Miss Poppy,” said Mohan. “In India the peacock is a divine bird, and finding a feather brings good luck, harmony and peace of mind.”
“How wonderful that sounds,” said Drucilla.
From inside the house came the sound of a dinner gong.
“I must go,” said Drucilla. She hugged all of us again – hard – before she went running off, calling as she went, “I shall expect to see you tomorrow!”
After dinner, Connie’s wish was answered.
“Pierre tells me you play the piano, my dear,” said Mr Petrov. “Would you treat us to some music?”
You might think that with Connie being so shy she wouldn’t want to perform for strangers. However, you’d be quite wrong. She was always happy to do so. I’d asked her about it once and she’d surprised me with her answer.
“They aren’t listening to
me
, so why should I be nervous? They’re listening to the music.”
Her only request to Mr Petrov was that she have some time to practise first.
The piano was in the drawing room or, as the Petrovs called it, the Indian room. While Connie played her scales, Poppy and I wandered around. There was a lot to look at. A tiger-skin rug with the head still attached, engraved brass trays, painted wooden furniture, an intricately carved screen, lacquered bowls filled with multicoloured gemstones, elephants carved from ebony, ivory and jade, embroidered panels of flowers and fruit and, on either side of the mantelpiece, huge vases of peacock feathers. The Indian room was fascinating … and overwhelming. Besides which, I thought, dusting this lot must be a nightmare.
“Oh,” breathed Poppy, pointing to a chess set laid out on a small table. “So delicant.”
Fierce miniature warriors wearing turbans and waving swords were mounted on tiny horses. They were perfect in every detail.
“Isn’t it just?” I said. “Look at the pawns, Poppy.”
Very carefully, I picked one up. Out of the blue my fingers started to itch and, as if all the lamps were suddenly extinguished, the room went dark.
The chess pieces were scattered as if they’d been swept impatiently from the board and Mr Petrov, younger and stronger than he was now, was shaking his head in disbelief. Helen, with eyes reddened from crying, was staring straight in front of her. I glimpsed, in the corner of the room, a wide bed. A white sheet was pulled up to completely cover three small, still shapes.
Then the scene changed. I was no longer in the room, but outside, up high on a balcony overlooking a city. The last rays of a fiery sunset painted the stone pillars and potted palms with red, bright orange and lurid pink. A man moved into view. How handsome he is, I thought. His hair was dark but his eyes were sky blue with black lashes. Like a picture of a hero in a book he was almost too handsome to be real.
But he was angry. Anger swirled around him like a thunderstorm.
“Together, at last,” he said.
Voices, close by. They belonged to Helen, Mr Petrov and Papa. I became aware of Connie’s rippling chords and arpeggios, then Poppy’s hand on my arm.
“Are you orright? You’ve gone all funny again.”
“… at the soirée tomorrow night,” Helen was saying. “Don’t you think so, Verity?”
I tried to answer but the words wouldn’t come, for I was having trouble coming back to the present. The room was full of sorrow. It rose up like mist and blotted out the carved elephants and peacock feathers and tiger-skin rug. It twined around the furniture and hid the walls. It was as thick and muffling as a London fog.
“I was just saying that Connie must accompany me at the Levinys’ tomorrow night. I can play, but not nearly as well as she can. She’s very talented, isn’t she?”
“I … yes …” I had to get out of that room.
Helen said in a worried tone, “Dear, are you all right?”
“I need … some fresh air,” I gasped as I hurried out.
I lay on my bed for ten or fifteen minutes, breathing slowly, deeply, counting the breaths in
“How wonderful that sounds,” said Drucilla.
From inside the house came the sound of a dinner gong.
“I must go,” said Drucilla. She hugged all of us again – hard – before she went running off, calling as she went, “I shall expect to see you tomorrow!”
After dinner, Connie’s wish was answered.
“Pierre tells me you play the piano, my dear,” said Mr Petrov. “Would you treat us to some music?”
You might think that with Connie being so shy she wouldn’t want to perform for strangers. However, you’d be quite wrong. She was always happy to do so. I’d asked her about it once and she’d surprised me with her answer.
“They aren’t listening to
me
, so why should I be nervous? They’re listening to the music.”
Her only request to Mr Petrov was that she have some time to practise first.
The piano was in the drawing room or, as the Petrovs called it, the Indian room. While Connie played her scales, Poppy and I wandered around. There was a lot to look at. A tiger-skin rug with the head still attached, engraved brass trays, painted wooden furniture, an intricately carved screen, lacquered bowls filled with multicoloured gemstones, elephants carved from ebony, ivory and jade, embroidered panels of flowers and fruit and, on either side of the mantelpiece, huge vases of peacock feathers. The Indian room was fascinating … and overwhelming. Besides which, I thought, dusting this lot must be a nightmare.
“Oh,” breathed Poppy, pointing to a chess set laid out on a small table. “So delicant.”
Fierce miniature warriors wearing turbans and waving swords were mounted on tiny horses. They were perfect in every detail.
“Isn’t it just?” I said. “Look at the pawns, Poppy.”
Very carefully, I picked one up. Out of the blue my fingers started to itch and, as if all the lamps were suddenly extinguished, the room went dark.
The chess pieces were scattered as if they’d been swept impatiently from the board and Mr Petrov, younger and stronger than he was now, was shaking his head in disbelief. Helen, with eyes reddened from crying, was staring straight in front of her. I glimpsed, in the corner of the room, a wide bed. A white sheet was pulled up to completely cover three small, still shapes.
Then the scene changed. I was no longer in the room, but outside, up high on a balcony overlooking a city. The last rays of a fiery sunset painted the stone pillars and potted palms with red, bright orange and lurid pink. A man moved into view. How handsome he is, I thought. His hair was dark but his eyes were sky blue with black lashes. Like a picture of a hero in a book he was almost too handsome to be real.
But he was angry. Anger swirled around him like a thunderstorm.
“Together, at last,” he said.
Voices, close by. They belonged to Helen, Mr Petrov and Papa. I became aware of Connie’s rippling chords and arpeggios, then Poppy’s hand on my arm.
“Are you orright? You’ve gone all funny again.”
“… at the soirée tomorrow night,” Helen was saying. “Don’t you think so, Verity?”
I tried to answer but the words wouldn’t come, for I was having trouble coming back to the present. The room was full of sorrow. It rose up like mist and blotted out the carved elephants and peacock feathers and tiger-skin rug. It twined around the furniture and hid the walls. It was as thick and muffling as a London fog.
“I was just saying that Connie must accompany me at the Levinys’ tomorrow night. I can play, but not nearly as well as she can. She’s very talented, isn’t she?”
“I … yes …” I had to get out of that room.
Helen said in a worried tone, “Dear, are you all right?”
“I need … some fresh air,” I gasped as I hurried out.
I lay on my bed for ten or fifteen minutes, breathing slowly, deeply, counting the breaths in
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