Octagon Magic (3 page)

“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 Horse

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?”

“Miranda was in my desk. I took that over to write a letter to Grandmother.”

If Aunt Margaret heard her, she did not seem to care. She sighed again and got up as if it were an effort to move.

“I am too tired to talk to you now, Lorrie. Go to your room and think about this afternoon, think about it carefully.”

Aunt Margaret started for the kitchen.

“But I haven't set the table.”

“I believe I can manage very well without your help. I want you to spend some time thinking, Lorrie. Now!”

Slowly Lorrie went to the bedroom. She had laid the letter on the coffee table. That did not matter now. Aunt Margaret was angry or, what was worse, hurt. Lorrie sat down on the bench before the dressing table and stared at her reflection in the mirror, and then she covered her face with her hands.

Think about this afternoon, Aunt Margaret said. It was hard now for her to understand what
had
happened, even harder to puzzle out why. She had not wanted to go to the Lockners’, and then Kathy with Miranda ... and the shattering crash of Miranda's head against the wall... her hand against Kathy's cheek. Then planning to bury Miranda... going to Octagon House, meeting with Miss Ashemeade— What had Miss Ashemeade said?

“Haste makes waste—”

Lorrie took a tissue from the box in the top drawer to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. She was sorry about Kathy and about causing Mrs. Lockner and Aunt Margaret trouble. But she was not sorry about meeting Miss Ashemeade—she was glad for that.

“Lorrie.” Aunt Margaret called.

“Coming.” Lorrie gave a last wipe to her reddened eyes.

Aunt Margaret was already seated at the table as Lorrie slid in across from her. Friday night was usually a night when they had special food and a happy time, but not to night. Lorrie sighed.

“Aunt Margaret—” That knot in her throat was back, so big a lump that she could not swallow anything, even a sip of hot chocolate. “I'm sorry.”

“Yes I believe you are—now—Lorrie. But being sorry now, will that last so something such as this does not happen again? You know I cannot be with you as I would like. And you cannot stay alone. Mrs. Lockner has been more than kind, considering your rudeness in return.”

Lorrie choked, staring down at the plate of food she could not eat.

“Lorrie, I know that this way of living is very different from what you had with Grandmother Mallard. But to sulk because of that—I do not like it.”

Lorrie felt for the tissue in her pocket.

“You cannot expect to have friends if you are not friendly in turn. When Kathy asks you to go places with her you always say no. You have not joined any of the school clubs. Mrs. Raymond tells me that at recess you sit and read a book, unless the playground teacher asks you, or rather orders you, to join in a game. I know that this was all strange to you when you came. But surely it is not so now and you should be making friends.”

Aunt Margaret pushed aside her own plate as if she could not swallow any better than Lorrie. She drank her coffee slowly, the frown lines between her eyes very sharp.

“What did you do with Miranda?” she asked abruptly.

“I took her to the Octagon House,” Lorrie answered, hardly above a whisper.

“The—the Octagon House?” Aunt Margaret sounded really surprised. “But why in the world?”

“I wanted to bury Miranda, not just throw her out in the trash. There's a garden there.”

“How do you know that?”

Then Lorrie told about the kitten and the meeting with Hallie, and of today when she had seen Miss Ashemeade in her wonderful room. As she poured out her story, some of her misery eased and she could look at Aunt Margaret again.

“And she sent you a note—” Lorrie dashed into the other room, came back with the envelope, which she laid before Aunt Margaret.

Her aunt opened it. Lorrie caught a glimpse of the writing, very different from any she had ever seen, looped and curved as much as the decorations of the rusty iron gate.

Aunt Margaret read it twice and her frown became a puzzled look. She studied the signature again before she turned to Lorrie.

“Miss Ashemeade would like you to spend the day with her tomorrow.”

Could she go? Lorrie did not quite dare ask. Not to go— that might be what Aunt Margaret would consider a suitable punishment for this bad week. Oh, if she could go, she would be willing to do whatever they wanted her to—go to a monster show with Kathy, play basketball, all the things she shrank from but which they seemed to think she should want to do. But she could not ask or promise, somehow she could not. She did not know the brightness of her eyes, the strained look on her face asked for her.

“Very well.” Aunt Margaret folded the note to slip back
into the envelope. “You may go.” Then, as if that decision had lifted a big black shadow from the kitchen, she began to eat. Lorrie swallowed. The knot was gone from her throat too. Suddenly she was hungry and everything looked good.

She did all her homework that evening, being twice as careful with the math problems, while Aunt Margaret worked with her own papers and sketches on the other side of the table. Lorrie picked up one drawing that had somehow been mixed in with her scribble sheets. She looked at a chair that was familiar and then realized she had seen its like in Miss Ashemeade's room. Only this was painted with a golden covering, and she thought the needlework of flowers much prettier.

“Why don't they have flowers here?” She held out the sketch. “Miss Ashemeade does—pink, yellow, and green—a pale green—” For a moment Lorrie closed her eyes to picture the better her memory of the chair.

“You saw a chair such as this at Miss Ashemeade's?”

Lorrie opened her eyes. Her aunt was staring at her in surprise.

“Yes. She has two. They are by the fireplace. But hers have embroidered backs and seats.”

“What colors did you say?”

