by Andre Norton
“I didn't want to go with the Lockners.”
“Lorrie, you can't have your way about such things. It is not safe for girls your age to go about alone. All sorts of accidents can happen. And you are alone too much. Mrs. Lockner said that Kathy wanted you to go to the show with her this afternoon and you would not.”
“It was an old monster picture and I don't like them. And I had my homework to do.” Lorrie crumpled her papers in her hand.
“I am not going to argue with you, Lorrie. But neither am I going to allow you to continue in this way. From now on, when I am not at home, you are to go to Mrs. Lockner's— until I can make other arrangements.”
Aunt Margaret stood up and picked up her coat. She went to the hallway and Lorrie trailed her, appalled at this idea of a future spent always with Kathy, and Rob, and probably Jimmy Purvis, too, he being one of Rob's close friends.
As she passed the coffee table, Aunt Margaret paused by the library books.
“To make this clearer, Lorrie, these books are going into the closet to stay until you prove you can be trusted to do what is right.” And she took them both.
Lorrie listlessly put her school books and papers together. It wasn't fair! Kathy was one kind of person and she another. If she had to be with Kathy all the time, she couldn't stand it! And—and she would never get to visit Octagon House again.
That was the beginning of the bad week, and it seemed to Lorrie that it was never going to have an end. She went to school with Kathy and had to take part in a basketball game, which she detested. Her awkwardness always brought down upon her the impatience of her teammates. She made a poor mark in math, and Mrs. Raymond said her fall leaves story was fanciful but had too many spelling mistakes. Jimmy Purvis sang his hideous song in the yard and some of the girls picked it up. And Aunt Margaret questioned her a lot about school and how many friends she had and why didn't she do this or that, even saying she was going to have a serious talk with Mrs. Raymond.
Lorrie felt as if she were tied up in a bag, with no chance to be herself. By Friday night she was so unhappy that she felt she could not stand much more.
But on Friday the worst of all happened. Because Aunt Margaret had said she must stay at the Lockners’ after school, Lorrie had had to take some of her things over there. And this time she brought the small, old lap desk Grandmother Mal lard had given her. She wanted to write Grandmother a very special letter, not a complaining one, because Dr. Creighton had explained to Lorrie carefully when Grandmother had had to go to England that she must not be worried in any way.
Because this had been such a bad week, Lorrie had been afraid to write for fear some complaints might seep in de spite her efforts. But she wrote Grandmother regularly and must not wait any longer. She had a first draft on notebook paper and must make another on the special paper Grand mother had given her with her name at the top of each sheet.
Lorrie laid her paper out on the card table Mrs. Lockner allowed her to set up. Then the phone rang and Mrs. Lockner called her to answer because it was Aunt Margaret saying she would be detained until late and to stay where she was.
There was no use in protesting, but Lorrie was unhappy as she came back. Then her eyes went wide and all the unhappiness of the week exploded inside her.
“Give me that!” She grabbed as what Kathy had taken from the desk.
“Let me look first.” Kathy, laughing, jumped away, swinging her hand out of Lorrie's reach. “What a funny old doll. You still play with dolls, Lorrie? Only little kids do that.”
In her grasp the old doll dangled too loosely. The delicate china head struck hard against the wall and smashed into pieces.
“Miranda!” Lorrie sprang at Kathy, standing disconcerted now over the broken bits of china. She slapped her as hard as she could. “Give me—!”
“All right, take it!” Kathy threw the headless body at Lorrie and it sprawled half in, half out, of the writing desk.
Lorrie scooped up desk and all and ran, out of the Lockner apartment. She was fumbling with her own key when Mrs. Lockner caught up with her.
“Lorrie, what is the matter? Tell me at once!”
Lorrie struggled against the hand on her shoulder. “Let me alone! Can't you ever let me alone!” She was crying now in spite of her efforts not to.
“Why did you slap Kathy? Lorrie, tell me, what is the matter?”
