Andre Norton - The Magic Books 06 - Red Hart Magic

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RED HART MAGIC
Andre Norton
All rights reserved. Copyright © 1976 by Andre Norton
The writer wishes to express her appreciation to Ms. Marge Geddes,
the present owner of "Red Hart Inn," who very kindly permitted the use of
one of her treasures for the background of this story. And she wishes to
express her appreciation also to Ms. Marian Maeve O'Brien, in whose
book Collectors' Guide to Dollhouses and Dollhouse Miniatures, the writer
first came across the photograph and story of the inn.
1
We're Not a Family
Chris Fitton's shoulders were against the wall, his hands thrust deep
into the pockets of his jeans. Behind his glasses, his eyes were half closed
in a way he had been many times told was sullen.
The carpet was green and shaggy, like grass which needed a closer
cutting. While it looked fine against the white-cream walls of the room,
the color certainly did not match the furniture standing around on it, as if
each chair, each table, and the divan would rather be in another place.
One of these chairs was just the wrong shade of green against the
grass-green carpet. Another was orange, bright enough to make your eyes
ache, while the divan was a mustard-yellow and along it were scattered a
lot of fat cushions, each of a different pattern. After one quick glance in
that direction, however, Chris turned his eyes resolutely to the two big
windows, because she was sitting there.
Nan Mallory had planted her feet close together in a show of
determination she did not in the least feel. Her hands were locked in her
lap, her elbows nudged two stiff cushions which were never made to
provide anyone any comfort, rather to show off Aunt Elizabeth's skill at
needlework. "Aunt Elizabeth"—Nan's feeling of abandonment made her a
little sick. It was not her aunt who lived here; this was not her kind of
place. She hated the apartment so fiercely she longed to run as fast and as
far as she could.
Though where could she run to? There was not any place or
anybody—now. Inside she shivered. Nobody must know how she
felt—especially not him. She would not look in his direction. Aunt
Elizabeth with her talk of brothers! They were not family at all, nor were
they ever going to be! She would write to Grandma Bergman, though
already she was sadly certain, that would do no good at all.
Grandma could not take her, not since she had moved to Sunnyside
'way down in Florida. She had explained it all to Nan, how you could only
have grandchildren for visits there. So when Mother wrote and said—
Nan set her teeth hard together, lifted her chin a fraction—when
Mother said she was going to get married again and was going to be away
six months with Mr. Hawes (that is what Nan would always call him—just
plain old Mr. Hawes; he certainly was not her father!) in Mexico and that
Nan must stay with Aunt Elizabeth—Well, Grandma agreed just like that.
As if Nan were a suitcase or something which could be sent around from
one place to another! Well, they would find out! Somehow, somehow, she
would go—where? There was nowhere for her to go—no old house in
Elmsport any more—nothing.
Maybe she could have stood being here—just maybe—if he had not been
here, too. Just last night he had called her stupid right to her face and said
she ought to shut up when she did not know what she was talking about.
Stupid! He looked stupid—mean, too, with his squinty eyes and his mouth
set to say something to make a person want to hit him back.
Chris moved one foot an inch or so forward, pressing down a bit of the
carpet grass. This was about the worst yet. Even worse than staying at
Brixton two years ago over the holidays, when he was the only kid left and
the teachers had to be stuck with him. Of course, he ought to be used to it
by now. Only he had thought that maybe this year—when he was old
enough to show some sense—Dad might just consider taking him along.
Then—Chris tried to close his mind. Her—her and this one across the
room—they certainly made a mess of things for him. Aunt Elizabeth all the
time talking about being a family! That was certainly dumb; there was no
family! There was Dad and that woman—gone off together. And there was
Aunt Elizabeth and her here. And none of them were his family. He did
not have any family, and he was not going to be pushed into even saying
he did either.
If he was sure Aunt Elizabeth would not come charging in and want to
know what he was doing, he would go back to his room right now. He had
brought the model kit he had saved up for; he had not even unpacked it
yet. Trouble was that he could not find any place in his room to work on it.
He might even lose some of the parts if he opened the box and Aunt
Elizabeth made him move it around. He had a couple of books he could
read. But he already knew what Aunt Elizabeth thought about sitting
reading—
Chris scowled. He knew what he wanted to do; and it was not spending
the morning in here with that dummy over there, nor was it being a
"regular boy" as Aunt Elizabeth kept talking about. He was a boy, and he
was as regular as he wanted to be right now.
