Flowers in the Attic by V.C. Andrews Page A

my children. They are of your flesh and blood too; keep that in your mind. They are very good children, but they are also normal children, and they need room to play and run and make noise. Do you expect them to speak in whispers? You don’t have to lock the door to this room; you can lock the door at the end of the hall. Now why can’t they have all the rooms of this north wing to use as their very own? I know you never cared for this older section very much.”
    The grandmother shook her head vigorously. “Corrine, I make the decisions here—not you! Do you think I can just close and lock the door to this wing and the servants won’t wonderwhy? Everything must stay just as it was. They understand why I keep this particular room locked, for the stairway to the attic is in here, and I don’t like for them to snoop around where they don’t belong. Very early in the mornings, I will bring the children food and milk—before the cook and the maids enter the kitchen. This north wing is never entered except on the last Friday of each month, when it is thoroughly cleaned. On those days, the children will hide in the attic until the maids finish. And before the maids enter, I myself will check everything over to see they leave behind no evidence of their occupancy.”
    Momma voiced more objections. “That is impossible! They are bound to give themselves away, leave a clue. Mother, lock the door at the end of the hall!”
    The grandmother gnashed her teeth. “Corrine, give me time; with time I can figure out some reason why the servants cannot enter this wing at all, even to clean. But I have to tread carefully, and not raise their suspicions. They don’t like me; they would run to your father with tales, hoping he would reward them. Can’t you see? The closure of this wing cannot coincide with your return, Corrine.”
    Our mother nodded, giving in. She and the grandmother plotted on and on, while Christopher and I grew sleepier and sleepier. It seemed an endless day. I wanted so much to crawl into the bed beside Carrie, and nestle down so I could fall into sweet oblivion, where problems didn’t live.
    Eventually, just when I thought she never would, Momma took notice of how tired Christopher and I were, and we were allowed to undress in the bathroom, and then to climb into bed—at long last.
    Momma came to me, looking tired and concerned, with dark shadows in her eyes, and she pressed her warm lips on my forehead. I saw tears glistening in the corners of her eyes, and her mascara pooled the tears into black streaks. Why was she crying again?
    “Go to sleep,” she said hoarsely. “Don’t worry. Pay no attentionto what you just heard. As soon as my father forgives me, and forgets what I did to displease him, he’ll open up his arms and welcome his grandchildren—the only grandchildren he’s likely to live long enough to see.”
    “Momma”—I frowned, full of anguish, “why do you keep crying so much?”
    With jerky movements she brushed away her tears and tried to smile. “Cathy, I’m afraid it may take more than just one day to win back my father’s affection and approval. It may take two days, or more.”
    “More?”
    “Maybe, maybe even a week, but not longer, possibly much less time. I just don’t know exactly . . . but it won’t be long. You can count on that.” Her soft hand smoothed back my hair. “Dear sweet Cathy, your father loved you so very much, and so do I.” She drifted over to Christopher, to kiss his forehead and stroke his hair, but what she whispered to him, I couldn’t hear.
    At the door she turned to say, “Have a good night’s rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow as soon as I can. You know my plans. I have to walk back to the train depot, and catch another train to Charlottesville where my two suitcases will be waiting, and tomorrow morning, early, I’ll taxi back here, and I’ll sneak up to visit with you when I can.”
    The grandmother ruthlessly shoved our mother through the