“Let me alone!” The key was in the lock now. With a sharp jerk Lorrie freed herself from Mrs. Lockner's hold and got around the door. The writing desk and the paper fell all over the floor, but those did not matter now. What did, she still held in her arm tight against her chest.
Lorrie turned and slammed the door right in Mrs. Lockner's face, locking it quickly. She heard them calling, knocking on the door. Let everyone yell and bang—it wouldn't do them any good! Crying so hard she could hardly see, Lorrie made the bedroom and flung herself on her bed. She felt the hard lump of Miranda under her, but she could not bear now to look at that headless body.
Miranda had been extra special. She was not just a doll, but a person, and she was very, very old. Grandmother had played with her when she was little, very carefully, because even then Miranda was special. Grandmother's own grand mother had had Miranda. She was more than a hundred years old! Now—now—Miranda wasn't anything!
Lorrie rolled over on the bed and made herself look at the remains. The small arms and hands of leather were intact, and the black boots and legs covered with red-and-white striped stockings were as always. But, above the old-fashioned dress Grandmother had made, the head and shoulders were gone, only one little jagged splinter was left. Miranda was dead and Kathy had killed her! She would never, never speak to Kathy Lockner again! Nor would she ever go back to the Lockner apartment.
Still gulping sobs, she got off the bed and went to the chest of drawers. She found the handkerchief Grandmother had given her. That was old, too, soft heavy silk, yellow now, with a big, fat initial G and some marks over it embroidered in one corner. It had belonged to Grandmother's father.
Tenderly she wrapped Miranda in it. Miranda was dead and Lorrie could not bear to look at her again. They might even say to throw her out in the trash, just an old broken doll. But Miranda was not going into any trash can, she was going to be buried where there were flowers in summer.
And the place—the Octagon House! Lorrie put on her coat and cap. She opened the back service door and, with Miranda in her hand, crept down the back steps. It was get ting dark out, but she did not have far to go. In her other hand was the big spoon she had picked up in the kitchen. She could dig a grave with that. She only hoped the ground was not frozen too hard.
Lorrie ran across the parking lot and out the other end, and came to the gate that she had climbed on her first visit. There were no lights at all in the house that she could see, and the bushes and trees made it seem very dark. But Lorrie was too unhappy to be afraid.
Hallie had done something to the upper bar of the gate to open it. But then Hallie had been on the other side. Lorrie had best climb again. She had laid her hand on the gate to do just that when it gave and swung a little, easier than when Hallie had opened it for her. Then she stood on the shadow-patched brick walk.
The flower beds in the back—they ought to be easier to dig in. Heedless of the shadows, Lorrie hurried to the place by the pool. There she squatted to dig with her spoon.
There was no wind tonight, so she heard the tapping sharp and clear. Lorrie turned her head to look at the house. There were the windows with the curtains. And now there was a light there, not bright, but enough to show the lady who was leaning forward with her face quite close to the glass. And it was not Hallie.
For a long moment Lorrie was startled, too startled to run as she might have done. Then she saw that the lady was not frowning or looking in the least cross as she might have been at someone digging in her garden. Instead she smiled, and now she beckoned to Lorrie, and pointed in the direction of the back door.
Lorrie
hesitated and then got to her feet, still pressing Miranda close to her. Then the lady tapped again and once more pointed. Lorrie obeyed, walking along the brick path.
The door swung open before she had quite reached the steps, and Hallie greeted her. “Mis’ Lorrie, come in, come! Mis’ Ashemeade, she wants to see you.”
Lorrie came into a hall that had darkish corners in spite of a lamp set up on a wall bracket. Is was triangular in shape with a door in each wall. One opened into a kitchen, and Lorrie could see part of a stove. The other, to her right, opened into the room of the curtained windows. Hallie pointed to that.
“Go right in.”
Lorrie suddenly felt very shy. The lady in the window had smiled and seemed friendly, but she had not invited her in.
It was the strangest room Lorrie had ever seen. The light there, and there was light in plenty, all came from lamps and candles that flickered now and then. There were red-velvet drapes at the windows over white-lace curtains, and a red carpet underfoot. A big table, which had two candelabra, was in the center of the room, and it had a great many things laid out on it. There was a fireplace to her left with a fire glowing in it, and before it on the hearthrug lay Sabina.
