The Hidden Blade Read Online Free Page A

Australia ages ago. And Mother said we could give the pressed flowers to Miss Cromwell.”
    Miss Cromwell was the daughter of Herb’s solicitor. She’d lost her twin sister almost two years ago and had been inconsolable. Herb had decided that the best way to cheer the girl up was to send her a monthly box of interesting gifts. Leighton had loved being involved in the process, collecting all kinds of fun miscellany and then, together with Herb, making the final selections for that particular month’s package.
    But there would be no more of that in this future he could not bring himself to think about.
    “Do you want me to help you pack up the portable darkroom?” he asked.
    Herb shook his head. “No, I’m leaving everything for you—you are already quite the accomplished photographer. Just thought I’d check on the plates before I left, to make sure they were coming along properly.”
    Another uneasy silence descended. It seemed to have an outward pressure of its own, pushing Herb and Leighton apart.
    “I’ll walk to the railway station with you,” Leighton said.
    Herb hesitated. He opened his valise, stowed the geodes and the book of pressed flowers carefully inside, and pulled out one of his daycoats. “Put this on then. It will be chilly outside.”
    It
was
chilly outside—frosty, almost. It was the middle of May, but nothing about the morning felt like spring: the damp, raw wind, the shivering branches, the gray gloom that promised a murkiness even after sunrise—Leighton was glad for the sturdiness of his friend’s daycoat. The wool held a hint of Herb’s French shaving soap, a bar of which he had promised Leighton, as soon as it was needed.
    The house was five miles from the nearest railway station. They walked silently, the only sounds their boots on the dirt path and the occasional lowing of a cow at early pasture.
    The road became busier as they neared the village. After the second time they let a farmer’s milk-laden cart pass, Herb said, “I was going to leave you a note in the cottage, but I take it you already know all is not well.”
    Leighton said nothing. He didn’t want to acknowledge anything aloud.
    “I—I will be in town for a while. If you’d like to write me, here’s my address.” He handed Leighton a calling card. “Would you allow me to send you a birthday present?”
    He had never needed permission to send Leighton birthday presents before. It was as if he had suddenly become a stranger, as if they had never laughed over being caught in a downpour or discussed the possible secret lives of field mice.
    Leighton swallowed a lump in his throat. “I will need to ask Father about the present. And about writing letters.”
    But they both knew he wouldn’t. It would hurt Father too much.
    “Of course. Of course.” Herb smiled weakly—there were dark circles under his eyes. “Maybe I should go abroad for a while—visit India again or something.”
    The three of them were going to visit India together when Leighton came of age, to see all the places that Herb had loved, especially the mountains of Kashmir and the beautiful hill station of Darjeeling.
    “I’m sure it will be a wonderful trip,” Leighton somehow managed to say.
    They fell quiet after that, a silence that lasted until Herb’s train pulled away.

    The next evening, Leighton was back at the railway station to meet Mother’s train.
    When it became clear that Mother would never take Leighton on her trips, he stopped going to the station to meet her upon her return. But this had upset her, so he had resumed the old habit, parking himself on the platform every month, even on the most bitterly cold days of the year.
    Mother’s train puffed into the station. She disembarked promptly, in a traveling dress of burgundy velvet, the cut and the color both striking.
    She wore somber colors at home: grays, browns, and other dark, subdued blues. But for her trips she brought out warm, vibrant hues. The realization stole upon