A Darker Music Read Free Page B

and dislodging the propped wand. It clattered down in slow motion while she grabbed for it.
    ‘Who are you?’ The woman’s voice was deep, with a husky edge as if she hadn’t used it for a while, but there was no mistaking the hostility. ‘What are you doing in my house?’
    Mary straightened, wishing she could disappear. The woman was wearing something long and white, made luminous by the sunlight coming through from the room behind, giving her the air of an avenging angel. Mary couldn’t see her face; it was in shadow. She was tall, though, and Mary sensed in her some strong emotion, held in check with an effort.
    ‘Well?’ the woman demanded. She was steadying herself against the doorframe, but swaying, ever so slightly, or trembling.
    This must be Mrs Hazlitt, and Mrs Hazlitt was not expecting to see a stranger in her house. Mary kept her voice low and steady. ‘My name’s Mary Lanyon. Mr Hazlitt employed me to help with the housekeeping until you’re well again.’
    Mrs Hazlitt was scrutinising Mary’s face. ‘I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you before in my life. You’re not from around here.’ She made it seem as if not being a local were some kind of crime.
    Mary made the effort to smile, offering it as an appeasement signal. ‘No, you’re quite right. I live in Perth. I flew down with Martin yesterday.’
    Mrs Hazlitt took this in, nodded and turned away, her body drooping as if the confrontation had been too much for her. She stopped, glanced back at Mary. ‘Since you’re here, you could get me something to drink.’ This sounded like a command, but then her voice wavered and became almost wistful. ‘I’ve been dreaming of fresh orange juice. Could you fetch me some?’
    Mary thought fast. Had she seen orange juice in any of the fridges? Could she borrow some from the unknown Gloria?
    ‘The oranges’ — the woman gestured — ‘should be ripe. It’s nearly August, isn’t it? They start to ripen in August. Could you go and have a look? Please?’
    ‘Yes, of course.’
    Mrs Hazlitt retreated into her room, closing the door. Mary made a note of which one it was and set out in search of the orange trees.
    Well, that was Mrs Hazlitt! No Mrs Rochester there, anyway, although there was something queer about her: either she was really sick, or she was a drama queen. But she had said please.
    Mary located the orange trees, along with mandarins, lemons and grapefruit, all laden with ripening fruit. The trees were old and formed a dense hedge beside the house. She tugged and twisted off half-a-dozen of the ripest fruit, icy cold and still wet with dew.
    In a kitchen cupboard Mary found a lemon squeezer and an assortment of glasses, some of cranberry glass, some pale green and others speckled with gold. She strained the juice into a flute with a gold rim.
    The door of Mrs Hazlitt’s room was still shut, and she knocked gently and went in. The woman was in bed, lying on her side looking out through french doors to the sunlit garden. When Mary’s shadow fell across her she raised her head, and for the first time Mary saw her face clearly. Her skin was the greyish white of old paper, with lines etched around her eyes, mouth and nose. Under her eyes were dark smudges; above them, strong arching brows that matched the mass of black hair, stranded with grey, spread over the white pillows. Like one of Klimt’s sirens, Mary thought, startled; but one that was old and sick. The siren looked up at her with eyes that were bottomless pools of blackness. Mary had never seen eyes so dark. Her lips were dry and pallid, and to speak seemed to be an effort.
    ‘Thank you,’ Mrs Hazlitt said, and struggled to sit up. She noticed the fancy glass. ‘Nice.’
    ‘I put some sugar in,’ Mary told her. ‘It was pretty sour. What would you like to eat? I understand you’ve been ill?’
    Mrs Hazlitt put the empty glass down. ‘That was wonderful,’ she said, licking the taste of orange from her lips with a