was being led against their will, halting just over the threshold and looking about with trepidation, noticing details that she had overlooked for years.
Her tiny rocking chair, bought years ago when she was still small enough to occupy it, sat in a far corner. A rag doll, with stringy braids and a smudged and faded face, lounged casually in the seat, wrapped in the remnants of her much used and treasured security blanket. It was here, near the window curtained in delicate mallow colored brocade matching the spread and silk canopy of her tester bed, she had often waited patiently for her father. Rocking and watching down the road, as the day drew to a close, to see his carriage come around the bend and then rushing to meet him at the front door.
Beautiful porcelain dolls, dressed in the most festive attire of their homelands were displayed lovingly upon a heavy oak shelf above her dressing table—gifts from her father. Whenever he arrived home from a trip abroad, she would be waiting at the front door, bright-eyed and expectant; to see what new face she would have to add to her collection.
Desiree turned about and her eyes fell across a familiar painting gracing the far wall and she crossed the room to stand before it. It was a scene of a little girl and her dog playing on a sunny afternoon. Her mother had painted this. She had been quite an accomplished artist and had spent many hours teaching herself the craft, by trial and error. Often she could be found sitting in a straight backed chair on the front lawn, with an easel before her—her face, hair and clothing, touched haphazardly with brilliant hues, as she attempted to bring a tree or a bed of flowers to life upon her canvas.
Desiree remembered well her mother asking her to run along the shore of the lake with her dog while she quickly caught the antics with bristle and canvas; and since its completion, the painting had graced this wall as a silent testimony to things past.
Life had changed so very much since this painting had been completed. The grove of young saplings, that lined part of the lake were now full grown trees. The dog, a sweet and shaggy black mutt, had long since run away as abruptly as he had come to live with the Chandelles. The little girl, no more than four years old at the time, with ebony hair whipping about her as she ran with the dog trailing behind, was now grown. And the artist, her beautiful mother, was gone forever.
Desiree stood before the painting, lost in thought. She did not hear the silent intruder, quietly moving closer and closer behind her. White-hot pain exploded in her head and lights flickered before her eyes, then when out, as she crumpled like a marionette whose strings suddenly had been snipped.
***
“Mary! In here—Desiree’s room!”
Bridgett coughed and choked as the acrid smoke burned her eyes and throat. She fell to her knees beside Desiree, turning her to her back and brushing hair from her pale face. Mary rushed in with her apron held to her mouth to filter the deadly fumes.
“Oh Lord! Is she dead?” she cried.
“Mary, help me.” Bridgett gasped, as she attempted to lift Desiree, “Let’s get her out of here, the whole house is going up.”
Bridgett and Mary struggled to pick Desiree up between them, grasping her about the waist and pulling her arms over their shoulders. They staggered from the room and along the smoke filled hall, using a small window at the top of the stairs, to gage their progress.
Reaching the flight, they could see flames licking at the main hall. Sheers and heavy velvet draperies over the front windows were falling in flaming tatters to the oaken floors. The arch of the front hall was a blaze of shimmering light dropping crimson embers in a shower to the entryway below.
With no other choice, they grasp the banister and drug Desiree down the stairs between them, making their way to the front door and struggling to open it. The cool air from outdoors rushed in through
Her tiny rocking chair, bought years ago when she was still small enough to occupy it, sat in a far corner. A rag doll, with stringy braids and a smudged and faded face, lounged casually in the seat, wrapped in the remnants of her much used and treasured security blanket. It was here, near the window curtained in delicate mallow colored brocade matching the spread and silk canopy of her tester bed, she had often waited patiently for her father. Rocking and watching down the road, as the day drew to a close, to see his carriage come around the bend and then rushing to meet him at the front door.
Beautiful porcelain dolls, dressed in the most festive attire of their homelands were displayed lovingly upon a heavy oak shelf above her dressing table—gifts from her father. Whenever he arrived home from a trip abroad, she would be waiting at the front door, bright-eyed and expectant; to see what new face she would have to add to her collection.
Desiree turned about and her eyes fell across a familiar painting gracing the far wall and she crossed the room to stand before it. It was a scene of a little girl and her dog playing on a sunny afternoon. Her mother had painted this. She had been quite an accomplished artist and had spent many hours teaching herself the craft, by trial and error. Often she could be found sitting in a straight backed chair on the front lawn, with an easel before her—her face, hair and clothing, touched haphazardly with brilliant hues, as she attempted to bring a tree or a bed of flowers to life upon her canvas.
Desiree remembered well her mother asking her to run along the shore of the lake with her dog while she quickly caught the antics with bristle and canvas; and since its completion, the painting had graced this wall as a silent testimony to things past.
Life had changed so very much since this painting had been completed. The grove of young saplings, that lined part of the lake were now full grown trees. The dog, a sweet and shaggy black mutt, had long since run away as abruptly as he had come to live with the Chandelles. The little girl, no more than four years old at the time, with ebony hair whipping about her as she ran with the dog trailing behind, was now grown. And the artist, her beautiful mother, was gone forever.
Desiree stood before the painting, lost in thought. She did not hear the silent intruder, quietly moving closer and closer behind her. White-hot pain exploded in her head and lights flickered before her eyes, then when out, as she crumpled like a marionette whose strings suddenly had been snipped.
***
“Mary! In here—Desiree’s room!”
Bridgett coughed and choked as the acrid smoke burned her eyes and throat. She fell to her knees beside Desiree, turning her to her back and brushing hair from her pale face. Mary rushed in with her apron held to her mouth to filter the deadly fumes.
“Oh Lord! Is she dead?” she cried.
“Mary, help me.” Bridgett gasped, as she attempted to lift Desiree, “Let’s get her out of here, the whole house is going up.”
Bridgett and Mary struggled to pick Desiree up between them, grasping her about the waist and pulling her arms over their shoulders. They staggered from the room and along the smoke filled hall, using a small window at the top of the stairs, to gage their progress.
Reaching the flight, they could see flames licking at the main hall. Sheers and heavy velvet draperies over the front windows were falling in flaming tatters to the oaken floors. The arch of the front hall was a blaze of shimmering light dropping crimson embers in a shower to the entryway below.
With no other choice, they grasp the banister and drug Desiree down the stairs between them, making their way to the front door and struggling to open it. The cool air from outdoors rushed in through
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