The Map of the Sky (Trilogía Victoriana #2)(64)
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ON THE MORNING THAT concerns us, while searching for something in her desk, Emma came across the roll of paper that had once inspired her many childish fancies. She thought of putting it away again but instead held it in her hand and gazed at it with great affection. The bitterness toward her great-grandfather that had compelled her to bury the map at the bottom of that drawer nine years before had vanished, and although she was aware that it was only a silly drawing, it was still a thing of beauty, and so she untied the ribbon, smiling to herself as she recalled the absurd excitement she used to feel when doing so in the past. Then she stretched the roll out on the desk, contemplating it with that nostalgia adults feel for the things that made them happy as children, and it saddened her that time had made her immune to its effects.
The Map of the Sky, which it is perhaps time to describe, was an illustration of the universe framed by a border decorated with ornate arabesques. It showed a dark blue surface with light blue flecks, more like the ocean than the sky. At its center was the sun, a flaming ball with streaks of fire spurting from various places along its edge. Surrounding the golden orb was a spray of mushroom-shaped nebulae, celestial bodies that gave off silvery wisps of light, and stars that glinted as though made up of tiny diamonds. Several painted balloons, their baskets filled with people, floated amid the sprinkling of planets. The space travelers were dressed in very thick overcoats, and most wore scarves over their mouths and held on to their hats so as not to lose them to a cosmic gust of wind. Each basket was fitted with a tiny rudder and a telescope, and hanging from their sides, amid the trunks and suitcases, were cages of mice. The travelers would let these out whenever they landed on a planet to make sure the air there was breathable. Some of the balloons appeared to be fleeing from what looked like swarms of giant wasps; however, the drawing gave an overall impression of peaceful coexistence, as evinced in one of Emma’s favorite scenes in the bottom right-hand corner. This depicted some passengers in one balloon doffing their hats to a small procession of creatures from another planet riding on what looked like orange-colored herons. But for their pointed ears and long forked tails, the creatures were not so different from men.
As she studied the map, Emma could not help comparing the magical feeling of excitement she had experienced as a child to her present sensations, dampened by disappointment, which in her case had preempted reason. For magic had been torn from her life in too abrupt and untimely a manner, instead of slowly fading with the years. And yet, she said to herself in a sudden flash of insight, wasn’t that what growing up was all about? A progressive blindness to the evidence of magic dotted about the world, which only children and dreamers are able to glimpse.
With a wistful smile, Emma rolled up the map and placed it back in the desk drawer. She could not throw it away, for she had to hand it down to her own daughter when she reached the appropriate age. So dictated the absurd family tradition, which Emma had sworn to respect even though for her it was an empty gesture, for she was convinced she would never have any offspring: she was not and never would be in love, and therefore a man could scarcely inseminate her unless, like spores, his seed was carried to her on the wind.
XV
THIS IS THE LAST DAY YOU SERVE IN THIS HOUSE, Emma thought, as her latest maid tugged violently on the laces of her bodice. How could such a scrawny girl possess the strength of an ox? She had not been there long enough for Emma to learn her name, but that did not matter now. She would ask her mother to dismiss whatever her name was without further ado. When the maid had finished dressing her, Emma thanked her with a smile, ordered her to make the bed, and went down to breakfast. Her mother was already waiting for her on the porch, where breakfast had been laid out that morning owing to the clement weather. A light breeze, gentle as a puppy, teased the shutters, the flowers on the table, and her mother’s hair, which she had still not gathered into her usual bun.
“I want you to dismiss the new maid,” Emma said.
“What, again, child?” her mother protested. “Give her a chance. She came highly recommended by the Kunises.”
“Even so, she has the manners of a heathen; she almost suffocated me lacing up my bodice!” Emma declared, sitting down at the table.
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” her mother exclaimed. “I expect that once you get used to her—”
“I never wish to see her again!” Emma cut in.
“Very well, my child,” her mother conceded with a sigh. “I shall dismiss Daisy.”
“Daisy, what a name for that brute,” muttered Emma, sipping her orange juice.
During breakfast, the maids paraded in front of Emma the customary array of gifts sent by her suitors every morning: Robert Cullen’s offering was an exquisite emerald choker; Gilbert Hardy’s, a beautiful cameo brooch made of sculpted pearl; Ayrton Coleman had bought her two tickets to the theater and a dozen cream doughnuts; and Walter Musgrove had bade her good morning with his usual bouquet of wild irises. Emma’s mother watched her nod halfheartedly as she was shown each gift; her daughter already had all those things, she thought. The only child of one of New York’s wealthiest families, she was not easily impressed with gifts. Her suitors were therefore forced to use their ingenuity. Yet none seemed able to please this young woman, who lived in one of the few town houses in New York that boasted a ballroom, preceded by an endless series of elegant rooms filled with artworks.