The thirteenth tale by Diane Setterfield Page B

facts together, biographer,
and what do you get? The end of the story, I think.“
     
    I bit my lip. “And why not write the book yourself?”
     
    ‘I have left it too late. Besides, who would believe me? I have
cried wolf too often.“
     
    ‘Do you intend to tell me the truth?“ I asked.
     
    ‘Yes,“ she said, but I had heard the hesitation even though it
lasted only a fraction of a second.
     
    ‘And why do you want to tell it to me?“
     
    She paused. “Do you know, I have been asking myself the very
same question for the last quarter of an hour. Just what kind of a person are
you, Miss Lea?”
     
    I fixed my mask in place before replying. “I am a shop
assistant. I work in an antiquarian bookshop. I am an amateur biographer.
Presumably you have read my work on the Landier brothers? ”
     
    ‘It’s not much to go on, is it? If we are to work together, I
shall need to know a little more about who you are. I can hardly spill the
secrets of a lifetime to a person of whom I know nothing. So, tell me about
yourself. What are your favorite books? What do you dream about? Whom do you
love?“
     
    On the instant I was too affronted to reply.
     
    ‘Well, answer me! For goodness’ sake! Am I to have a stranger
living under my roof? A stranger working for me? It is not reasonable. Tell me
this, do you believe in ghosts?“
     
    Governed by something stronger than reason, I rose from my
chair.
     
    ‘Whatever are you doing? Where are you going? Wait!“
     
    I took one step after another, trying not to run, conscious of
the rhythm of my feet rapping out on the wooden boards, while she called to me
in a voice that contained an edge of panic.
     
    ‘Come back!“ she cried. ”I am going to tell you a story—a
marvelous story!“
     
    I did not stop.
     
    ‘Once upon a time there was a haunted house—“
     
    I reached the door. My fingers closed on the handle.
     
    ‘Once upon a time there was a library—“
     
    I opened the door and was about to step into its emptiness when,
in a ice hoarse with something like fear, she launched the words that stopped
me in my tracks.
     
    ‘Once upon a time there were twins—“
     
    I waited until the words stopped their ringing in the air and
then, despite herself, I looked back. I saw the back of a head, and hands that
rose, trembling, to the averted face.
     
    Tentatively I took a step back into the room. At the sound of my
feet, the copper curls turned.
     
    I was stunned. The glasses were gone. Green eyes, bright as
glass and as real, looked to me with something like a plea. For a moment I
simply stared back. Then, “Miss Lea, won’t you please sit down,” said a ice
shakily, a voice that was and was not Vida Winter’s.
     
    Drawn by something beyond my control, I moved toward the chair
and sat down.
     
    ‘I’m not making any promises,“ I said wearily.
     
    ‘I’m not in a position to exact any,“ came the answer in a small
ice.
     
    Truce.
     
    “Why did you choose me?” I asked again, and this time she
answered.
     
    ‘Because of your work on the Landier brothers. Because you know
about siblings.“
     
    ‘And will you tell me the truth?“
     
    ‘I will tell you the truth.“
     
    The words were unambiguous enough, but I heard the tremor that
determined them. She meant to tell me the truth, I did not doubt it. She had
decided to tell. Perhaps she even wanted to tell. Only she did not quite
believe that she would. Her promise of honesty was spoken as much to convince
herself as to persuade me, and she heard the lack of conviction at its heart as
clearly as I did.
     
    And so I made a suggestion. “I will ask you three things. Things
that are a matter of public record. When I leave here, I will be able to check
what you tell me. If I find you have told me the truth about them, I will
accept the commission.”
     
    ‘Ah, the rule of three… The magic number. Three trials before
the prince wins the hand of