Octagon Magic (11 page)

Where would Miss Ashemeade, Hallie, and Sabina go? Lorrie could not think of them living anywhere else than in Octagon House—they did not belong to the world outside its
doors. And what would happen to all the treasures? Would Miss Ashemeade be able to take them with her?

Lorrie glanced about the very small kitchen of the apartment. Imagine Hallie trying to work here! Her beloved stove could not fit in. Suddenly Lorrie wanted to race back through the dusk, knock on the back door—that locked back door—and find Hallie, and the red room, and Miss Ashemeade just the same as they had been through all the months she had known them. Months, wondered Lorrie. Yes, part of October, all of November, and December, and January, and one week in February—But it seemed to her now that she had been a visitor to Octagon House for far longer than that.

What would become of Bevis and the doll house? Or—for the first time Lorrie's thoughts winged in another direction—was there now a Bevis and a doll house? Had there ever been at all?

But Miss Ashemeade knew about Phebe and Phineas, Chole and Nackie, and Charles Dupree. She had said this afternoon that they had chosen to remain in its safety. Did that mean they lived there forever and ever? Lorrie looked at the clock and at the coffeepot put on to perk. Believe, Miss Ashemeade had said.

Lorrie drew a deep breath and stood still. She was staring at the wall but not seeing the brightly polished copper molds hung there to brighten up the dark corner beyond the dinette. There was a new warm feeling inside her. Now—now she believed that Miss Ashemeade, and Hallie, and Sabina were safe too. No matter what would happen to Octagon House, they would be safe—forever!

“Lorrie?” She had not heard Aunt Margaret's key in the door. Now she turned, startled.

Aunt Margaret still had on her coat and hat. She looked unhappy. “Lorrie, I am so sorry—”

“Sorry for what?” Lorrie was jolted out of her own thoughts.

“About Octagon House.” Aunt Margaret had the evening paper in one hand. “The thruway—” She hesitated.

“I know. Miss Ashemeade told me.”

“Those poor old ladies. Something must be done for them. Wherever will they go? Lorrie, I think I had better go up there this evening and see if there is any way I may help.”

“Miss Ashemeade said they would be safe.”

“Safe? Oh, yes, you were there this afternoon. But maybe she did not really understand, Lorrie. The Commissioners announced today that the appeal failed. All those who ob jected will have to move. Miss Ashemeade is very old, Chick. And sometimes old people do not understand how things can be taken this way by the city.”

“She does know, Aunt Margaret. She told me there was no place for Octagon House now.”

Aunt Margaret slipped out of her coat. “But there should be!” she said almost fiercely. “We must see what can be done! At least for those poor old ladies.”

“Aunt Margaret,” Lorrie asked slowly, “do you really think they are poor old ladies?”

Aunt Margaret looked at Lorrie in surprise. Then her expression became thoughtful.

“No, you are right, Lorrie. Miss Ashemeade may be old,
but I do not believe that she would allow anyone to make decisions for her. And she told you she has plans?”

“Yes and—” Lorrie told her about the key and the letter.

“Lock the back door behind you and mail the key—and you did it? But, Lorrie, leaving the two of them locked in and—Why, whyever would they want that? Lorrie, you stay right here—understand?”

Aunt Margaret pulled on her coat, ran out into the hall, and was gone, not quite shutting the door behind her. For a moment Lorrie's amazement was part fear. And then the certainty of moments earlier returned to reassure her, and she knew there was no need to worry about Miss Ashemeade and the other inhabitants of Octagon House. She went on with supper preparations, listening for Aunt Margaret's return.

And return she did before not many minutes had passed. There was an odd expression on her face as she came once more into the kitchen.

“I don't know why,” she said. “I got as far as the gate and then, why, then, Lorrie, I just knew it was all right with them.”

Lorrie noded. “I know it too.”

But Aunt Margaret still had that strange look on her face, as if right before her eyes something had happened that she could not believe, even though she saw it happen. Then she shook her head.

The letter came the following Friday. But as that was the day of the fair, they did not open it until late. Aunt Margaret had come to the P.T.A. supper, and she and Lorrie did not get back home until after nine. The envelope was waiting in
their mailbox, a long white one with a business address in the upper corner and it was addressed to them both: Miss Margaret Gerson, Miss Lorrie Mallard.

Aunt Margaret, very puzzled, read it aloud. They were to go to Octagon House on Saturday morning at eleven, and it was signed Ernest Thruston.

“Miss Ashemeade's lawyer,” Lorrie explained.

“But why?” Aunt Margaret read it through a second time, this time to herself. “I can't understand—Well, it sets one's imagination to working, doesn't it? Luckily I am free tomorrow.”

