NIGHT FARE

5. The Attic

August draws to a close. It takes my hope with it. Hope that anything will happen.

I've spent almost two weeks here, exploring the gardens, reading countless books, napping in the conservatory, and enduring 10 lifetimes' worth of tea parties.

I've made approximately one friend and that's including Rosie. Aunt Vi encourages me to go down into town and mix with people my own age, but it's no use! I couldn't be more different than the provincial teens. I don't want to spend summer days at the river or date the neighbor boy that's never left England.

I want more. I just don't know what that more is.

At least I only have one month left here. My birthday is at the end of September and believe you me I am counting down the days.

Aunt Vi begrudgingly agreed to let me home-study for the time being. I couldn't bear the thought of joining the ritzy public school where Aunt Vi wanted to send me.

No, instead she's lined up a string of well sought-after tutors, each specializing in mathematics, sciences, and arts. I suppose I should appreciate it, considering anyone my age would be lucky to have such a finely tuned and personalized education.

I'm not sure math equations and science projects are the more I dream about.

Tomorrow is September 1st. It's also the first day of my new lessons.

"Bette, did you find those study books yet?" Aunt Vi calls from the drawing room.

"No, I'll check tonight!" I shout back.

I roll my eyes to the ceiling and continue my climb up the stairs. My fingers strum against the mahogany bannister I used to slide down as a child.

"If you can't find them in the guest room, check the attic." I hear her say, her voice faded by the floor between us now. "And that old violin is up there too. You'll need that for music study."

"Okay," I mumble.

Aunt Vi has me on the hunt for her old study books. I protested against using her 60-year-old curriculum, considering how much time has passed, but Aunt Vi is under the impression that not much has changed since she was my age. Just the thought warrants another involuntary eye roll.

I shower quickly, covering my hair as I do so. I change into my favorite library-lounging midi skirt and tuck in my blouse. It's the same blouse I wore to my very first tea at Emmerson Estate. I comb my hair back into a braided crown. After deciding there's nothing else to do, I leave my dimly lit bedroom and set off down the hall.

I don't find much in the (several) spare bedrooms or their multiple walk-in closets. There's nothing in the second-floor den either. Time to search the attic.

The last door at the end of the hall leads to a winding set of stairs. I twist the dusty knob, coughing as I inhale years' worth of nothingness.

Attic is not quite the correct term for this place. It's more of a third story with slanted ceilings and a crowded crawlspace. My eyes scan the room, overflowing with lost remnants of the last few decades -centuries even. Somewhere hidden in all this clutter is my horribly antiquated lesson plan.

I've never been up to this level of the mansion before. One time, my gran caught Kit and I trying to sneak through the attic door with taffy treats, but she put a swift end to that adventure.

The attic is dimly lit, ambient, with only a single oval window open to the outside. Moonlight pours inside and casts a white strip down the center of the floor. I move in closer, hesitant and quiet, as though I am afraid of waking some sleeping attic giant.

My knee knocks into the bureau beside the door. A sea glass vase topples onto its side; dried flowers crunch beneath my feet as I tiptoe across the untidy room. I'm certain I could find almost anything I need in here.

I see oil paintings of landscapes and cities and portraits -in all shapes and sizes. In one corner is an old keyboard and vintage looking violin resting besides stacks upon stacks of music sheets. There is another entire bookshelf that looks like overflow from the library downstairs. Fabrics (towels, curtains, and tablecloths) are rolled into neat spools and piled high against the wall.

A row of lamps stretches the length of the table in the middle. The lampshades are various shapes and colors and suffering from various stages of dust-coverage. The farthest corner is what catches my attention -literally.

I see my reflection in about one hundred different mirrors. I step closer, ducking under a broken chandelier and hanging candelabra. My fingers trail over the mirrors, over the ornate gold frames and thin silver ones, some with spotted glass and others with sepia colored film.

It's hard to imagine all these ever had a home on the levels below. Even Emmerson Estate is not large enough to warrant so many mirrors.

My eyes fall to another stack of boxes on the floor beside the largest mirror -six foot tall with sullied glass and a polished brass frame. I sit on the floor in front of it and watch my reflection reach for the nearest box.