"Chris—Nan—"
Chris's shoulders twitched, and Nan's head jerked. Neither answered.
Then Aunt Elizabeth was no longer in the hall but right there in the living
room. Beaming as if she had invented them both, Chris thought.
She talked and she laughed all the time, as if that way she could make
them do or want to be what she thought they should, Nan decided.
Sometimes that flood of words poured over you until you got so tired you
would say yes or no without really noticing what you were answering.
"Such luck"—the bright voice rasped on Chris's ears—"tickets!" Aunt
Elizabeth was waving one hand in the air like a magician who had
materialized something special. "Tickets to the Disney Festival at the
Rockland! I can drop you there on my way to see Cousin Philip at the
hospital and pick you up at four. You see, things work out splendidly if one
just does a little planning—"
Her smile looks as if it were pasted on, Nan decided. I bet she does not
want us here any more than I want to be in this old apartment. If she
would just let me alone—not always be pushing me around—
At the moment she refused to see any attraction in Aunt Elizabeth's
treat. Disney—probably a lot of silly cartoons for little kids. But there was
no escape. She would have to go with him just as Aunt Elizabeth planned,
a whole afternoon of having to sit beside somebody who acted as if she
were not real at all.
For the first time she glanced quickly at and then away from Chris. He
stared at Aunt Elizabeth, his face blank. Did he always look that way, Nan
wondered, as if he did not want to know anyone? What did he really like to
do?
Aunt Elizabeth had talked on and on last night, telling them about all
the things ahead. She had planned out everything—school and
friends—picked out what was "best" for them both. Now, for the first time,
there came a small crack in Nan's shell of resentment as a new thought
crossed her mind. Did he hate being here as much as she did?
He certainly was not much to look at—always slouching around in spite
of Aunt Elizabeth's pleas to "straighten up." His face was round, and his
glasses somehow made his eyes look small; just as they always looked half
closed, as if he were sleepy or so bored he could not bear to look clearly at
anything. He wore that blue T-shirt which matched his jeans, and his hair
was white-blond, so his brows and lashes hardly showed. He was short for
his age, too, hardly any taller than she herself. There was a faded stain of
paint or something down the front of his shirt, and his shoes looked as if
he had been tramping through trash heaps for months.
Nan lifted her head a little more, allowing Aunt Elizabeth's words to
flow over her, to face her own reflection in the mirror above the mantel. At
least she looked neat. She had on the candy-striped shirt Grandma had
made her and her red slacks. And she had combed her hair—which, she
bet, was more than he had done this morning.
Her hair was a little more than shoulder-length and dark brown, and
her skin was rather brownish, too. A trace of summer tan always stayed
with her through the whole year. Summer—she had about lived on the
beach at Elmsport. But she was not going to allow herself to remember
Elmsport—no, she was not.
"And a clean shirt, please Chris. You cannot go out looking so untidy."
Nan smiled a little. That was telling him! And it was the truth, too.
Even if she liked Chris, she would have not wanted to go to the show with
someone who looked as if he had been burrowing into a dump.
"Yes, Aunt Elizabeth." He was not scowling maybe, but his voice
sounded, Nan decided, as if he would like to. It was polite, but the kind of
polite one heard when a person was "mad clean through," as Grandma
used to say. She watched him with interest. Would that politeness crack,
so he would tell Aunt Elizabeth just what he thought?
Nan was sure now that he did not care for this arrangement any more
than she did. But Aunt Elizabeth was his Aunt Elizabeth, not hers, so if
anybody talked back let it be him. She herself was going to keep her
mouth shut, just the way Grandma had always told her: count ten and
then ten again before you answer, no matter how mad you are. Grandma
said keeping quiet got a person through a lot of hard places better than
letting one's tongue wag free.
For a moment Nan felt sick again. Grandma! She wanted Grandma and
Elmsport, and things to be the way they had always been, before Mother
stirred everything up. Mother was hardly ever at home anyway, always
going off somewhere to write about a new place for Travel Magazine.
Mother never seemed as real as Grandma, just a person who flitted in and
out, always in a hurry, thinking about something else when you tried to
talk about things which mattered to you.
