The Orphan of Awkward Falls Read Free Page A

had spent a century or two sitting on the bottom of the sea.
    Howard leaned over the steering wheel, looking up at the houses. “Can you see the addresses, dear? We’re looking for twelve-twelve. It’s called Twittington House.”
    “The house has a name?” Josephine asked. “Weird.”
    “We just passed twelve-oh-eight,” said Barbara. “There’s twelve-ten…”
    But there didn’t seem to be any more houses on Oleander Alley after the one at 1210, only dark forestland on either side of the potholed road. They drove farther down Oleander, a half mile or so, until they came around a curve and saw a lone house in the distance. As they got closer, Barbara leaned across Howard’s lap to read the address.
    “Oh, here it is!” said Barbara excitedly.
    The Cravitzes’ new home appeared to be the last house on the street. Beyond the shaggy shrubs that bordered the side lawn, the fog was an opaque wall of gray, obscuring all but the tops of the tallest hemlocks and black spruces. The fog was so thick that if there had been a forbidding old mansion next door—which there was—they wouldn’t have seen it—which they didn’t.
    Howard pulled into the cobbled driveway and brought the car to a shuddering halt. They all flung the doors open and jumped out for a look.
    Barbara hugged Howard enthusiastically. “Oh, it’s perfect, dear! It must be a hundred years old!”
    “More like two hundred. George Washington’s grandma probably slept here.” Josephine was determined to remain sullen and bored, though secretly she found the house intriguing. The lacy, rotted trimmings around the windows and eaves made the place look like a gingerbread house for ghosts.
    In its heyday, Twittington House had obviously been impressive. Even now, in its advancing years, the house was far grander thanany the Cravitzes had ever lived in. It was a Victorian-style structure, tall and many-gabled, making it hard to tell how many stories there were. Josephine guessed that there were at least two floors, possibly as many as four. And she loved “upstairs houses.”
    A little wooden sign next to the front door read twittington house in gold lettering. The door key was unnecessary, as the lock was worn out from a hundred years of use. As Barbara led them in excitedly, Josephine noticed the sweet piney smell all the best old houses had. The interior of the house was a maze of rooms of all sizes and shapes, with unexpected alcoves and big bay windows. Some rooms were large and open, with ancient chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. Some were small and cramped with walls and ceilings at odd angles. There were doors everywhere. The house was full of dilapidated charm, a fixer-upper’s dream. Before they had even brought in the luggage, Barbara was already talking about paint colors for the kitchen.
    Josephine found the house attractively creepy and liked it instantly, though she pretended not to. She immediately stomped up the stairs to the top floor, opening the old creaky doors and looking into each room to see which one she wanted for her bedroom. She settled on one of the smaller ones because it felt cozy and had a window seat that looked perfect for reading. Also, there was a small bookcase containing several dusty, identically bound editions of Edgar Allan Poe, an author she had recently taken a liking to. The room was furnished with a soft, lumpy old feather bed with carvedposts at each corner, a huge dresser with squeaky drawers, and an antique vanity with an oval mirror attached.
    She sat down at the vanity and stuck her tongue out at her own reflection, disappointed that her bad mood had almost completely disappeared. She tried making really ugly faces at herself, something she considered herself expert at, but that made her feel even better. Then she noticed something wedged in the corner of the mirror. It was a scratchy old photograph of a man and a woman. Josephine picked the picture up for a closer look. They were a striking couple