It was snowing a little when they opened the front gate of Octagon House the next day. Again the proud deer had a small ridge of white down his back as he stared over their heads. Lorrie looked at him a little sadly and hoped he would find another home when they took away his lawn and garden.

There were tracks in the snow on the walk, as if someone had gone around the house not too long before, and they followed those to the same back door they had always used. Aunt Margaret rapped and the door was opened, not by a smiling Hallie, but by a man who said at once and a little sharply:

“Miss Gerson?”

“Yes, and Lorrie.”

He brought them into the red room. But Lorrie shivered. There was no fire on the hearth. A lamp and some candles had been lighted, but all the warmth and cheer had gone out of the room. The tall back chair was empty. Aunt Margaret asked the question that Lorrie could not voice.

“Miss Ashemeade?”

“She has gone. Of course, she has always been a will unto herself. The key and her instructions were mailed to me. Brrr—these old houses without central heating—nothing but damp and cold! If you don't mind.” He glanced about him as if he did not care for the room or the house, and would like to be away as soon as possible. “Miss Ashemeade has made certain dispositions of her property that I am empowered to carry out. Your niece, Lorrie Mallard, is to have the contents of the toy room. If you will please come with me.”

“The toy room?” echoed Aunt Margaret. “But—”

It was a strange house, Lorrie thought as they went from shrouded parlor to bedroom, where now covers were also draped all over the furniture. Then Mr. Thruston pushed open the last door and they were in the room with the painted floor.

There were Bevis and the house, just as they had always been.

“Why, Lorrie! A doll house, and a rocking horse—” Aunt Margaret stared at those. But there was more in the room now, Lorrie noted. The box from which Miss Ashemeade had unpacked the wonderful Christmas ornaments stood to one side and on it rested both the workbox she had used and the scrapbook of valentines.

Aunt Margaret walked slowly around the house, peering into its windows.

“This—this is a museum piece, Mr. Thruston. And—and we do not have room for it in the apartment.”

“I believe Miss Ashemeade foresaw that problem, Miss Gerson.” Mr. Thruston held a piece of paper. “It has been
arranged that most of the furnishings of this house, having historical value, be presented to the Ashton Historical Society. The doll house and the horse may be placed on loan with them also, a loan that may be terminated upon demand at any time by your niece. They will have safekeeping, and they will doubtless be enjoyed by the public—I believe the school classes make yearly visits to the Society. But when ever she wishes, she may reclaim them. And now, I dislike hurrying you, Miss Gerson, but there are certain articles left to your care. If you will just come and see—”

“That wonderful house—Yes, I'll come,” answered Aunt Margaret.

Lorrie waited until they had left and then she stepped around to the side of the house where the dining room was— the room Miss Ashemeade had made so much her own. In spite of the gloom in the room, she had caught a glimpse, a glinting sparkle against the base. Now she knelt on the floor to see it better. Yes, she was right! There was a gold chain, and strung on it seven small keys, while an eighth stood in the keyhole of the drawer.

She turned that key and drew open the drawer. It was one of the wider ones.

“Lotta.” She did not need to touch the beautiful lace dress she had seen Miss Ashemeade make, nor the doll who wore it. “Hallie.” No longer bent and old, but young as Miss Lotta—wearing the rosy dress. “Sabina.” Small, quiet, with her silver-belled collar. “Hello.” Lorrie bent closer to whisper. “Now—all of you—wait for me.”

Softly she shut the drawer and turned the key in its lock.
Why had she said that? Wait for her—how?—where? Until someday when she had a house big enough to hold the doll house? When again there might be a chance to visit it, meet again those who would live there for always and always?

One, two, three, four drawers with their occupants. What lay in the other four?

She tried a key in the next and opened it—nothing. Then a second and third—they were empty. But when she pulled out the fourth—Lorrie looked closer. It was the wooden needle box. She picked it up and opened it. One golden needle was left, thrust firmly into the velvet. Lorrie did not touch it, but put the box back and locked the drawer.

Then she tried them all. They were safely locked. The house, yes, let them put the house in the museum where any one who wished might look in it. But the people of the house—let them be as safe as they had chosen to be.

Lorrie dropped the chain with its keys into her workbox, and took that up with the scrapbook. She could get the ornament box later. Holding the box and the book, she went to Bevis and stroked his arching neck. Thump, thump, he rocked back and forth, but he did not change. Lorrie was not disappointed. That was as it should be—for now.

She went to the door and then looked back at the waiting house, at Bevis. Wait they would, house and horse, as long or as short—as time.

“Goodbye,” said Lorrie very softly, “for a while. Good bye—”

The floor creaked. Had or had not Bevis rocked to nod her an approving answer?

All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 1967 by Andre Norton

ISBN: 978-1-4976-5654-3

This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.

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