He had gone. Probably to change his shirt. That gave Aunt Elizabeth a
chance to get at her. Nan stiffened warily.
"You look very nice, dear."
Starting off soft, Nan believed. She looked all right, she guessed, but she
was nothing spectacular.
"Perhaps there will be letters," Aunt Elizabeth continued with that
brightness which made Nan so uncomfortable. "You will be so glad to hear
from your mother, I know."
"Mother never writes much," Nan said flatly. "Sometimes she sends
postcards. But she's busy all the time writing things that sell. Letters
don't."
Aunt Elizabeth's smile appeared a little strained for a moment.
"Postcards are nice, too," she asserted too quickly.
Nan stiffened again. Maybe Mother did not write many letters, and
maybe sometimes Nan wished she did; but it was not Aunt Elizabeth's
place to say so, or even to think it.
"Mother won the Cleaver Award for her Iranian article last year," she
said. "That's very important. She had to go to Washington, to a big party,
and it was on TV. Grandma and I watched."
"Yes, of course." Aunt Elizabeth's smile was now firmly back in place.
"You have every right to be proud of your mother, Nan."
Nan looked down at her tightly folded hands. One could be proud of
Mother, even if one did not know her. But she loved Grandma! If only
Grandma had not decided that the house was too big and the doctor had
not said she must live in a warmer place than Elmsport. Then, with
Mother's getting married and all—Well, Nan was here, and she would have
to make the best of it until she could figure out some way to make it
better.
He had come back, and he did have on a clean T-shirt. At least it looked
different, though it was the same faded blue, for there was no stain down
the front. But Aunt Elizabeth did not seem too pleased.
"Chris, don't you have any other kind of shirt? I must go through your
wardrobe and see just what you do need. Oh, well, at least it looks clean,
and you'll have your jacket on over it. I thought we would leave early and
have lunch at Magnim's on the way. This is Clara's day off, and I haven't
got time to cook myself." She glanced at her wristwatch. "Chris, you run
down to Haines and tell him to call a taxi. We'll be down in a jiffy."
Nan went for her own coat just as Chris, his jacket only half on, slipped
out the apartment door. Aunt Elizabeth pushed at her hair in front of the
hall mirror. She had on a hat which she could not seem to set at just the
right angle and was frowning at her reflection.
With her navy-blue coat on and her patchwork purse in hand, Nan
came back just as Aunt Elizabeth turned away from the mirror and slid
into her own coat, grabbed up her shoulder bag.
"Come on!" she urged Nan. "Mustn't keep the taxi waiting, not with
money as tight as it is."
They went down in the self-service elevator, which Nan had hated from
the first. It made her feel as if she were caught in a trap. She almost held
her breath as she watched the light flicker along the numbers above the
door until they stepped out into the lobby.
At home Nan had never become so upset over little things. But then
there everything was familiar, and she felt safe. Here where everything was
new and so different, she would rather stay in than go out.
Chris stood outside next to the big doorman. There was the taxi Aunt
Elizabeth had sent him to order. He glanced right and left along the street.
Why could they not walk? Aunt Elizabeth always took cabs; then the cabs
got stuck in traffic. You would really save time by walking. Also there were
the stores—
He wondered if there was a shop that sold model kits near here. Dad
had sent him—he felt in his pocket, and his fingers crooked around the bill
he had rolled up. It was more than Dad had ever given him before, as if he
was—Was Dad trying to make up in that way for dumping him on Aunt
Elizabeth? Anyhow it was Chris's own money, and he would spend it just
as he wanted to this time. He would pick out something really super; when
he saw it, he would know. That is, if he ever got a chance to go shopping.
So far Aunt Elizabeth had laid down the rules, and at first he would have
to do what she said; at least until he learned more about this place.
"Here we are!"
Involuntarily Chris's shoulder hunched as Aunt Elizabeth's gloved hand
tightened there.
"Thank you, Haines," she said as she swept Chris after Nan to the
waiting taxi.
Magnim's was very different from the hotel where Grandma had twice
taken Nan for Sunday dinner. There were tables in a big room, and a lot of
conversation—a roar of sound. Aunt Elizabeth did not let either of them
look at the menu and make their own choices. As if they were babies, she
did the ordering in a firm voice. Nan picked at salad with a dressing
which smelled funny and tasted even queerer, turning with some relief to a
chicken sandwich. Luckily there was ice cream afterward.
