another tug, in the direction of the
door. The door stood ajar. Sam looked up at the tiny, silent bell. Then he
looked out of the door and saw her.
It was the old woman. The old lady
who had stolen the doll from him last time they came in here. She was outside
on the catwalk, squatting, her back to the painted
safety railings. She was looking directly at him. She held out her hand with
her index finger crooked toward him. She made a trigger movement with her
finger, and the puppet strings went taut again, and tugged in her direction.
Sam looked from the puppet to the old woman. She repeated the gesture, and the
doll seemed to want to walk toward her. Dragging the puppet, Sam left the shop
and walked over to her. The sound of shoppers' activity on the level below
echoed strangely in his ears. Sounds, shouts became frozen.
Her eyes seemed washed out, only
vestigial traces of hazel colour remaining. She waited until Sam approached
her; then she moved her outstretched finger to her nose and pressed it. Her
tongue shot out. Sam giggled. Then she grabbed the loose flesh under her chin,
tugged it, and her tongue disappeared back into her mouth.
"Can you do it again?"
said Sam.
She did it again. Sam was
enchanted. Then the old woman straightened her back, beckoned him to follow
her, cocked her leg over the safety railings, and jumped.
They were four levels up. Sam leapt
at the railings and pressed his head to them. Down at ground level he could
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