Octagon Magic Read online

  “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 si
lks 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.”

  As Miss Ashemeade closed that case and put is back, Lorrie noted that it was of a dark wood that looked very, very old, and it was patterned on the top with tarnished metal.

  “Thank you, Lorrie. Now you may stick those all along the frame where they may be easily reached. You have been sitting still, which I know is hard for one of your years. So, now you are free to explore.”

  “Explore?” echoed Lorrie.

  “Explore the house. You are free, Lorrie, to enter any room where the door will open for you.”

  What a queer thing to say, Lorrie thought. As if a door could choose of itself whether or not to open for her. But to explore the house, yes, that was exciting.

  “Thank you.”

  Miss Ashemeade smiled again. “Thank me when you return, Lorrie, if you still wish to.”

  That, too, was puzzling. But Lorrie did not try to figure it out. She decided to leave by the door opposite the one where she had entered. Miss Ashemeade was bending over the frame, already beginning to stitch the canvas.

  Lorrie went into the next room. This was dusky, behind the closed shutters. Unlike Miss Ashemeade's warm and welcoming chamber, this was chill and dark. No fire burned in the fireplace. All the furniture was covered by sheets. Lorrie glanced around. The room had let her enter, but there was very little to see that attracted her. Next was a hallway, and then another room, which must balance the red room. It was a bedroom and it was alive and open, only it was all green— as green as Miss Ashemeade's dress. The bed was very large and had carved posts and a frame at the top of them, from which hung pale green curtains patterned with vines in darker green, the same shade as the carpet under Lorrie's feet. There were chairs and a small sofa, all covered in light green patterned with the darker leaves. Almost, Lorrie thought, one could believe this a wood with things growing.

  She stood by the foot of the bed, looking about her. Miss Ashemeade had said to enter any room that would let her. But Lorrie did not feel comfortable here.

  “Merrow—”

  Lorrie, startled, looked to her left. There were two other doors leading out of the room, and peering about the edge of the nearer was Sabina. She opened her small mouth again to utter a cry that sounded much too large for such a small kitten, almost, Lorrie decided, as if she were impatiently telling her to hurry.

  As Lorrie went toward her, Sabina ducked around the door and disappeared. Then Lorrie entered.

  She was in a very queerly shaped small room. The outer wall, which had a single window, met the longer wall to her right at a very sharp and narrow angle. But on the other side, to her left, it was square as an ordinary room. There were no curtains or drapes, so the light came through easily to show what stood there.

  Lorrie gasped. The center of the misshapen room was occupied by an eight-sided dais or platform of polished wood. Set in the sides of that were drawers, each marked by a gleaming brass keyhole and handles. And using that base for a foundation was a house of red brick with a wooden trim, an exact copy of the very home in which it stood. If it were a doll house it was larger and more perfect than any Lorrie had seen before. Taller than Lorrie herself, it almost filled the room.

  Facing what was meant to be the front door of the house was a rocking horse such as Lorrie had seen pictured in the old volumes of the St. Nicholas magazines. It was big, nearly as large as a pony she had ridden at the park last summer, and it was white, with a silky mane. On its back was a red saddle. Only, Lorrie saw as she went closer, it was an oddly shaped saddle, nor like any she had seen before.

  She put out her hand cautiously. Why, the horse felt as if he were covered with real hide! Bolder, Lorrie stroked his mane, and under her touch he rocked back and forth with a faint creak-creak.

  “Merrow!” Sabina was standing on her hind legs, as if she were trying to peep into one of the windows. But it was too high above her head. Lorrie w
ent on her knees to look too.

  It was as if she were viewing a real house through the wrong end of field glasses, making all smaller instead of larger. There was furniture and pictures, and carpets on the floor. She could even see a little tea table with a service set out upon it, just waiting for someone to pour. In fact, as Lorrie moved around the house, she had the oddest feeling that it was inhabited, and, if she hurried a little faster, she would catch sight of some person who had just this moment left the room into which she was now looking.

  Miss Ashemeade's red-velvet room was different, for in the little house it was a dining room, the long table set with a white cloth and dishes ready for a meal. She crawled around to the kitchen side and then on to look into the green bedroom. Upstairs there were other bedrooms—three big square ones. And then there were three triangular rooms that had big cupboards in them, and another, oddly shaped room with a stair opening into it.

  All of it was furnished and ready—so ready. The oven in the kitchen stove was half ajar and she could see the end of a loaf of bread.

  Doll houses opened, so this must. How else could all the furniture have been put in? But when Lorrie tried to find any hinge or latch on the outside she could not. Baffled, she sat back on her heels. Then she tugged at the pulls on the base drawers. But not one gave to her urging. They had keyholes, perhaps they were locked.

  Once more she circled the house. It was just a little taller than she was, counting the base. But the attic rooms were so dark she could not see in through their slits of windows. If there were any rooms behind those they remained a mystery. Maybe the house was to be respected as Miss Ashemeade had warned her, something to look at with the eyes but not with the fingers. And there was plenty to look at, tiny marvels in each room every time she peered anew.

  Lorrie stepped back. She could not rid herself of the belief that this was no ordinary doll house to be played with. It was so much like the house in which it stood that somehow it was alive, really more alive than those parts of Octagon House she had found sheeted and covered. And there remained her feeling that all of the smaller house, not just part of it, was in use—by someone.