The Ghosts of Kerfol by Deborah Noyes

Author:Deborah Noyes [Noyes, Deborah]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 978-0-7636-6411-4
Publisher: Candlewick Press
Published: 2008-09-19T04:00:00+00:00

Mother woke him in his bed, but only after the trunks were packed.

In a silky bustling of widow’s silk, she peeled the covers back and cursed the paint everywhere. “Oh, Victor, not you as well as the stairs!” She barked for Michel, whose footfalls came nearer. “Victor, look at you. Covered . . .”

He cringed like a child as she heaved the blankets away, curling out of her reach. “I don’t care if I never come back here,” he told the pillow, feeling the full wrath of his father’s memory.

“Look at you . . . foolish boy. You’re not well again. Up, now!” She slapped his behind, and he rolled sullenly away. “See what Mother has for you in the carriage . . .”

“Or if I die penniless —”

“You’ll have that chance after I’m dead. Only then, my boy —”

The servant heaved him up with that drab, knowing expression Victor hated. Michel, who had lifted him before, seemed especially despicable now, with his strong forearms hooking Victor’s armpits.

“Take me from here,” he begged. “Those dogs —”

“We’ll take you . . . if you’ll stand up.”

He did, and Mother held his sticky hands high for Michel to rub with turpentine. “What dogs, Victor?” She held him clear of her silks — not wishing to squander her newfound wealth so quickly — as Michel shoved and groped him with the rancid rag. “Hadn’t you better learn to control these fits? You’re an heir now.” She smiled at Michel, and together they led Victor blithering down the staircase, out into the empty yard, over the pebbled drive, into the waiting carriage. “A man of means.”

He breathed the good smell of horses as Michel snapped the whip and Mother snatched a page from the coach seat, rattling it gleefully in his face. “The ink is dry, my boy. Rejoice.”

He cast one last look down the avenue, growing smaller behind them, and knew he was forgetting something. Something he would not recover, and even as Mother stroked his pale forehead, it was already a dim memory.

“My own little man.”

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