The Magician's Lie Read Online Free Page A

The Magician's Lie
Book: The Magician's Lie Read Online Free
Author: Greer Macallister
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this plan to fail. The people of Jeansville were suspicious of newcomers. No one owned instruments, of course, and even if they’d had the money to pay a singing master, it would have been seen as too frivolous. He may as well have been selling champagne coupes or china shepherdesses. With unwise optimism, they had paid ahead a full year’s rent on the house, and the rest of the money wouldn’t stretch far enough to make a stand in a different town. Therefore there were only two possibilities: crawl back to Philadelphia in supplication, or stay. Had this been my mother’s first misadventure, supplication might have been more tempting. She’d been forgiven the first time and given another chance. But she knew she was no longer welcome in her parents’ house. With the second chance squandered, there would be no third.
    A new plan was hatched. Victor’s brother Silas was a fat man with a thin wife, and she had been complaining about the isolation of their farmhouse, which was too far from her friends’ houses in the town. She was as dedicated to the art of complaint as my mother was to the cello, and her virtuoso work had finally reached Silas’s ears. So they and their son Ray moved into the rented house, and my mother and Victor and I took occupancy of the farmhouse. It seemed like a fair trade. With no job prospects that matched his skills, Victor began working for his brother as a farmhand, and in this way, our cobbled-together household found its new equilibrium.
    I began attending school for the first time, which I did not enjoy. I was an indifferent student at best and insolent at worst. My manners, so carefully inculcated by my high-society grandmother and the etiquette experts she had paid to reinforce her, were unraveling rapidly. Never having set foot in a classroom with other students, I didn’t see the point of sitting still or waiting to be called on. Even when these things were explained to me, I resisted. They seemed silly. If I knew the answer, why shouldn’t I say so? If the lessons bored me, as they often did, why shouldn’t I find something better to do? My teacher wore her hair in two braids over her shoulders like a girl, and she seemed to know only answers that had been written down for her by someone else. Besides, the classroom was always too warm. It stank of chalk, spit, and cheap slate. I missed my shelves of books, all of which we’d left behind. I missed the idea that behind those cloth covers lurked endless surprises—spare slashing lines of poetry, or the rhythmic cadence of a play, or characters who, despite being only invented, sprang warmly and fully to life. There was none of that in our simple schoolroom primers, none at all. Their singsong phrases were, only and always, exactly as expected.
    With all of its drawbacks, however, this new life had one commanding advantage over the old. I was in my mother’s company for hours at a time. She was the only one of us with the luxury of rising late, so I didn’t always see her in the morning before I started down the road to school, but she was always there when I came home in the afternoon. She would hand me the cloth to wipe the dust of the road from my shoes, then we took a small glass of milk each, seated at the kitchen table in silent companionship. At dinner every night, I drank in the novel sight of her lovely, animated face and the reassuring hum of her smoky voice. After so long without her, I found her slightest attention intoxicating. I could subsist for a week on one of her smiles.
    After dinner, she would often sit down with her cello between her knees and coax the most beautiful music from its strings. If he wasn’t in the fields, Victor would sing to accompany her. I wanted to do more than listen but had nothing musical to contribute, so I began to dance. Mother had taken me to New York a handful of times to see the ballet, and I emulated what I remembered of the
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