Embers Read Online Free Page A

saying, his voice dancing for joy. "Ain't it?" He was watching her intently, savoring it again through her eyes.
    Meg approached the superb miniature and peered through a tiny lattice-paned casement. Inside she saw a dining room furnished in stunning detail. The Chippendale-style table, the focal point of the room, was elaborately set for a formal dinner that would never be eaten. Everything, from the impossibly tiny gold flatware and crystal stemware to the thumbnail-size hand-painted platters — everything was incredibly complete and perfectly rendered to scale.
    The silver chandelier with its half-inch candles; the sideboard covered with silver salvers; the Oriental rug, twelve inches long and nine inches wide, knotted from silken threads into a pattern of stunning complexity; the mauve brocade drapes, held back by tiny gold braid; even the bits of wood in the marble-manteled fireplace, kindling and log sized.
    "This ... is magic," Meg whispered, finding her voice at last.
    She peeped through another window: the library. Another fireplace, this one with a mantel of burnished mahogany, held a porcelain-faced clock and charming examples of chinoiserie: tiny twin red vases and a pair of lamps with bases of blue-patterned porcelain. A brassbound bellows less than two inches long looked as if it might actually be workable. Portraits the size of postage stamps hung from moldings on two of the walls; they were original oils. Two armchairs, covered in kid leather, filled up much of the room, which was cozy more than majestic. One wall was lined with books; it wouldn't have surprised Meg to learn that they had pages that turned and stories inside, written by best-selling authors of the day.
    She peeked through a gabled window on the top floor. Inside was a maid's room, starkly plain, with an iron-frame bed, a small bureau, a commode, a mirror — and a maid. The maid, a porcelain-faced doll wearing a white cap and an apron over a black dress, was one of several in the garret rooms.
    "When was the house built?" Meg asked. She had a tremendous sense that she'd seen it before, but whether in a newspaper or on television, she had no idea.
    "The estate house — the real house that this is modeled after — was built in the 1880's. This miniature of it was built during the Great Depression," Orel said. "To give the help something to do, y'see. I myself did some repairs on it later. In 1947 ," he added in an oddly meaningful tone.
    He began lowering himself from his walker into a small armchair placed nearby. Meg broke out of her gaping reverie and hurried to assist him. After he was settled, she turned and stared at the dollhouse. It was so incredibly beautiful, and yet it was so incredibly ... something else. Forlorn, maybe; and sad. It would never really be lived in, after all.
    "I know this house," she said, puzzled. She turned to Orel Tremblay. Her face, usually friendly and confidant, was troubled. "How would I know this house?"
    The old man was nodding triumphantly. "Your grandmother!" he cried, pointing a gnarled finger at the lovely house. "That's how you know! She was a sleep-out nursemaid there! This is a replica of the Eagle's Nest — the old Camplin estate house!"
    "Ah. That's how I know," Meg said, not really reassured. She had heard the name many times, but she couldn't recall having seen any photos of the place. If they existed. How did she know the house?
    "Your grandmother took the job in the spring of ‘47. She was merely fillin' in for the children's regular nursemaid, who took a fit to elope with the chauffeur after the boy got fired. Then in October come the fire."
    Meg peeked through the casement window of another top-floor room. It was the nursery itself, with two little brass beds and a rocking chair, and impossibly small toys scattered on the floor. A boy doll lay in one bed. A girl doll was sitting on the floor with a set of minuscule play-blocks. A nursemaid doll — her grandmother, presumably — stood