Between the table and the windows was a chair with carved arms and a high back. In it sat the lady. She wore a dress with a tight waist and a full long skirt like Hallie's. But this was an odd shade of green. And her long apron was not white and ruffled as Hallie's but made of black taffeta with a border of brilliant flowers and birds worked in many colored silks. Her hair was very white but thick, and was braided and then pinned about her head with a fluff of black lace and dark red ribbon fastened on for a cap.
She had a tall frame at her elbow as if she had just turned away from her work. And on that was stretched canvas with a picture half embroidered. But now her hands rested on the arms of her chair, and on their fingers were many rings, most of them set with the red stones Lorrie knew for garnets such as Grandmother had, but seldom wore.
A necklace of the same stones lay on the front of her dress, and earrings glinted in her ears. She did not look at all like any lady Lorrie had ever seen, but in this room she belonged.
“Come here, Lorrie. Let me see Miranda.” She held out her hand and her rings winked in the firelight.
Lorrie did not find it odd that Miss Ashemeade should know just what she carried in her bundle of handkerchief.
Miss Ashemeade put one hand over the other, the package that was Miranda between her palms. For a long moment she sat so, then she spoke:
“There is breaking in plenty in this world, Lorrie. But there is also mending, if one has will and patience. Never be hasty, for haste may sometimes make a large trouble from a small one. Now, what do you think of that?”
She pointed to something that lay across one end of the table. Lorrie moved a little to see a length of lace, so delicate and beautiful that, though she would like to touch it, she did not quite dare. It was a cobweb, as if some spider had chosen to spin a design instead of her usual back-and-forth lines. But there was a breaking of threads, a tear to spoil it.
“Haste makes waste.” Miss Ashemeade shook her head. “Now much time and patience must be used to mend it.”
“But Miranda can't be,” Lorrie said. “Her head was all smashed, into little bits.”
“We shall see.” Still she did not unwrap Miranda to look. “Now, Lorrie, tell me, what do you see here? Take your time and look well. But"—now Miss Ashemeade smiled— “remember something that was a command of my youth— look with your eyes and not your fingers.”
Lorrie nodded. “Don't touch,” she translated. She might have resented such a warning, she was no baby. But some how it was right and proper here. Now she began to look about her, moving around the room.
It was exciting, for there was a great deal to see. On the walls hung framed pictures, many of them too dim to make out clearly, though Lorrie saw some were strips of cloth and the painting had been done with needle and thread rather than paint and brush. Across the back of a sofa was a square of fine cross-stitch, a bouquet of flowers. And the seats and backs of every chair were worked in similar patterns.
Over the fireplace was a tapestry that drew and held Lorrie's full attention. A knight and his squire rode toward a wood, while in the foreground stood a girl wearing a dress of the same shade of green as Miss Ashemeade had chosen. Her feet were bare, her dark hair flowed freely about her shoulders from under a garland of pale flowers.
“That is the Tapestry Princess.”
Lorrie looked around. “Is it a story?” she asked.
“It is a story, Lorrie. And the moral of it is, or was, make the best of what you have, do with it what you can, but do not throw away your dreams. Once that princess was the daughter of a king. She was given everything her heart wished. Then her father fell upon evil days, and she was captured by his enemy and put in a tower. All she had left her was one of her christening gifts, a golden needle her god mother had given her.
“She learned to sew in order to mend her own old clothing. And so beautiful was her work that the usurper, who had taken her father's throne, had her make clothing for his daughters, the new princesses. She grew older and older and no one cared.
“Then she began at night to make the tapestry. First she fashioned the knight and squire. And then worked all the background, except for one space in the foreground. One of the usurper's daughters, coming to try on a dress, saw the tapestry and ordered the princess to make haste to finish it, that she might have it to hang on the wall at her wedding feast.
