Sheila:
My mother sighed, set down the platter of pancakes, and turned to glare at me. “If I order you away, Shama would probably once again take pity on you, but I don’t have to put up with your spoiling my beautiful morning. Be off with you, Sheila. Leave the kitchen and me alone.”
“Mother, I was only . . .”
“Yes. I know what you were trying to do. You want to spread your unhappiness around, as if that would lessen the sourness you carry inside you, but it won’t. Take your coffee and remove yourself from my presence.”
Her words were very hurtful. I supposed I’d have to be more careful about the servant girl. Any criticism concerning the girl was obviously a sore point with Mother.
I took my mug of coffee and searched for a door to take me out into the backyard. I wondered if Mother had planted a garden yet. She used to enjoy doing that.
The door was a bit tricky to open. It required a big pull and a heave. I figured a little oil might help, but probably it needed wood being shaving from the bottom. Although I’d never done anything like that, maybe I could fix it. If I had the tools.
When I finally got the door open, I almost gagged from disappointment. The yard was full of dust piles, bare dirt, and shaggy bits of weeds here and there. An old, chewed up rubber ball was lying almost in front of me, looking as if someone had allowed a dog to play with it. Over to the side, there was a rickety, wooden picnic table. I gingerly made my way over to it, hoping the bench attached to thing wouldn’t get my dress too sullied. I was just about to sit down when a huge monster of a horse charged me.
Of course I screamed. I should have run back into the house, but I was too frozen in shock to move a muscle. I just stood there, my mouth issuing dreadful noises, my feet planted in a cloud of dust, and then, as the demon horse came nearer, and I was feeling my doom, I closed my eyes and waited for the behemoth to trample, bite, plow into me, or kill me with one of those rears I’d seen wild horses do.
The beast made an unearthly noise, as if calling out to its fellow demons to come and tear me apart, but then it slid into a stop, leaving a spray of dirt and small pebbles to spray me with small pinpoints of pain. I could hear the brute breathing on me, blowing spittle, no doubt, or dragon-like flames to . . .
“Frey! Back away,” came the youngish voice of the servant girl. She started talking to the animal as if he were a person, her voice tranquil and calm. How could she sound so composed when this horrible nightmare had half killed me with fright and might possibly still be about to squash me flat as one of the pancakes Mother was making?