“Well, the background is not quite light yellow, more cream. And the flowers are not bright, but you can see them. There are pink roses, and some small yellow bell things, and they're in a bunch tied with ribbon—the ribbon is pink, too. Then they have a circle of leaves, a kind of vine, around them, and it is a pale green.”

Her aunt nodded. “Probably petit point. But it is an excellent
idea—we want to use this chair as a background for a sketch of formal gowns. Lorrie, when you are there tomorrow look carefully at those colors, and the design. Do you know, from what you have told me, you are a very fortunate girl. Miss Ashemeade's house must be a treasury of fine old things.”

“It's beautiful, simply beautiful!” Lorrie cried. “And the candles—the fire—It's just wonderful!”

Aunt Margaret smiled as she put her papers back in her briefcase. “I can imagine that it is. Now, you might try making tomorrow come the sooner by getting to bed.”

Lorrie thought that it might be as hard to get to sleep as it was on Christmas Eve. But it did not turn out that way, for she was so quickly asleep that afterward she could not remember climbing into bed. And morning did arrive swiftly after all.

She managed her share of the morning work eagerly and then decided that a visit of such import demanded her go-to-tea dress. That seemed tight now and Aunt Margaret, looking her over before Lorrie put on her best coat, agreed that she must have grown since Grandmother had had it made.

Then she was free, speeding along Ash Street at anything but a decorous pace, toward Octagon House. Again the gate gave to her push and she walked more soberly around to the door, which Hallie opened promptly at her knock.

“She's havin’ her mornin’ chocolate, you go right in. There's a cup wait in’ for you, too, Mis’ Lorrie.”

Then she was back in the red-velvet room. The drapes were pulled back to let in the fall sunshine. There was still a fire going, but no need for candles this morning.

Miss Ashemeade's chair had been moved closer to the
window, so the daylight fell across her frame and the contents of the table which held the silks and wools. But before her was another small table and on it sat a tall, straight-sided pot with violets scattered over its white sides and gold edging on its handle. Two cups matching the pot sat on a small tray, and there was a plate with a fringed napkin covering it.

“Good morning, Lorrie.”

Lorrie had hesitated just within the door. Now she curtsied.

“Good morning, Miss Ashemeade.” She must watch her manners. This was a room which welcomed only the most ladylike behavior.

“Give Hallie your coat and hat, my dear. Do you like chocolate?”

Lorrie wriggled out of her outdoor things. “Yes, please.”

At Miss Ashemeade's gesture she sat down on a high stool across from her hostess. Miss Ashemeade poured from the tall pot, and took the napkin from the plate to display some small biscuits. Lorrie sipped her chocolate from a cup so light and delicate that she feared an incautious touch might break it. Then she nibbled at a biscuit that was crisp and not sweet, but which had a flavor all its own, one she had never tasted before.

“Do you know how to sew, Lorrie?” asked Miss Ashemeade as she emptied her own cup:

“A little. Grandmother was teaching me to make Miranda a dress.”

“There was a lady in England,” Miss Ashemeade replied, “who once said that it was as disgraceful for a lady not to know how to use a needle as it was for a gentleman to be ignorant of how to handle his sword.” She wiped her fingers
on a small napkin. Lorrie did not know just what was expected of her, but she said after a moment's pause:

“Gentlemen do not have swords any more.”

“No. Nor do many ladies use needles either. But to forget or set aside any art is an unhappy thing.”

Miss Ashemeade glanced around at the pictures, the rolls of material on the long table, to the tapestry over the fireplace. Then she picked up a silver bell, which gave a tinkle and brought Hallie in to take the tray.

For the first time Lorrie saw the top of the table on which the chocolate set had rested. Against a black background was a scene that held her attention. There was a gold castle on a mountain, its windows all pearl, while above it a moon of the same pearl peered out of golden clouds. Miss Ashemeade saw her interest and traced the scene with a ringer tip.

“Papier-mache, my dear. Once it was very popular. Now, Lorrie, suppose you put this little table over there, since we no longer need it.”

The table was very light, Lorrie discovered, and she could easily move it. When she came back, Miss Ashemeade was bending over the table with all the small compartments under its top lid. She had pulled around before her the frame with the half-finished work, and now Lorrie could see that that was a picture, too, within a flower border.

“Do you think you can help me a little?” Miss Ashemeade asked.

“Oh, yes!” Lorrie was eager.

“You may thread my needles, if you will.” Miss Ashemeade smiled. “I can no longer see as well as I once did, and
needle threading is a trial at times. Now, here are the needles in this case. And I will use threads this long, from this, and this, and this.” She pointed to the colored wools wound smoothly on reels of carved ivory.

Lorrie set to work. The needles were fine, but they had larger eyes than any she had seen before, so threading was not hard. There were quite a few needles standing up in the funny little ivory case made like a cat—you unscrewed its head to see them. But that was not the only needle box in the table compartments. Miss Ashemeade took out the other one and opened it. Inside there was room for many needles to be stuck through a piece of green velvet, but only two were there. They were different from the ones Lorrie threaded, for they gleamed of gold in the sunlight instead of silver.

“These, Lorrie"—Miss Ashemeade's voice was serious— “are very special needles and not to be often used.”

“They look like gold,” Lorrie ventured.

“They are,” answered Miss Ashemeade. “And they are very important.”

“Like the magic needles the princess had?”

“Just so. You will not use them, Lorrie. Understand?”

“Yes, Miss Ashemeade.”