Dark Prelude by Andrea Parnell Page A

Her frown slipped away
as she pictured herself sailing out of the harbor and for a moment
the heaviness eased from her heart. Bond servants received a tract
of land at the end of their term. At best, here she could expect to
be a ladies maid, and even those positions were hard to find
without the proper connections.
    Behind her the heavy door creaked and swung
open, trapping her against the wall. When it swung away she turned
to face a bent figure swathed in a black topcoat and thickly furred
cap. A pair of shriveled lips curled in the patch of face she could
see. Silvia shivered, not against the cold but from an inner
wariness.
    “Come inside.” His gravelly voice whipped in
the howling wind and reached her ears as a guttural plea.
    She set her mind to refuse. Instead she
stifled the impulse and followed him through the doorway. Perhaps
it was madness, or the cold, or perhaps fate had intervened in her
favor for once.
    He led her through another door off the
narrow hallway. In the small office Silvia stood motionless as the
warmth from an iron stove melted the chill from her bones. The old
gentleman removed his coat and cap and carefully, painstakingly,
hung them on a polished walnut rack. Under the strong light, she
discerned the fine worsted fabric and the wide beaver collar of the
garment. The expensive quality painfully reminded Silvia of her
threadbare cloak.
    “What’s it to be, girl?” He lowered himself
into a chair slowly, deliberately, as if the effort took all his
strength. His skin held a grey pallor and stretched thinly over a
bony frame. His hair, but a few dull strands, circled around his
skull from temple to temple. A pair of gray eyes, small and
beadlike, peered from behind his spectacles with a curious keenness
that momentarily alarmed her. His teeth were yellowed as old tusks
and his skin like crumpled parchment, his face cratered with
ancient pockmarks a pair of wide mutton chop side whiskers would
not cover.
    Apprehension held her immobile for a moment.
Her shoulders shook a bit though the stove had started to warm her
chilled hands and feet. She acknowledged to herself that the old
man’s appearance gave her pause until she chastised herself for her
uncharitable thoughts. Had Uncle Hollister so embittered her that
she was distrustful of everyone, even the compassionate old gent
who had brought her in from the cold?
    “Will you sign the paper now? I’ve waited
the whole of the afternoon and you are the last of the lot,” he
said patiently.
    What was the accent? Germanic, perhaps. But
what could he mean?
    “I’m sorry, sir. I believe you have mistaken
me for someone,” she said, lowering the scarf from her hair so that
he could see her face clearly. She tried to smile and the attempt
seemed as difficult as moving features of stone.
    Her braided hair fell across her shoulder as
she pulled her scarf loose. She quickly lifted her arms to anchor
the braid in a twist at the back of her neck. Her hair was dark, a
glossy black, and her skin fair and smooth as cream. Cheeks, too
bright from the cold, were softly rounded and her lips bore the
natural pout of a little girl. Wide, honey brown eyes with black
curling lashes dominated her face. When her hair slipped from its
confines as it had in the wind, it curled about her temples, and
she looked like an innocent, lost waif.
    Silvia met his eyes as he lifted his head to
look at her sharply, absorbingly. He stared, his small eyes now
keenly alive. A slight flush tinged his lined skin. An expression
of excitement replaced the look of hollow disappointment on his
dour face.
    “Why you are a mere child, my dear.”
Surprise now tempered his countenance and the accent was far
heavier than she had realized. An odd, slightly eager look lit
slits of light in his eyes.
    Silvia responded quickly and crossly giving
her chin an annoyed tilt. “No sir, I am not. I have seen twenty and
two years and long since left childhood.” She frowned, wishing she
had spoken