The Girl Who Couldn'T See Rainbows. Rosette

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      I wandered through the room, still incredulous. I sat in front of the mirror above the dresser, and I sadly looked at my face. My hair was red, of course. I only knew it because others told me, I wasn’t able to define the colour. I lived a life in black and white; I was also a prisoner, just like Mr Mc Laine. Not of a wheelchair, maybe, but I was also incomplete. I passed my finger on a silver brush, placed on the dresser along with other toiletries; an exquisite, valuable item, made available to me with an incomparable generosity.

      My eyes ran to the big wall clock, which treacherously reminded me of the appointment with the owner of the house.

      I couldn’t be late.

      Not on our first meeting.

      Maybe it would be the last one, if I didn’t manage to... What did Mrs Mc Millian say? Oh, right. Hold my ground. It was easy to say for the princess of chickens. My favourite word, the one I used most frequently, was sorry, declined according to the circumstances in I’m sorry or I apologize. Sooner or later I would apologize for living. I straightened my shoulders, in a surge of pride. I would sell my skin dearly. I would have earned the right, the pleasure, to stay in that house, in that room, in that corner of the world.

      On the landing, while I descended the stairs, my shoulders curved again, my mind was screaming, my heart dashing. My peacefulness lasted... how long? A minute?

      Almost a record.

      Chapter two

      When I reached the lobby I was aware of my inevitable ignorance. Where was the study? How could I find it, if I barely managed to get to the hall? Before sinking into despair I was saved by the providential intervention of Mrs Mc Millian who had a broad smile on her thin face.

      “Miss Bruno, I was just about to call you...” She took a quick glance at the clock on the wall. “You’re on time! You’re really a rare pearl! Are you sure you have Italian origins, and not Swiss?” She laughed at her own punch line.

      I smiled politely, adjusting my step to hers as she climbed the stairs. We passed the door of my bedroom, apparently directed down the hall, towards a thick door.

      Without interrupting her chatter, she knocked on the door three times, and opened it.

      I stood behind her, my legs trembling as she peered into the room.

      “Mr Mc Laine... Miss Bruno is here.”

      "It’s about time. She’s late”. The voice sounded rough and rude.

      The housekeeper broke out in a loud laughter; she was used to her employer’s ill humour.

      “Just by a minute, sir. Don’t forget she got here. I made her lose time because...”

      “Let her in, Millicent.” His interruption was abrupt, almost like a whip, and I jumped in place of the other woman who, unscathed, turned to look at me.

      “Mr Mc Laine is awaiting you Miss Bruno. Please, come in.”

      The woman retreated, waving me in. I gave her a last worried look. Trying to encourage me, she whispered “Good luck.”

      It had the opposite effect on me. My brain was reduced to a liquefied pulp, devoid of logic, or knowledge of time and space.

      I dared a shy step inside the room. Before I saw anything I heard his voice dismissing someone.

      “You can go Kyle. See you tomorrow. Be on time please. I won’t tolerate further delays.”

      A man was standing, a few feet away from me, tall and vital. He stared at me and greeted me with a nod of his head and he sent me an appreciative glance as he walked past me.

      “Good evening.”

      “Good evening,” I replied, staring at him longer than needed in order to delay the moment in which I would make a fool of myself; I was sure that I would have let Mrs Mc Millian down, and lose my silly hopes.

      The door closed behind me, and I remembered my good manners.

      “Good evening, Mr Mc Laine. My name is Melisande Bruno, I’m from London and...”

      “Spare me your list of skills, Miss Bruno. Which is quite modest, anyhow.” The voice was now bored.

      My eyes lifted, finally ready to meet those of my opponent. And when they did, I thanked God for having greeted him first. Because now it would’ve been hard for me to even remember my name.

      He was sitting behind the desk, on his wheelchair, one hand outstretched on the edge, touching the wood, the other playing with an ink pen, his dark eyes locked on mine, unfathomable. Again, I regretted not being able to see colours. I would have given a year of my life to distinguish the colours of his face and hair. But such joy was forbidden to me. Without appeal. In a flicker of rationality I realized that he was gorgeous: his face of an unnatural pallor, black eyes, shaded by long lashes, black, wavy and thick hair.

      “Are you mute, by chance? Or deaf?”

      I dropped back down on earth, precipitating from dizzying heights. I could almost to hear my limbs crashing on the ground. A loud and frightening rumble, followed by a scary and devastating crunch.

      “Excuse me, I was distracted,” I whispered, blushing instantly.

      He looked at me with exaggerated attention. It seemed as though he was memorizing every single feature of my face, dwelling on my throat. I blushed even more. For the first time in my life I longed for my birth defect to be shared by another human being. It would have been less embarrassing if Mr Mc Laine, in his aristocratic and triumphant beauty, couldn’t notice the redness flowing violently over every inch of my skin.

      I swayed on my feet uncomfortably, under his blatant examination. He continued his scrutiny, gazing at my hair.

      “You should die your hair. Or else people might mistake it for fire. I wouldn’t want you to end up under the assault of a hundred fire extinguishers.” His inscrutable expression got a little animated, and a sparkle of amusement shone in his eyes.

      “I didn’t choose this colour,” I said, gathering all the dignity I was capable of. “The Lord did.”

      He raised an eyebrow. “Are you religious, Miss Bruno?”

      “Are you, sir?”

      He placed the pen on his desk, without taking his eyes off of me. “There is no proof that God exists.”

      “Or that he doesn’t exist,” I replied with a challenging tone, surprising even myself for the vehemence with which I spoke.

      His lips curled into a mocking smile, and then he pointed to the upholstered armchair. “Sit down”. It was an order, rather than an invitation. Nevertheless, I obeyed instantly.

      “You didn’t answer my question, Miss Bruno. Are you religious?”

      “I'm a believer, Mr Mc Laine,” I said quietly. “But I'm not much of a church-goer. In fact, I never do.”

      “Scotland is one of СКАЧАТЬ