The Thirteenth Tale-第5章

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ves；　i　went　as　far　as　the　landing；　and　mrs。　robb　appeared　at　the　bottom　of　the　stairs。

‘is　everything　all　right；　margaret？“

‘yes。“

‘have　you　got　everything　you　need？“

‘yes。“

‘well；　e　round　if　you　need　to。“

‘all　right。“

‘they　won’t　be　long　now；　your　mum　and　dad。“

she　left。

i　returned　the　documents　to　the　tin　and　put　the　tin　back　under　the　bed。　i　left　the　bedroom；　closing　the　door　behind　me。　in　front　of　the　bathroom　mirror　i　felt　the　shock　of　contact　as　my　eyes　locked　together　with　the　eyes　of　another。　my　face　tingled　under　her　gaze。　i　could　feel　the　bones　under　my　skin。

later；　my　parents’　steps　on　the　stairs。

i　opened　the　door；　and　on　the　landing　father　gave　me　a　hug。

‘well　done；“　he　said。　”good　marks　all　round。“

mother　looked　pale　and　tired。　going　out　would　have　started　one　of　her　headaches。

‘yes；“　she　said。　”good　girl。“

‘and　so；　how　was　it；　sweetheart？　being　home　on　your　own？“

‘it　was　fine。“

‘thought　it　would　be；“　he　said。　and　then；　unable　to　stop　himself；　he　gave　me　another　hug；　a　happy；　two…armed　affair；　and　kissed　the　top　of　my　head。　”time　for　bed。　and　don’t　read　too　long。“

‘i　won’t。“

later　i　heard　my　parents　going　about　the　business　of　getting　ready　for　bed。　father　opening　the　medicine　cupboard　to　find　mother’s　pills；　filling　a　glass　with　water。　his　voice　saying；　as　it　so　frequently　did；　“you’ll　feel　better　after　a　good　night’s　sleep。”　then　the　door　of　the　guest　room　closed。　a　few　moments　later　the　bed　creaked　in　the　other　room；　and　i　heard　my　father’s　light　click　off。

i　knew　about　twins。　a　cell　that　should　ordinarily　bee　one　person　inexplicably　bees　two　identical　people　instead。

i　was　a　twin。

my　twin　was　dead。

what　did　that　make　me　now？

under　the　covers　i　pressed　my　hand　against　the　silver…pink　crescent　on　my　torso。　the　shadow　my　sister　had　left　behind。　like　an　archaeologist　of　the　flesh；　i　explored　my　body　for　evidence　of　its　ancient　history。　i　‘as　as　cold　as　a　corpse。

with　the　letter　still　in　my　hand；　i　left　the　shop　and　went　upstairs　to　my　flat；　he　staircase　narrowed　at　each　of　the　three　stories　of　books。　as　i　went；　turning　out　lights　behind　me；　i　began　to　prepare　phrases　for　a　polite　letter　refusal。　i　was；　i　could　tell　miss　winter；　the　wrong　kind　of　biographer。　i　had　no　interest　in　contemporary　writing。　i　had　read　none　of　miss　winter’s　books。　i　was　at　home　in　libraries　and　archives　and　had　never　interviewed　a　living　writer　in　my　life。　i　was　more　at　ease　with　dead　people　and　was；　if　the　truth　be　told；　nervous　of　the　living。

it　probably　wasn’t　necessary　to　put　that　last　bit　in　the　letter。

i　couldn’t　be　bothered　to　make　a　meal。　a　cup　of　cocoa　would　do。

waiting　for　the　milk　to　heat；　i　looked　out　of　the　window。　in　the　night　glass　was　a　face　so　pale　you　could　see　the　blackness　of　the　sky　through　it。　we　pressed　cheek　to　cold；　glassy　cheek。　if　you　had　seen　us；　you　would　have　known　that　were　it　not　for　this　glass；　there　was　really　nothing　to　tell　us　apart。

