Voice Out of Darkness by Ursula Curtiss Page A

taken with her with the vague intention of doing something about. On the empty envelope from Saks she wrote, “Gone into town for newspapers, back right away,” and changed her thin wool dress for a sweater and skirt. Michael’s room was at the other end of the hall, the last on the left, he had said; she slid the note under his door and went quickly down the stairs, through the lobby, out into the icy rush of air.
    There was going to be more snow, it was in the pansy-dark sky, on the edge of the driving wind. Katy found the New York papers and a daily from a neighboring town at a news stand beyond the post office. She had come along here that first day in Fenwick—was it only three days ago?—with Francesca chatting carelessly beside her. Almost automatically, she started for Francesca’s shop.
    Francesca herself was kneeling in the window, absorbed with a pile of brightly jacketed books, handfuls of white cotton batting for snow, a tiny, sprightly Christmas tree. Her back was to the street; she didn’t look up until the door opened under Katy’s mittened hand. “Just in time,” she said gaily. “There’s a box of that glittery stuff on the desk—could you hand it to me?”
    Katy did. The shop was warm and bright and fragrant with pine, and there was the buoyant little thrill you always felt at the first sights and sounds of Christmas. Francesca said, “With you in a second,” and looked consideringly at a shiny red bulb in her hand. “Think that’s too much, or—?”
    “There’s one of those lovely blue ones right behind you,” Katy said, and pulled off her mittens and found a cigarette. How could you be suspicious of a woman who knelt with a child’s grace and absorption in front of a miniature Christmas tree, who balanced shining red against burning blue as though it were a matter of life and death? And yet there had been, before, not Christmas bulbs but a black-on-white envelope in Francesca’s ungloved fingers.
    “You’re right, the blue’s better,” Francesca said, head on one side. She fastened it to the top branch where it shimmered and shook as she climbed out of the window and sat down on the other end of the sofa. “A visit from Saint Nick,” she said, and laughed. “Fun, though.” The laughter vanished. She said softly, “Poor Miss Whiddy, last night. I heard about it.”
    “Oh,” Katy said. “You weren’t there?”
    “No,” Francesca said. “But the whole town is talking about it, of course. She was more or less of an institution in Fenwick.”
    Katy nodded. Mr. Pickering’s smooth silver head had stood out in the lobby last night, but Francesca had not been there. Odd. She looked at Francesca and Francesca said carelessly, “Working women retire early, I’ve found that out. Saturday can look remarkably like Monday, if you’ve a shop to open. But there you are, the white man’s burden.”
    They talked. Beneath the talk Katy thought, no letters. But there wouldn’t be, not lying around, not in that handwriting… if it was the same. Silly to expect it. She brought her attention guiltily back to Francesca’s voice. Francesca said directly, “Katy, do you think Cassie is happy?”
    Cassie happy? Cassie with petals of blue shadow under her eyes, wetness on her delicate white cheeks? Francesca didn’t know, then. “She looks—thinner,” Katy said carefully. “But I suppose the flu—”
    “Flu?” Francesca’s voice was sharp. “Cassie’s never had flu in her life. She’s stronger than she looks, you know. Did she say—?”
    Katy didn’t have to answer. The door had opened and a red-cheeked messenger boy, a long white florist’s box under one arm, looked from one woman to the other. “Mrs. Poole?”
    Francesca said, “Just a minute, please.” She dug change out of the depths of the black antelope bag. When the boy had gone, she began to untie ribbon, smiling. “Heavens. Like being a girl again, or practically.” She laid aside the long white lid and