Startled, Cassie looked around. Her grandmother was calling from the doorway of the old wing of the house.
“Are you all right? For heaven's sake, get away from the edge!”
Cassie looked down and immediately felt a wave of vertigo. Her toes were almost off the bluff. “I didn't realize I was that close,” she said, stepping back.
Her grandmother stared at her, then nodded. “Well, come away now and I'll get you some breakfast,” she said. “Do you like pancakes?”
Feeling a little shy, Cassie nodded. She had some vague memory about a dream that made her
uncomfortable, but she definitely felt better this morning than she had yesterday. She followed her grandmother through the door, which was much thicker and heavier than a modern one.
“The front door of the original house,” her grandmother explained. She didn't seem to be having much trouble with her leg today, Cassie noticed. “Strange to have it lead directly into the kitchen, isn't it? But that was how they did things in those days. Sit down, why don't you, while I make the pancakes.”
But Cassie was staring in amazement. The kitchen was like no kitchen she'd ever seen before. There was a gas range and a refrigerator-even a microwave shoved back on a wooden counter-but the rest of it was like something out of a movie set. Dominating the room was an enormous open fireplace as big as a walk-in closet, and although there was no fire now, the thick layer of ashes at the bottom showed that it was sometimes used. Inside, an iron pot hung on an iron crossbar. Over the fireplace were sprays of dried flowers and plants, which gave off a pleasant fragrance.
And as for the woman in front of the hearth…
Grandmothers were supposed to be pink and cozy, with soft laps and large checking accounts. This woman looked stooped and coarse, with her grizzled hair and the prominent mole on her cheek. Cassie kept half expecting her to go over to the iron pot and stir it while muttering, “Double, double, toil and trouble…”
Immediately after she thought this, she felt ashamed. That's your grandmother, she told herself fiercely. Your only living relative besides your mother. It's not her fault she's old and ugly. So don't just sit here. Say something nice.
“Oh, thanks,” she said, as her grandmother placed a plate of steaming pancakes in front of her. Then she added, “Uh, are those dried flowers over the fireplace? They smell good.”
“Lavender and hyssop,” her grandmother said. “When you're done eating, I'll show you my garden, if you like.”
“I'd love it,” Cassie said, truthfully.
But when her grandmother led her outside after she'd finished eating, the scene was far different than Cassie had expected. There were some flowers, but for the most part the “garden” just looked like weeds and bushes-row after row of overgrown, uncared-for weeds and bushes.
“Oh-how nice,” Cassie said. Maybe the old lady was senile after all. “What unusual-plants.”
Her grandmother shot her a shrewd, amused glance. “They're herbs,” she said. “Here, this is lemon balm. Smell.”
Cassie took the heart-shaped leaf, wrinkled like a mint leaf but a little bigger, and sniffed. It had the scent of freshly peeled lemon. “That is nice,” she said, surprised.
“And this is French sorrel-taste.”
Cassie gingerly took the small, rounded leaf and nibbled at the end. The taste was sharp and refreshing. “It's good-like sour grass!” she said, looking up at her grandmother, who smiled. “What are those?” Cassie said, nibbling again as she pointed to some bright yellow buttons of flowers.
“That's tansy. The ones that look like white daisies are feverfew. Feverfew leaves are good in salads.”
Cassie was intrigued. “What about those?” She pointed to some creamy white flowers that twined up
other bushes.
“Honeysuckle. I keep it just because it smells good. The bees love it, and the butterflies. In spring it's like Grand Central Station around here.”
Cassie reached out to snap off a fragrant stem of delicate flower buds, then stopped. “Could I-I thought I'd take some up for my room. If you don't mind, I mean.”
“Oh, good heavens, take as many as you want. That's what they're here for.”
She's not really old and ugly at all, Cassie thought, snapping off stems of the creamy flowers. She's just– different. Different doesn't necessarily mean bad.
“Thanks-Grandma,” she said as they went back into the house. Then she opened her mouth again, to ask about the yellow house, and who lived there.
But her grandmother was picking up something from beside the microwave.
“Here, Cassie. This came in the mail for you yesterday.” She handed Cassie two booklets bound in construction paper, one red and one white.
New Salem High School Student and Parent Handbook, one read. The other read, New Salem High School Program of Studies.
Oh, my God, Cassie thought. School.
New hallways, new lockers, new classrooms, new faces. There was a slip of paper between the booklets, with Schedule of Classes printed boldly at the top. And under that, her name, with her address listed as Number Twelve Crowhaven Road, New Salem.
Her grandmother might not be as bad as she'd thought; even the house might turn out to be not so awful. But what about school? How could she ever face school here in New Salem?
Five
The gray cashmere sweater or the blue-and-white Fair Isle cardigan, that was the question. Cassie stood in front of the gilt-framed mirror, holding first one and then the other in front of her. The blue cardigan, she decided; blue was her favorite color, and it brought out the blue of her eyes. The plump cherubs on top of the old-fashioned looking glass seemed to agree, smiling at her approvingly.