“So the princess worked the whole night through to complete it. And the maiden she put into the blank space was she as she had been when she was a young and beautiful girl. When the last stitch was set she vanished from the tower, nor was she ever found again.”
“Did she go into the tapestry?” Lorrie asked.
“So it is said. But it is true she found some way of freedom and only her picture remained to remind the world of her story. Now, Lorrie, you have a story, too. And what is it?”
Without knowing just why, Lorrie spilled out all that had happened during the bad week, and some of the other things that had been bothering her for what seemed now to be a long, long time.
“And you say that you hate Kathy, you really do, my dear? Because she broke Miranda?”
Lorrie looked at the silken bundle in Miss Ashemeade's lap.
“No, I guess I don't really hate her. And I—I guess I'm sorry I slapped her. She didn't mean to break Miranda.”
“Hate is a big and hard word, Lorrie. Don't use it unless you are sure. You have been unhappy and so have seen only unhappy things around you. You have been setting your stitches crooked, and now they must be picked out again. Such picking must always be done or the design will be spoiled.”
“I wish"—Lorrie looked about her longingly—"I wish I could stay here.”
“You do not want to go back to Aunt Margaret?” All at once there was a sharp note in Miss Ashemeade's voice.
“Oh, no, I don't mean that. I guess I mean I wish I could just come here sometimes.”
Miss Ashemeade beckoned to her. “Come here, child.”
Lorrie edged around the table, came directly before Miss Ashemeade, on one side of her the frame holding the unfinished work, and on the other a table whose top was set up as a lid to show many small compartments, all filled with spools and reels of brightly colored silk and wool thread.
Her chin was cupped in Miss Ashemeade's hand as the old lady leaned forward to look into her eyes. It seemed to Lorrie that all her thoughts were being read, and suddenly she was ashamed of some of them. She wanted to turn away her eyes, but she could not.
Then Miss Ashemeade nodded. “Perhaps something may be arranged. Now, Lorrie, I shall write a note for you to take to your aunt, that she will know where you have been. Mi randa you shall leave with me, which is better than burying her in my herb garden, as you thought to do.”
Ride a White Hors
e
Lorrie shuffled her feet unhappily as she came up the hall of the apartment. But she knew what she had to do and pushed the button beside the Lockner door, feeling that if she did not do it at once she might turn and run. Then she was looking at Kathy and she said in a fast rush of words: “I'm sorry I slapped you.”
“Mom, it's Lorrie! Hey, your aunt's here. They've been looking all over for you.” Kathy caught at her arm. “Listen, Mom gave me heck for breaking your doll. I didn't mean to, really.”
Lorrie nodded. Aunt Margaret now stood behind Kathy. She looked at Lorrie with no welcoming smile. Rather she put her hand out in turn and set it firmly on Lorrie's shoulders.
“Come, Lorrie. I believe you have something to say to Mrs. Lockner also, haven't you?”
Again Lorrie nodded. There was a tight knot of misery in her throat that made her voice hoarse as she said to Mrs. Lockner:
“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have slapped Kathy, or run away.”
“No, you should not. But then Kathy should not have taken your doll either, Lorrie. Your aunt has explained that it meant a lot to you. Where is it? Perhaps it can be mended.”
“No.” Lorrie found it very hard to look at Mrs. Lockner. “I don't have her any more.”
“I believe Lorrie has caused enough trouble today, Mrs. Lockner. We'll go home now.”
Aunt Margaret's hand propelled Lorrie to their own apartment. Once inside, her aunt moved away from her, leaving Lorrie standing alone. Aunt Margaret sat down with a sigh. For a moment she rested her head on her hand, her eyes closed, and she looked very tired indeed. Lorrie fumbled with the zipper on her windbreaker, let it slip off her arms and shoulders. It tumbled to the floor and the small envelope Miss Ashemeade had given her fell from the pocket. Lorrie picked it up and stood turning it in her hands.
“I don't know what to do with you, Lorrie. This running away, and slapping Kathy Lockner. She was only interested in your doll. If you did not want to show her Miranda, why did you take the doll over there?”
