Page 102 of Persephone's Curse
“Sustained,” Bernadette said, and handed Clara the card for Reading Railroad.
It was so normal.
It had been my entire life.
The five of us playing the same worn out, dingy board games.
The five of us being silly, being here, being together.
The five of us.
But soon…
“Are you not having fun?” Bernadette said, angling toward me.It was my turn, and I hadn’t moved a muscle. “Is it because you’re losing very terribly?”
“Is it because I’ve monopolized almost all forms of transportation?” Clara.
“Is it because you have to readWuthering Heightsfor English over break and it’s the worst book ever written?” Evelyn.
“Is it because you thought I didn’t have toilets?” Henry.
“I likedWuthering Heights,” Bernadette said, then tapped on her phone a few times. A moment later, “Wuthering Heights” by Kate Bush started playing on the stereo speakers.
Dad poked his head into the living room. “I love Kate Bush! Right on!”
Out the windows, I could still see the snow falling against the deep-blue blackness of the winter night.
On the stereo speakers, Kate Bush sang about wandering the moors at night.
Aunt Bea came into the living room then and I thought of Esme, all alone in Vermont, playing with her dolls in front of an unlit fireplace.
“Gosh, thissnow,” Aunt Bea said, pausing by the wide front windows.
“And it’s not supposed to stop for days,” Dad replied, emerging from the kitchen looking slightly flushed now, from the heat or from the wine or both.
“Is the food ready yet, chef?” Aunt Bea asked, and Dad did a little flourish and bow and swept his arms toward the kitchen.
“Dinner is served,” he said dramatically, just as the lights flickered out.
Clara screamed, Evelyn gasped, Bernadette swore, and Aunt Bea drew in a sharp intake of breath. Mom came out from the kitchen a moment later, holding a candle in front of her face, shielding the flame with her hand.
“Be prepared,” she sang.
“Are there more of those?” Aunt Bea asked.
“A lot more,” Mom said. She brought the candle over to me as everyone else pushed into the kitchen, desperate for light. “Guard this flame well, for it is our only hope,” she said (she was a little drunk).
“What happens if it goes out?” I asked, taking it from her, playing along.
“Oh, gosh. We don’t want to think about that.”
She slipped back into the kitchen, leaving just Henry and me in the living room.
I could hear matches striking, the delicatewhooshof tiny flames catching. The kitchen glowed brighter and brighter with candlelight, and I moved to the window where Aunt Bea had just stood.
“I guess the game is over,” Henry said, a little sadly.
“Clara was crushing us, anyway.”
