The Blackstone Chronicles - By John Saul Page 0,101

Now, what are you waiting for? Hand me that glass, and do something about that fire. And mind you, don’t leave the door open when you bring the wood in! I hate a draft as much as I hate laziness,” she added, glaring pointedly at Rebecca.

Rebecca handed her the glass from the table, then hurried out of the room and downstairs. The woodpile was back behind the garage; Germaine had forbidden her to move any of the firewood closer to the laundry room door, where it would have been much handier. “The woodpile has always been behind the garage, Rebecca,” Germaine had explained. “And that is where it will stay. Mother doesn’t like to see things out of their usual place.”

Rebecca, though, was fairly sure that Clara Wagner hadn’t been anywhere near the laundry room in years. Except for her brief public appearance at Elizabeth McGuire’s funeral, Rebecca doubted the old woman had even been outside the house in years. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to argue with either of the women who had been kind enough to take her into their own home. Picking up the leather sling that was the only thing Germaine allowed her to carry wood in, she went out to the backyard, stacked five pieces of wood into the carrier, and returned to Clara’s room.

“That’s hardly enough to keep me warm for the evening,” the old woman observed tartly as Rebecca piled three of the logs onto the fire, then used a bellows to fan the embers back to life.

“I’ll bring more later on,” Rebecca promised. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was nearly five. “Right now I have to finish in the kitchen. Germaine wanted the cupboard under the sink clean before she came home today.”

“Then I suggest you don’t waste any more time chattering,” Clara told her. “And I shall have tea this afternoon. In the front parlor. Have it ready at six. And I don’t mean ready in the kitchen at six, Rebecca. Have it in the parlor at six!”

“Yes, Miss Clara,” Rebecca replied, scurrying out of the room.

As she returned to the kitchen, she wondered—not for the first time—if perhaps she’d made a mistake moving in here. But where else could she go? Oliver had offered to take her in—he was so sweet—but Germaine made it clear that such an improper arrangement simply would not do. Even now Rebecca could remember Germaine’s words as she’d brought her into the house the night of the fire.

“There aren’t many people who would do this for you, Rebecca. So I suggest you make everything as easy for Mother and me as you possibly can.”

Since then, Rebecca had been laboring to please Germaine and her mother, and she would continue to. But sometimes it seemed that no matter what she did, it was never quite enough.

As she lowered herself back down to her hands and knees, determined to go after the stain under the sink and vanquish it, Rebecca chastised herself for her ingratitude.

She would just have to try a little harder to please Miss Clara, and everything would be all right.

They would be just like a little family—just the way Germaine had said.

Oliver’s timing was almost perfect: he’d added fifteen extra minutes to his estimate of the time it would take him to stroll along the path through the woods to the top of Harvard Street, then down to Main and over to the library. Ten minutes had been added in response to his spring fever, which had noticeably worsened as the weather improved throughout the afternoon. He’d tacked on another five to account for a few minutes to survey again the ruins of Martha Ward’s house: he was still trying to fathom the twists of psychosis that had led to that strange night a month ago when Martha had burned the place down around herself while she prayed in the flickering light of her votive candles, surrounded by her beloved religious icons. The fire chief determined that the blaze had been deliberate, but no one had yet found any trace of the dragon-shaped cigarette lighter, although Rebecca guessed that they’d find it in the ashes that were all that remained of her aunt’s chapel. While he’d said nothing to Rebecca, Oliver privately suspected that someone—perhaps one of the volunteer firemen—had indeed found it, and simply pocketed it as a macabre souvenir of that terrible night. Still, after circling the blackened pit where the house had once stood, he’d poked among the