　。。



THIRTEEN　TALES


tell　me　the　truth。　the　words　from　the　letter　were　trapped　in　my　head；　trapped；　it　seemed；　beneath　the　sloping　ceiling　of　my　attic　flat；　like　a　bird　that　has　got　in　down　the　chimney。　it　was　natural　that　the　boy’s　plea　should　have　affected　me；　i　who　had　never　been　told　the　truth；　but　left　to　discover　it　alone　and　in　secret。　tell　me　the　truth。　quite。　but　i　resolved　to　put　the　words　and　the　letter　out　of　my　head。　it　was　nearly　time。　i　moved　swiftly。　in　the　bathroom　i　soaped　my　face　and　brushed　my　teeth。　by　three　minutes　to　eight　i　was　in　my　nightdress　and　slippers；　waiting　for　the　kettle　to　boil。　quickly；　quickly。　a　minute　to　eight。　my　hot…water　bottle　was　ready；　and　i　filled　a　glass　with　water　from　the　tap。　time　was　of　the　essence。　for　at　eight　o’clock　the　world　came　to　an　end。　it　was　reading　time。

the　hours　between　eight　in　the　evening　and　one　or　two　in　the　morning　have　always　been　my　magic　hours。　against　the　blue　candlewick　bedspread　the　white　pages　of　my　open　book；　illuminated　by　a　circle　of　lamplight；　were　the　gateway　to　another　world。　but　that　night　the　magic　failed。　the　threads　of　plot　that　had　been　left　in　suspense　overnight　had　somehow　gone　flaccid　during　the　day；　and　i　found　that　i　could　not　care　about　how　they　would　eventually　weave　together。　i　made　an　effort　to　secure　myself　to　a　strand　of　the　plot；　but　as　soon　as　i　had　managed　it；　a　voice　intervened—tell　me　the　truth—that　unpicked　the　knot　and　left　it　flopping　loose　again。

my　hand　hovered　instead　over　the　old　favorites：　the　woman　in　white；　wuthering　heights；　jane　eyre…

but　it　was　no　good。　tell　me　the　truth…

reading　had　never　let　me　down　before。　it　had　always　been　the　one　sure　thing。　turning　out　the　light；　i　rested　my　head　on　the　pillow　and　tried　to　sleep。

echoes　of　a　voice。　fragments　of　a　story。　in　the　dark　i　heard　them　louder。　tell　me　the　truth…

at　two　in　the　morning　i　got　out　of　bed；　pulled　on　some　socks；　unlocked　the　flat　door　and；　wrapped　in　my　dressing　gown；　crept　down　the　narrow　staircase　and　into　the　shop。

at　the　back　there　is　a　tiny　room；　not　much　bigger　than　a　cupboard；　that　we　use　when　we　need　to　pack　a　book　for　the　post。　it　contains　a　table　and；　on　a　shelf；　sheets　of　brown　paper；　scissors　and　a　ball　of　string。　as　well　as　these　items　there　is　also　a　plain　wooden　cabinet　that　holds　a　dozen　or　so　books。

the　contents　of　the　cabinet　rarely　change。　if　you　were　to　look　into　it　today　you　would　see　what　i　saw　that　night：　a　book　without　a　cover　resting　on　its　side；　and　next　to　it　an　ugly　tooled　leather　volume。　a　pair　of　books　in　latin　standing　upright。　an　old　bible。　three　volumes　of　botany；　two　of　history　and　a　single　tatty　book　of　astronomy。　a　book　in　japanese；　another　in　polish　and　some　poems　in　old　english。　why　do　we　keep　these　books　apart？　why　are　they　not　kept　with　their　natural　panions　on　our　neatly　labeled　shelves？　the　cabinet　is　where　we　keep　the　esoteric；　the　valuable；　the　rare。　these　volumes　are　worth　as　much　as　the　contents　of　the　entire　rest　of　the　shop；　more　even。

