The Janus Gate by Douglas Rees

Author:Douglas Rees
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, mystery, history, art, painting, middle grade, museum, drawing
Publisher: Short Fuse Publishing

TWELVE

The Plea

The new strokes of gray went on quickly the next morning, and this time I was not alone. Far from it.

Florence and Jane came silently into the foyer to watch as I started work. They were companioned by Popau, who came cradled in Florence’s arms. Florence’s eyes seemed turned inward, away from where we were. Jane’s face was a study in arrogance.

After they had looked on for ten minutes or so, I said, “Hello, Florence, hello, Jane. Hello, Popau. Did you enjoy Versailles?”

“Too cold, too old,” Florence said. “Too many rooms, too many dooms.”

“There’s a room full of mirrors there,” Jane said. “It was too silly.” “So—it was too chilly and too silly?” I said.

“Yesterday. What happened to you, and what did you do?” Florence asked.

“I painted and painted, but I never fainted,” I said.

“Did anything dare you, did anything scare you?” Florence said.

“I don’t scare so easily, I don’t scare so queasily,” I said.

“Why do you talk to Florence in rhymes, Uncle Sargent?” Jane sneered.

“Because she talks to me in them,” I said.

“I think it sounds stupid when you do it,” she said.

“Perhaps you’re right,” I said. “But I enjoy speaking with Florence however she chooses to talk.”

“Do you enjoy it when I kick you?” Jane asked.

“Hardly,” I said. “I slept with the light on last night for fear of Jane Boit’s big, fierce feet.”

“Ha, ha,” Jane said. “They’re coming to get you.”

She came stamping across the floor toward me with her arms over her head.

I backed up, taking us out of the line of sight of Florence and Popau, and anything that might be watching from the mirror.

“Ha, ha,” she said loudly, and backed me into a corner.

She kicked me again, in the other leg this time, and shrieked, “Gotcha!”

And from under her pinafore she produced another scrap of paper and dropped it.

“Agh!” I screamed, and covered the paper with my foot.

Florence sidled into view, Popau held before her like a breastplate.

“Come, Jane,” she said.

“You’re a stupid man, Uncle Sargent!” Jane shouted, and ran to her sister.

They went clattering away.

“This doll is stupid,” Florence said, and threw it down at the foot of one of the vases.

I picked up the paper.

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