Dancing-pony's Silken Tails Options

[Dancing-pony]

I've been wandering through cyberspace, unable to find my link to Project Ferret, and quietly sobbing over the loss of the Quill.
It seems dismally quiet around here, but just in case anyone is reading, I'll flick the following into the forum. (Originally posted on the Sugar Quill in the 87 Rolls forum, but since the data base there seems to be dead . . . )

A Christmas Riddle




"What a handsome boy!"


The lady's hand paused over the tea service I was carrying, and it required my best effort to prevent the plates and saucers from rattling as I turned to follow her gaze. I wasn't surprised to find her eyes resting on a dark-haired child sitting quietly on the edge of the holiday festivities.


"Yes, he's quite good looking." I tried to smile but was unable to stifle a tiny sigh. The astute visitor picked up at once on my lack of enthusiasm.


"Slow, then, is he? What a pity." She shook her head dismissively and returned her attention to the tray, carefully selecting a sugared biscuit. Her deep green gown and graceful movements seemed calculated to display an ornate emerald ring, the stone nearly as large as a raven's egg, which flashed and sparkled on her slender finger.


"No," I said, watching her take a dainty nibble and then wipe her fingertips on a wisp of lace. Unable to summon up the protectiveness I usually felt toward my young charges, and not at all comfortable trying to determine why this was so, I did my best to defend him. "No, he seems quite bright, actually. Quite serious, too, for such a young chap. Even as a babe, he rarely made a fuss."


I suppose my tone gave away the puzzlement I always felt over the enigma of this small boy. He was barely more than an infant, yet he seemed to rouse none of the warmth and compassion orphaned youngsters generally inspired. In fact, nearly everyone who came into contact with him seemed to find his demeanor quite off-putting, as though he were enveloped in an invisible aura of cold and gloom.


"Odd, then, that you haven't been able to place him."


Quite odd, I silently agreed . . . but I hedged when given this opportunity to voice my thoughts. "We thought someone from his family might claim him. He was born here, and his mother died shortly after. She was quite alone in the world, I believe, but she did express the hope that his father would come looking . . . . "


The orphanage matron caught my eye. A discreet twitch of her graying head reminded me of her admonition against gossiping with our visitors, and I gave a prim curtsey to the emerald lady before continuing my circuit of the room. This evening, my duties were far less onerous than usual. The children were on their best behavior, and my sole responsibility was offering tea and biscuits to the guests -- society ladies who came on Christmas Eve to distribute gifts to our small charges, an annual penance for their worldly sins of excess.


As I passed from lady to lady, my eyes kept drifting back to Tom. The other children personified holiday cheer as they chatted happily or flitted through the room, laughingly displaying their new treasures. There were dolls and stuffed animals for the smallest, books and games for the older ones. Only Tom sat silently, a fluffy teddy bear abandoned near his feet, his dark eyes reflecting the scarlet flames of the fire burning merrily in the hearth.


What was it about this small orphan that caused the hair at the back of my neck to prickle as though in anticipation of some dark calamity?


As I watched, the emerald lady beckoned to Tom. He obediently, if unsmilingly, rose to his feet and toddled in her direction. Even from a distance, I knew the exact moment his attention was caught by her ring. His eyes widened and began to follow it's movements, twin spots of pink flushing his normally pale cheeks. He seemed transfixed, though clearly he was far too young realize the jewel had more monetary value than the shiny Christmas bobbles dangling from the towering spruce in the corner of the room.


I felt an inexplicable urge to step between boy and ring, as though his fascination portended something morbid and chilling rather than a harmless childish fancy. Setting my tray on a nearby table, I walked swiftly across the polished floor, pausing only to scoop up the abandoned teddy bear.


"Tom," I said, coming up to the pair and attempting to thrust the bear into one of his outstretched hands. "You've dropped your lovely gift. You must thank the kind lady for her generosity."


His dark head turned toward me, and I must have imagined the look that flashed across his attractive features. Was it possible for a child of his tender years to exhibit so much raw venom, especially when there wasn't the least provocation? Before I had time to reflect on this improbable emotional display, Tom's lips relaxed into a docile smile, and he turned again toward the seated lady. And then all rational thought was forced from my mind.


The teddy bear, which was still suspended loosely in my grasp, burst suddenly into flame. As I instinctively released my grip and stepped back, flexing my singed fingers, the burning toy fell to the floor. Almost in slow motion, it rolled a short distance, coming to rest at the feet of the seated lady. In an instant, the hem of her long, green skirt began to smoke and spark, raising the fear that her elegant costume would soon be engulfed in a deadly inferno.


Before I had time to react to these unexpected events, Tom (acting with amazing maturity and levelheadedness, considering his youth and inexperience) had taken the pot of sand, kept beside the hearth for just such emergencies, and poured its contents onto the erupting blaze.


Time seemed to freeze for a long moment, then everyone in the room began to move and speak at once. At the center of attention, the still-seated lady began to babble in a distracted manner, her eyes glassy and unfocused. "The poor child," she said, beginning to twist the emerald ring round and round on her finger. "His gift is ruined . . . it must have been struck by a stray ember from the fireplace . . . . He saved my life . . . . He should have something for Christmas . . . ."


The most improbable idea flooded my mind as I watched the two of them -- Tom, staring intently at the sparkling jewel, while the lady continued to fidget with its delicately wrought band. Surely, no matter how sympathetic the lady was to the child's loss, no matter how grateful for his timely action in dousing the flames, she wouldn't give him such a valuable object.


I didn't have the opportunity to divine her intent. She appeared to be tugging the ring from her hand when the parlor door burst open, but perhaps the movement was only an expression of her frayed nerves.


The lady's maid, who had been enjoying refreshments in the orphanage kitchen with the other guest's servants, scurried into the room. Rushing to her mistress's side, she jostled Tom, throwing him off balance. As he stumbled backward, the lady gave a tiny gasp and began to weep, fluttering both hands, her entire frame trembling in hysterics. Within seconds, the maid assisted her from the room, while I was urged toward the kitchen to wash and bandage my blistered fingers. Then, of course, there was a bustle of activity: rooms to be straightened, dishes to be collected, children to be tucked into their cots.


It was only later, as I rested on my own narrow bed, that I again allowed my thoughts to dwell on the unusual ending to the holiday celebration. The fire was, of course, only a tragic accident. If I was a superstitious woman, however, I might have seen something far more dark and sinister in its origins. In any case, I resolved then and there to keep a wary eye on young Tom Riddle.

[McGonagall's Cat]

What a great piece! ~ It felt like reading Conan-Doyle, excellent style!



.