Octagon Magic by Andre Norton

ahead was a brick house. The Octagon House!Lorrie's heart beat faster. Something, someone was waiting there for her and it was most important.
    Then the horse flung up his head and shook it. He stopped beside a big block of stone by an iron gate. Lorrie slipped out of the saddle to the stone and then to the ground. She had to gather the long folds of her skirt up over her arm or she would have tripped on them. But she opened the gate and walked up to the front door.
    There was a brass knocker there and Lorrie lifted it, letting it fall again with a loud bang. Only—there was no answer. No one came, and when she tried the door it was locked. Her happy excitement was gone, suddenly she shivered and was afraid.
    The wind blew dust at her and she closed her eyes. When she opened them there was no big door. She stood in front of the doll house. Her long skirt had vanished, everything was as it had been. Lorrie blinked rapidly. It was a dream, that was what it had been. But—she looked about the room—she did not want to stay in here any more.
    Nor did she want to explore any further. Swiftly she retraced her way back to the red room. There was only one threaded needle still unused at the side of the frame. Miss Ashemeade looked up as Lorrie hurried to the light of the window. It seemed to Lorrie as if in that glance Miss Ashemeade had learned all that had happened. She did not want to talk of the small house, or of the horse, not even to Miss Ashemeade.
    “Well, my dear, see, I have almost finished my morning's stint. Do you know what a stint is?”
    “No.” Lorrie sat down on the stool.
    “When I was young every little girl had a piece of needlework on which she did an allotted portion of work each day. That was her stint. It was an excellent way in which to learn both discipline and sewing.”
    She took up the last of the needles Lorrie had threaded. “Now, just this last small bit—”
    “Oh!” Lorrie cried out in admiration.
    In the picture there was now a small fawn standing beside the tree that had marked the edge of the filled space when she had come that morning. It was so real! Lorrie felt that if she put out a finger she would touch sun-warmed hide.
    “You like it?”
    “It is so real.”
    “Would you like to learn to do this?”
    “Could I? Could I really make something—a picture?”
    Again Miss Ashemeade gave her one of those long, piercing looks. “Not without a great deal of patience and hard work, Lorrie. And no haste, you must understand, no haste.”
    “Could I try?” Lorrie was only a little daunted.
    “We can always try—anything,” Miss Ashemeade answered. “Yes, you may try, Lorrie. You may begin this afternoon if you wish. But in the beginning you do not do this kind of work. Beginning is sometimes very dull and takes learning and practice.”
    “I would like to try, please,” Lorrie said.
    “Then you shall, and we will see if you have any gift for it. Now, dear, will you tell Hallie we are ready for lunch?”

Phineas and Phebe
    After that Saturday Lorrie found she was living two lives. But it was not confusing. In one she was Lorrie Mallard who went to school, who did her homework, who walked home with Kathy now and then, who had household tasks to do. But to be that Lorrie was not too hard because there was escape into Octagon House. She did not go too often, of course, though she tried to take the alley route by it each morning and evening, hurrying before and after that one stretch of walk so she could go more slowly there. And twice Hallie had been at the chained back gate with a note for Aunt Margaret, inviting Lorrie to more afternoons in Miss Ashemeade's big room.
    Miss Ashemeade had been very right in her warning that to learn to sew was a task. The needles and silks and wools never seemed to prick her fingers or tangle when she used them. Sometimes she worked on the canvas in the frame, or again she mended lace or one of the pieces that lay waiting on thetable. But she was