“I’m probably a different shape,” Violet said, stretching out a wet arm and scrutinising it.“Ihavemissed Martha’s baking, though.”
Una made a sound with her nose, as if to sayWhose fault is that?
“Completely mine,” Violet murmured, answering the unspoken thought.
Una stared at her, all pretence at lightness gone.Then she said something odd.“The day you left, we baked your favourite cake.”
Violet stared back.“I suppose you did.Itwasmy birthday, after all.“ She felt that something more was required, so she added, “I don’t mind if you ate it.”
Una’s nose twitched.
“Did you ever think what it was like for us,” Una said in a voice that scraped on her like a chipped teacup rim, “not knowing where you were or if you were safe?”
Violet shrank inside.It no longer seemed right to enjoy the lovely bath when Una was looking at her like that.Violet reached for a towel.
“I told you in the note I was going someplace safe,” Violet said a little defensively.
“And were you safe?Don’t lie,” Una warned.“I can tell when you’re lying.”
Violet stood, wrapping herself in the towel.It all depended on one’s definition of ‘safe,’ she decided.Violet hadn’t been chloroformed, after all.Her risks were largely voluntary.
“Mostly,” she compromised.
An impatient sound escaped Una.
Violet darted a glance at her as she wrung out her hair.If only she were better at understanding other people!
“You missed me,” Violet said, on an impulse.
“What?”Una asked, looking like one of the bugs George had pinned to boards.
“You’re angry because you missed me,” Violet said.
Una turned away.“Tell Annie if you want anything else.I’ll be busy for the rest of the day.”
The little dragon looked longingly at the bathtub over the rim of the basket.
“I could bathe Oolong for you, if you like,” Violet offered.
Una tightened her hold on the basket.
“He ought to keep his dressing on,” she said, and left.
Chapter eighteen
Ormdale
Bythetimethemenagerie closed its gates that afternoon, Una’s nerves were so tender, she couldn’t bear to face another human being or be called upon to make another decision, so she left Oolong in his basket near the kitchen range, buttoned on her mackintosh and galoshes, and turned riverwards.
At times like this, she always found a poem waiting in her head to sing her on her way.She had Aunt Emily to thank for that—for she had not given them vengeful copywork, but pretty poems to recite.
Dark brown is the river,
Golden is the sand,
It flows along for ever,
With trees on either hand.