Chris ate slowly, chewing as if he were counting the number of times
his jaw must move up and down. Aunt Elizabeth fidgeted and kept looking
at her watch.
"Chris," she said at last, a fraction more sharply. "You must finish. We
shall be late. As it is, I have to drop you off at the theater and get on to the
hospital. And, remember, you are to wait in the lobby when you come out,
unless you see me there already. With traffic as it is, I might just be
delayed."
Deliberately Chris drank the rest of his milk. "Yes, Aunt Elizabeth," he
answered.
It was when the taxi drew into the other lane so they could pause in
front of the theater that Chris saw the red sign which was too big to be
missed. Salvation Army Store! One of those! Once more he fingered the
bill in his pocket. Last year he had discovered the treasure house that sign
meant. All kinds of things were sold there. Why, he had gotten five
books—good ones—for a dollar, and a transistor radio, old but fixed up so
it ran fine. Then there was the time he discovered a box of all kinds of
shells. Somebody had mounted them on cards with their names printed
under them.
He shot a glance at Aunt Elizabeth. She was looking at her watch again.
They must be pretty late. If he could just—
The taxi pulled to a stop, though the meter still clicked busily. Aunt
Elizabeth opened the door with one hand and shoved the tickets at Chris
with the other.
"Go right in. It must be just starting, so hurry. Remember, stay in the
lobby until you see me."
"Sure," he agreed. Then he was standing next to Nan, and the taxi had
again swung from the curb.
Chris held out one of the tickets in her direction.
"Here," he said shortly, "you go on in."
"Aren't you coming?"
To Chris this was too good a chance to miss. There was no telling when
he might be able to get out alone again.
"Not now," he answered curtly. "You go in."
Nan made no move to take the ticket though he tried to press it into
her hand.
"What are you going to do?" she demanded.
"Don't be so stupid." His temper flared for an instant. "You go in. It's
none of your business. Now is it?"
Slowly she shook her head. "But Aunt Elizabeth—"
"Go on!" He wanted to push her through the door. Throwing Aunt
Elizabeth at him that way—
"All right!" Nan took the ticket.
Chris waited only long enough to see her reach the outer door of the
lobby; then he turned and was gone, back up the street. Nan opened the
door and let it close again, with her still outside. Chris was up to
something. She had no intention of meekly going in to watch Disney, not
now. She was going to see where he went and learn why.
2
Bargain Counter
Luckily Chris did not look back, so Nan did not have to dodge into any
shop doorways but could trail him openly. Then he did turn to look into a
big window. She caught a glimpse of the sign up above: "Salvation Army."
What in the world was Chris doing going in there? She scuttled ahead, not
really understanding why she must follow him, but knowing that somehow
it was important.
As she, in turn, peered through the big window she could only see the
mass of things on display: furniture, a baby crib, a lamp. What did Chris
want with old things like these?
Nan's curiosity was so aroused that, in turn, she dared to go inside. It
was rather like a discount store, only a lot more crowded. There were three
women by one counter. One of them kept reaching down to measure
dresses against a little girl with a runny nose, who whined she wanted to
go home. Another woman was pushing and pulling apart coats hung along
a big rack, fingering their material and looking at the tickets pinned to
their sleeves.
But where was Chris, and what had he come here for?
No one seemed to be paying any attention to her. Nan sidled by the
women at the dress counter, moving toward the back of the store where
Chris must have gone.
There were counters here like in a real shop—cases with transistors,
and toasters, a couple of boxes with jewelry lying on dark cloth in them,
while on the tops of the cases balanced some handbags, beyond them
some cups and saucers, each with a different flower pattern, a number of
belts. Then she caught sight of him and stopped by the belts.
Chris was busy at a big table where there were piles of old books and
magazines. Some of those were tied up in bundles with price tags stuck
under the twine which held them together. Those he pushed aside to look
at the books.
摘要：

ScannedbyHighroller.Proofedbyanunsinghero.REDHARTMAGICAndreNortonAllrightsreserved.Copyright©1976byAndreNortonThewriterwishestoexpressherappreciationtoMs.MargeGeddes,thepresentownerof"RedHartInn,"whoverykindlypermittedtheuseofoneofhertreasuresforthebackgroundofthisstory.Andshewishestoexpressherappre...

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