breakfast fills the room. I find a tin of biscuits in the larder, and my stomach stops aching as soon as I’ve eaten one. I put another in my pocket to take with me and go back to the staircase, lifting the lamp high to study the portraits with names engraved at the bottom of each frame that line the stairs. It appears to be a family history—
my
family history.
Father’s portrait is the most striking. He looks so young and happy. His face smooth and unlined, not yet furrowed by the effects of his illness.
“A fine likeness, I assure you. Although it does not bear much resemblance now.”
A voice comes from behind me and I gasp, almost dropping the lamp.
“I’m sorry, my dear. I did not mean to frighten you.” Grand-père is still dressed for dinner, though his cravat has been loosened and he wears slippers. “I saw your light from my study. I take it you couldn’t sleep, either?”
“I … I was feeling ill and thought some biscuits might settle my stomach.”
“Don’t tell Cook, but goose liver always upsets mydigestion as well.” He gives me a kind smile. “Come with me. I have something that might help.”
I follow him into his study. A large desk sits in the middle of the room, with a framed piece of parchment displayed prominently on the wall behind it. As I move closer, I see the words
The Unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America
written across the top of the paper. On either side of the frame, long plumed pens are hung. Grand-père gestures for me to take a seat on a couch opposite the desk, and I do so.
“Is that something you have written, Grand-père?” I ask, nodding toward the frame.
He casts a glance at the wall. “That? Oh, no, my dear. That is hanging there because it is a piece of our history. Composed by Thomas Jefferson and adopted not far from here at Independence Hall. This document was how our great nation of America was born.”
“And they gave it to you? How wonderful!”
Grand-père chuckles and opens a nearby cabinet. “Alas, it is merely a copy. But I am indeed lucky to own even that.” He returns with a bottle filled with amber liquid and two empty glasses. “Just a nip now,” he says, setting the bottle on the desk. He pours asmall amount into a glass and hands it to me. “Here we are.”
My fingers are steady as I accept the drink. The smell of it burns my nose, but I watch as he pours the second glass and sips it slowly. I imitate his gesture and a fiery path traces its way along my throat and down into my stomach, leaving behind a curiously numb sensation.
“Brandy. Good for whatever ails you.” Grand-père lifts his glass high. He drains the rest of it with one swallow. I move to do the same, but he stops me. “Tut, tut, tut. You’ll want to continue at a pace slower than mine. Wouldn’t do to upset your stomach further.”
He pours himself another glass and sits at the desk. I settle into the couch, drawing my feet up beneath me, and continue to drink slowly. The room grows warmer with every sip I take, but the warmth is soothing. As though I’m being cosseted by a soft blanket. I shift again, and the book in my pocket bumps against me. “Do you know it’s the Year of the Dog?” I say.
“Is it?” Grand-père looks surprised. “And how have you come to this conclusion?”
I withdraw Mother’s book from my pocket and open it carefully, trying to find the right page. Myfinger does not want to mark its place. It keeps moving around. “It’s here.” I glance down, frowning. “No, here.” I’m on the correct page now, and I hold it up briefly for him to see. “This is the Chinese zodiac calendar. Based upon the
Shi Jing
, or
The Book of Songs
. It says that every year is assigned an animal, and people born during that year will share the same traits as that animal.”
“Fascinating. Do go on.”
I grasp the book firmly and focus on the chart in front of me. “According to the Chinese zodiac, 1826 is the Year of
my
family history.
Father’s portrait is the most striking. He looks so young and happy. His face smooth and unlined, not yet furrowed by the effects of his illness.
“A fine likeness, I assure you. Although it does not bear much resemblance now.”
A voice comes from behind me and I gasp, almost dropping the lamp.
“I’m sorry, my dear. I did not mean to frighten you.” Grand-père is still dressed for dinner, though his cravat has been loosened and he wears slippers. “I saw your light from my study. I take it you couldn’t sleep, either?”
“I … I was feeling ill and thought some biscuits might settle my stomach.”
“Don’t tell Cook, but goose liver always upsets mydigestion as well.” He gives me a kind smile. “Come with me. I have something that might help.”
I follow him into his study. A large desk sits in the middle of the room, with a framed piece of parchment displayed prominently on the wall behind it. As I move closer, I see the words
The Unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America
written across the top of the paper. On either side of the frame, long plumed pens are hung. Grand-père gestures for me to take a seat on a couch opposite the desk, and I do so.
“Is that something you have written, Grand-père?” I ask, nodding toward the frame.
He casts a glance at the wall. “That? Oh, no, my dear. That is hanging there because it is a piece of our history. Composed by Thomas Jefferson and adopted not far from here at Independence Hall. This document was how our great nation of America was born.”
“And they gave it to you? How wonderful!”
Grand-père chuckles and opens a nearby cabinet. “Alas, it is merely a copy. But I am indeed lucky to own even that.” He returns with a bottle filled with amber liquid and two empty glasses. “Just a nip now,” he says, setting the bottle on the desk. He pours asmall amount into a glass and hands it to me. “Here we are.”
My fingers are steady as I accept the drink. The smell of it burns my nose, but I watch as he pours the second glass and sips it slowly. I imitate his gesture and a fiery path traces its way along my throat and down into my stomach, leaving behind a curiously numb sensation.
“Brandy. Good for whatever ails you.” Grand-père lifts his glass high. He drains the rest of it with one swallow. I move to do the same, but he stops me. “Tut, tut, tut. You’ll want to continue at a pace slower than mine. Wouldn’t do to upset your stomach further.”
He pours himself another glass and sits at the desk. I settle into the couch, drawing my feet up beneath me, and continue to drink slowly. The room grows warmer with every sip I take, but the warmth is soothing. As though I’m being cosseted by a soft blanket. I shift again, and the book in my pocket bumps against me. “Do you know it’s the Year of the Dog?” I say.
“Is it?” Grand-père looks surprised. “And how have you come to this conclusion?”
I withdraw Mother’s book from my pocket and open it carefully, trying to find the right page. Myfinger does not want to mark its place. It keeps moving around. “It’s here.” I glance down, frowning. “No, here.” I’m on the correct page now, and I hold it up briefly for him to see. “This is the Chinese zodiac calendar. Based upon the
Shi Jing
, or
The Book of Songs
. It says that every year is assigned an animal, and people born during that year will share the same traits as that animal.”
“Fascinating. Do go on.”
I grasp the book firmly and focus on the chart in front of me. “According to the Chinese zodiac, 1826 is the Year of
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