The Secret Life of Anna Blanc Read Online Free

just barely. The carpets were plush and pink. Flowery paper from the orient climbed the walls, hand-painted with colorful birds. An imperious Louis XV bed draped itself in stiff, white velvet and the windows wore crepe curtains from France. Anna kindled a fire in the marble hearth, never mind it was seventy-two degrees outside. It was Tuesday, and on Wednesday Mrs. Morales would have the floors polished. Someone would be under her bed with a mop. She tossed another log onto the fire.
    Raising the shade, she opened the window to cool the room. The outside scent of hot chaparral gave way to the wintry smell of chimney smoke. She could see Catalina Island. A hummingbird with opalescent green wings sucked at the feeder outside. Confused by the smoke, it whirled in circles before flying off.
    Anna struggled out of her frock and flopped onto the bed in her chemise and two-piece drawers, sticky with the heat. She reached for a stack of books that sat near a glue pot on the marble nightstand— Etiquette for Young Ladies , Little Lord Fauntleroy , and other boring titles. She picked up a paring knife, stolen from Cook. She unsheathed the knife and placed the tip to a book spine; then, with a voracious rip, she disemboweled it. Slitting through binding threads, separating signatures from the cover, she tossed the paper onto the flames and repeated the process until the pages from every book were burning and the stiff fabric covers sat in a pile beside her.
    When she had finished, she slid on her belly under the bed, emerging with dust on her corset and several more books—forbidden books by Doyle and Poe, books about crime, banned by her father specificallybecause she found them interesting. Books the housekeeper should not find under her bed in the morning.
    She slaughtered The Curse Upon Mitre Square —a salacious description of the hunt for Jack the Ripper—this time burning the cover and keeping the pages. She stabbed The Murders in the Rue Morgue through the spine. The sharpened knife slipped, slicing her index finger. Blood dripped onto the floor.
    â€œBiscuits!” She held her dripping finger over an empty book cover, staunching the wound with her petticoats. The blood bloomed into a red hibiscus flower on the cloth and the cut began to sting. After a moment, she pulled away the bloody wad to observe the injury—an inch-long gash.
    â€œHmm.” She pinched it until it gaped like a mouth and released it. She did it again. How curious she looked on the inside. There was a knock at the door. Anna froze.
    An efficient female voice, with a thick Mexican accent, rang from the corridor. “Miss Blanc, may I come in?”
    â€œOne moment.” Anna grabbed a silk coverlet and tossed it over book parts, knocking the glue pot. It rolled into the blood on the floor. She struggled into her gown one-handed, an attempt to cover the red stain on her petticoats. She unlocked the door, pressed her unbuttoned back up against the wall, and posed as if it were the natural thing to do. “Come in.”
    The door opened to reveal the unyielding countenance of Mrs. Morales. Short, broad, and board straight, she came from an old Los Angeles family. She had run the Blanc household with a cool dignity since Anna was a baby. In a backhanded way, she'd run Anna.
    Surprisingly, Mrs. Morales said nothing about the paste, the blood, the disordered coverlet, or Anna's strange posture, although she did sniff briefly at the fire. “A Mr. Wright called this afternoon while you were out.”
    Anna looked blank. “Who?”
    â€œMr. Wright. He says you know him.” Mrs. Morales handed her a calling card. Anna took it and shook her head.
    The housekeeper's face was neutral. “He said he's come from Boston and was sorry he didn't get to see you.”
    Anna lifted her chin. “He must have the wrong house. I don't know him, and I've done nothing wrong.” She darted a hopeful glance at Mrs. Morales.