A Deadly Affection Read Online Free Page A

Central Park into little funnels that sifted up under my skirt and into my shoes. Already it had blanketed the tan and cream town houses that lined my street, transforming them into a storybook gingerbread village. I spotted the glowing bay windows of number 7 beckoning up ahead and hurried toward them. Propelled by a final, bone-rattling shiver, I dashed up the steps and burst inside.
    I stashed my hat and coat on the hallway rack and followed the sound of gasping bellows to the sitting room, where Mary, our parlor maid, was stoking the fire. I stood beside her on the hearth, holding my palms to the flames.
    â€œAre they back yet?” I asked.
    She turned her flushed face up to me, her white cap askew. “Not yet, miss. Katie says we probably shouldn’t expect them until dinner.”
    I could feel the tension seep from my shoulders. Father had left early that morning to bring my mother back from a flower show in Philadelphia, and with road conditions so unpredictable, I hadn’t known when he might be back. It was a relief to think I might have a few more hours of peace before his return.
    Grabbing an apple from the pantry, I marched myself upstairs, determined to finish the journals Professor Bogard had lent me so I could return them at our meeting the following morning. I shut my bedroom door and sank into the armchair by the window with the first of the three journals opened on my lap. But while normally I might have found “The Appreciation of Time by Somnambules” a riveting bit of analysis, I couldn’t keep myself from glancing out the window at the street below or listening for the sound of the front door. I adored my father, but he was a stubborn man, unaccustomed to my disagreeing with him. We’d had quite a row over dinner the night before, and I didn’t expect our next encounter to be any less contentious.
    When the dinner bell rang, I was less than halfway through the second volume and remembered very little of what I’d read. Laying the journals down in defeat, I descended the stairs to the dining room and took my usual place at the side of the table. Katie was standing by the sideboard, whacking brussels sprouts around a chafing dish with the back of a spoon, looking more than usually severe in her black evening uniform and stiff white apron and cap. I took in the absence of other place settings with a mix of concern and relief.
    â€œI guess they’re not going to make it,” I concluded as she carried a platter of roast chicken to my side.
    She forked a chicken breast onto my plate. “No, miss,” she said, her Irish brogue thick with indignation. “I expect they’re in a ditch somewhere, praying a farmer will come along to pull them out.” She pushed some stray gray hairs back from her steam-dampened cheeks with her wrist. “A good dinner ruined, and for what?” she grumbled, returning to the sideboard. “I don’t see why they couldn’t have taken the train.”
    I took no offense; Katie had been with my parents since they were married, and her devotion was rather fierce. “Why don’t you leave it all on the warmer?” I suggested as she returned with the sprouts. “They can help themselves when they get back.”
    â€œ If they get back,” she muttered, dumping a spoonful of limp sprouts beside my chicken. But she hoisted the chafing dishes from the sideboard and carried them into the pantry, where I heard them land with a resounding clang on the warmer.
    I ate quickly, realizing that if I retired early, I might be able to avoid another scene with my father until at least the following day. As soon as I finished, I went upstairs to wash up, then climbed into bed with the journals. An article on the use of persuasion tactics to cure chronic melancholia caught my interest, as it appeared to support the program I’d designed for my class. By the time I’d finished reading it a second time, I was