Forbidden Fruit. Erica Spindler

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      Fear turned Glory’s mouth to ash. What if it wasn’t her mother beside the bed? What if it was a stranger gazing down at her, or a monster?

      What if it was the devil himself?

      A cry raced to her lips; she held it back—barely. The fear squeezed at her. She pictured The Great Red Beast there beside her, waiting for her to open her eyes so he could steal her soul.

      Glory curled her fingers tightly into the damp bedsheets, the darkness closing in on her, her imagination creating vivid, frightening movies in her head. Finally, she couldn’t bear the unknown another moment; finally the what ifs overwhelmed her. Terrified, she cracked open her eyes.

      And wished with all her heart that she had not.

      Her mother stood beside the bed, gazing down at her, her face twisted into an ugly mask, her eyes burning with an emotion, a light, that made Glory’s skin crawl.

      Glory shuddered, even as tears built behind her eyes. Her mother looked at her as if she, Glory, was the monster she had feared only moments before. As if she, Glory, was the devil.

      Why, Mama? Glory wanted to scream. What about me is so ugly? What have I done to cause you to look at me this way?

      She swallowed the words, though not without great effort. A moment later, without so much as blinking, her mother turned and left the room. She snapped the door shut behind her, leaving Glory in total darkness once again.

      Glory’s tears came then, hot and bitter. She curled into a tight ball, her face pressed into her pillow to muffle the sound of her shame, her despair. She cried for a long time, until her tears were spent, until all she could manage was a dry, broken sound of grief.

      She rolled onto her back, bringing one of her soft, plush animals with her. She clutched it to her chest, remembering the first time she had awakened to find her mother above her, looking at her in that way, her face almost unrecognizable with hate. Glory had been young, so young she couldn’t recall any other details of the experience.

      She could recall, however, the way she had felt—ugly and afraid. And alone, so very alone.

      The way she felt right now.

      Glory hugged the toy tighter to her chest. Why did her mother look at her that way? What had she done to cause her mother’s face to change into one she barely recognized? One that was ugly and frightening?

      Why didn’t her mother love her?

      It always came back to that, Glory thought, tears welling again, slipping down her cheeks.

       At least her father loved her.

      Glory clasped that truth to her, much as she did her plush toy, denying the little voice that taunted, the one that insisted he loved her mother more. That didn’t matter, she told herself, thinking of their evening at the hotel, of their dinner at the Renaissance Room and the things he had said about family and heritage.

      Glory ran his words through her head, holding on to them, letting them soothe and comfort her. They made her feel less alone, less frightened. She was a part of her mother, a part of her father. She was a part of the St. Germaine family and of the St. Charles.

      No one could take that away from her. Not her mother’s burning gaze, not the darkness of her own fear.

      She wasn’t alone. With family, she never would be.

       Chapter 10

      Glory stopped at the library door, looked over her shoulder to make sure her mother wasn’t anywhere about, then ducked inside, partially shutting the door behind her. She tiptoed across the floor, heading toward the shelves containing the forbidden books, the ones her mother had made strictly off limits.

       And now she knew why.

      She reached the wall of books, glanced behind her one last time, then tipped her head back, scanning the titles on the fourth shelf. Art Through The Ages; The Postimpressionists; Pierre Auguste Renoir: The Last Years; Michelangelo.

      Glory stopped on the last. Her grand-mère had called Michelangelo the greatest sculptor of the human form ever. She would bet that book contained what she was looking for. Now, all she had to do was figure out how she was going to get it off the shelf.

      She looked around her, eyebrows drawn together in thought. The library ladder was on the opposite wall; the two chairs, big, old leather things, were too heavy for her to move by herself, the sofa too big to even contemplate.

      “Darn,” she muttered. “What to do?”

      Her gaze lighted on the brass wastepaper basket in the corner. She crossed to it and plucked out the wadded papers, then carried it across the room. She set it upside down in front of the shelf, then climbed onto it. She stretched; the wastebasket wobbled; the book remained out of her reach. Bracing herself with one hand, she stood on tiptoe and reached her other hand as high as she could. She still didn’t come close.

      “Darn,” she said again, this time loudly, forgetting stealth.

      From behind her came a yawn and the creak of leather. Glory gasped and swiveled, nearly toppling the basket and herself. Danny Cooper, the housekeeper’s six-year-old grandson stared sleepily at her over the top of one of the leather wingbacks.

      She glared at him, her heart still racing. “You about scared me to death. What are you doing in here?”

      “Staying out of the way.” He yawned again. “Mom had to go to the doctor and Grandma said to be good. She’s always telling me that when I’m here. I wanted to play, but I couldn’t find you.”

      “Mama has a headache this morning. Grand-mère took me out for beignets.”

      He rested his chin on top of the chair back. “You want to go play?”

      Glory tipped her head, studying the six-year-old. She and Danny had played together since he was a toddler, and although he was too young to call her best friend, secretly she thought of him that way.

      She hopped off the wastebasket. “I’ve got a better idea. Can you keep a secret?”

      “You bet.” He nodded, punctuating his answer.

      “I need you to help me get one of those books.” She pointed toward the books on the fourth shelf.

      He lowered his voice to a whisper. “How come?”

      She looked to her left, then to her right. “Grand-mère,” she said in an exaggerated whisper, “took me to the art museum yesterday. And I saw something that—” Her cheeks heated, and she shook her head. “Anyway, when I asked Grand-mère about it, she turned red and said we had to go home. And we had just gotten there, too.”

      He lifted his gaze to the shelf of art books. “What you saw is in those books?”

      “Uh-huh.” She followed his gaze. “And I want to see it again.”

      “I can get Granny to help.”

      “No!” СКАЧАТЬ