THE CICADA TREE by Robert Gwaltney

THE CICADA TREE by Robert Gwaltney

Author:Robert Gwaltney [Gwaltney, Robert]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Moonshine Cove Publishing, LLC
Published: 2022-01-20T05:00:00+00:00


Chapter 23

The inside of the conservatory was a profusion of elaborate detail, the overwhelming immensity of the place causing the pressure in my ears to shift, setting off a woozy spell—the sudden feeling I might keel over.

How might a body even venture to describe such a place—the arched panels, the hand-carved corbels, the putting of a jungle inside a room of glass?

Jane, equally undone by the sight of the Chrystal Palace, leaned into me, lingering for a moment, regaining her balance.

Abel was the first to speak, those chocolate drop eyes sweeping across the space. “Mon-u-mental.”

“I’ll say.” Jane blinked up into the trail of chandeliers lighting the intricately laid brickwork paths below.

The four fairies remained a good distance ahead, darting down the walk, paying no mind to the magnificence about them. The babbling fountains, statues tucked into the foliage—ancient marble faces keeping watch.

We followed behind, taking in the monumental place, walking to the assembly of people ahead. Drawing closer to the gathering, I could feel it, the shift, the slowing of time, that moment before something might happen. The moment before a wingless girl might be swept into a jar, lid screwed tight.

Shh . . . If you are quiet, you can hear it, even now, the moment I first heard Cordelia Mayfield laugh. Feathers. The sound of it was light as a fistful of feathers tossed into the air, drifting, and falling slowly to tickle.

I could see her only from behind, soft blond hair pulled and twisted into a chignon at the nape of her slender neck. Her back, bare to the waist—red gown smoldering against her cool nakedness. Cordelia Mayfield was magnificent, and I desperately wanted to be close to the bright and hot of her. Everyone did.

I slipped my fingers from Abel’s and Jane’s, shifting on my feet to test the queer terrain, toeing at the courage to move closer to the knot of people surrounding her.

“Who are all these folks?” I said. “I’ve never seen any of them before.”

Violins began to play, the source—a group of musicians positioned at the top of the floating stairs leading to the catwalk that surrounded the place.

“Most of them are visiting from other places. New York, Atlanta, Savannah,” Abel said. “The Mayfields know a lot of people.”

“New York? That’s a long ways away.” Jane said. It seemed to me that Mistletoe was a long ways away, a world separate from everything else.

“You see that man with the cigar?” Abel said. “He’s from Random House, a big publishing company up in New York City.”

“Wowie,” Jane said, smiling too big and wide at Abel.

“And you see that lady next to Miss Cordelia? The one with the black and white dress?”

I nodded. “Uh-huh.”

“That’s Miss JoAnne Woodward. She’s an actress.”

“How does she know the Mayfields?” Jane said.

“She’s originally from around these parts. She and Miss Cordelia have known each other for as long I’ve known the Mayfields. Probably longer.”

“She’s pretty,” Jane said, and she was, but her light, only an ember aside that Mayfield Shine.

Mrs. Mayfield laughed again.



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