the　book　that　i　was　after—a　small　hardback；　about　four　inches　by　six；　only　fifty　or　so　years　old—was　out　of　place　next　to　all　these　antiquities。　it　had　appeared　a　couple　of　months　ago；　placed　there　i　imagined　by　father’s　inadvertence；　and　one　of　these　days　i　meant　to　ask　him　about　it　and　shelve　it　somewhere。　but　just　in　case；　i　put　on　the　white　gloves。　we　keep　them　in　the　cabinet　to　wear　when　we　handle　the　books　because；　by　a　curious　paradox；　just　as　the　books　e　to　life　when　we　read　them；　so　the　oils　from　our　fingertips　destroy　them　as　we　turn　the　pages。　anyway；　with　its　paper　cover　intact　and　its　corners　unblunted；　the　book　was　in　fine　condition；　one　of　a　popular　series　produced　to　quite　a　high　standard　by　a　publishing　house　that　no　longer　exists。　a　charming　volume；　and　a　first　edition；　but　not　the　kind　of　thing　that　you　would　expect　to　find　among　the　treasures。　at　jumble　sales　and　village　fetes；　other　volumes　in　the　series　sell　for　a　few　pence。

the　paper　cover　was　cream　and　green：　a　regular　motif　of　shapes　like　fish　scales　formed　the　background；　and　two　rectangles　were　left　plain；　one　for　the　line　drawing　of　a　mermaid；　the　other　for　the　title　and　author’s　name。　thirteen　tales　of　change　and　desperation　by　vida　winter。

i　locked　the　cabinet；　returned　the　key　and　flashlight　to　their　places　and　climbed　the　stairs　back　to　bed；　book　in　gloved　hand。

i　didn’t　intend　to　read。　not　as　such。　a　few　phrases　were　all　i　wanted。　something　bold　enough；　strong　enough；　to　still　the　words　from　the　letter　that　kept　going　around　in　my　head。　fight　fire　with　fire；　people　say。　a　couple　of　sentences；　a　page　maybe；　and　then　i　would　be　able　to　sleep。

i　removed　the　dust　jacket　and　placed　it　for　safety　in　the　special　drawer　i　keep　for　the　purpose。　even　with　gloves　you　can’t　be　too　careful。　opening　the　book；　i　inhaled。　the　smell　of　old　books；　so　sharp；　so　dry　you　can　taste　it。

the　prologue。　just　a　few　words。

but　my　eyes；　brushing　the　first　line；　were　snared。

all　children　mythologize　their　birth。　it　is　a　universal　trait。　you　want　to　know　someone？　heart；　mind　and　soul？　ask　him　to　tell　you　about　when　he　was　born。　what　you　get　won’t　be　the　truth；　it　will　be　a　story。　and　nothing　is　more　telling　than　a　story。

it　was　like　falling　into　water。

peasants　and　princes；　bailiffs　and　bakers’　boys；　merchants　and　mermaids；　the　figures　were　all　immediately　familiar。　i　had　read　these　stories　a　hundred；　a　thousand；　times　before。　they　were　stories　everyone　knew。　but　gradually；　as　i　read；　their　familiarity　fell　away　from　them。　they　became　strange。　they　became　new。　these　characters　were　not　the　colored　manikins　i　remembered　from　my　childhood　picture　books；　mechanically　acting　out　the　story　one　more　time。　they　were　people。　the　blood　that　fell　from　the　princess’s　finger　when　she　touched　the　spinning　wheel　was　wet；　and　it　left　the　tang　of　metal　on　her　tongue　when　she　licked　her　finger　before　falling　asleep。　when　his　atose　daughter　was　brought　to　him；　the　king’s　tears　left　salt　burns　on　his　face。　the　stories　were　shot　through　with　an　unfamiliar　mood。　everyone　achieved　their　heart’s　desire—the　king　had　his　daughter　restored　to　life　by　a　stranger’s　kiss；　the　beast　was　divested　o