A Map of Glass by Jane Urquhart

A Map of Glass by Jane Urquhart

Author:Jane Urquhart
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Fiction - General, Toronto (Ont.), Fiction, Literary, Psychological, Literature & Fiction, General, English Canadian Novel And Short Story
ISBN: 9781596922136
Publisher: MacAdam/Cage
Published: 2007-03-15T07:00:00+00:00


The attic where Marie slept was not heated like the rest of the house by fireplaces and Quebec stoves, but it was made almost habitable by the fact that the two huge chimneys, through which the smoke of the half-dozen hardwood fires passed, were fully exposed and their bricks were warm. Despite this, one night, after everyone else in the house was asleep, while Annabelle ascended the steep stairs with a combination of anticipation and misgivings, her entire body was covered with goosebumps as the cold slipped under her nightgown and up her legs. It was dark as pitch on the stairs and she believed that she had not made one sound, yet when she emerged into the attic, which was partially lit by a quarter moon, she could see that Marie was sitting up in her bed.

“Get in here,” the girl said. “Get in here or you’ll freeze.”

Annabelle made her way quickly across the room, then scrambled under the covers. Marie shifted to one side to allow some space and Annabelle was aware, for the first time in her life, of the warmth that the recent presence of another body lends to flannel sheets. “Have you been to sleep yet?” she asked.

Marie shook her head.

“Nor me. But, then, I knew I was coming up here later.”

“I knew that too.”

Annabelle was surprised by this revelation but decided not to let on. “What’s your favorite thing?” she asked.

“Night,” said Marie, “now. My bed is all that is mine.”

“But it’s not yours,” said Annabelle, proprietorship igniting briefly in her small self. Didn’t her father own the whole house and everything that was in it? For that matter, didn’t her father own the whole island and everyone on it, and all the ships that were built there and sailed to and from it, and all the timber that was rafted down the river? There was something unfair about this distribution of ownership and Annabelle knew it, even then. Still she added, “Your bed belongs to my father,” then to associate herself with this awesome power, “to my family.”

“But I am the only one here and I like that. And after I come up to bed at night and lie down, nobody tells me what to do.”

“I’m here with you now,” Annabelle persisted, “and if I told you to do something you’d have to do it.”

“I would not,” said the girl. “I would not because I’d say no.”

Annabelle believed that that was precisely what the girl would say and decided to pursue the notion of superiority no further. In truth she was relieved that she had been allowed entrance into the girl’s world, not sent away as she had suspected she might be.

Marie had the whole pillow. Her pillow, thought Annabelle. “Maybe,” she ventured, “if I asked nicely you would do it.”

“Maybe. What would you ask?”

“I would ask you about the orphanage.”

The nuns have no money, Marie told Annabelle; all the money goes to the monasteries where “there is nothing but men.” Some of



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