《The Thirteenth Tale》第110章

he　fire　and　the　ghost；　these　are　stories　that　belong　to　aurelius　now。　the　graves　in　the　churchyard　are　his；　so　is　the　birthday　that　he　can　mark　as　he　chooses。　the　truth　is　heavy　enough　without　the　additional　weight　of　the　world’s　scrutiny　on　his　shoulders。　left　to　their　own　devices；　he　and　karen　can　turn　the　page；　start　afresh。
but　time　passes。　one　day　aurelius　will　be　no　more；　one　day　karen；　too；　will　leave　this　world。　the　children；　tom　and　emma；　are　already　more　distant　from　the　events　i　have　told　here　than　their　uncle。　with　the　help　of　their　mother　they　have　begun　to　forge　their　own　stories；　stories　that　are　strong　and　solid　and　true。　the　day　will　e　when　isabelle　and　charlie；　adeline　and　emmeline；　the　missus　and　john…the…dig；　the　girl　without　a　name；　will　be　so　far　in　the　past　that　their　old　bones　will　have　no　power　to　cause　fear　or　pain。　they　will　be　nothing　but　an　old　story；　unable　to　do　any　harm　to　anyone。　and　when　that　day　es—i　will　be　old　myself　by　then—i　shall　give　tom　and　emma　this　document。　to　read　and；　if　they　choose；　to　publish。
i　hope　that　they　will　publish。　for　until　they　do；　the　spirit　of　that　ghost…child　will　haunt　me。　she　will　roam　in　my　thoughts；　linger　in　my　dreams；　my　memory　her　only　playground。　it　is　not　much；　this　posthumous　life　of　hers；　but　it　is　not　oblivion。　it　will　be　enough；　until　the　day　when　tom　and　emma　release　this　manuscript　and　she　will　be　able　to　exist　more　fully　after　death　than　she　ever　lived　before　it。
and　so　the　story　of　the　ghost　girl　is　not　to　be　published　for　many　years；　if　at　all。　that　does　not　mean；　however；　that　i　have　nothing　to　give　the　world　immediately　to　satisfy　its　curiosity　about　vida　winter。　for　there　is　something。　at　the　end　of　my　last　meeting　with　mr。　lomax；　i　was　about　to　leave　when　he　stopped　me。　“just　one　more　thing。”　and　he　opened　his　desk　and　took　out　an　envelope。
i　had　that　envelope　with　me　when　i　slipped　unremarked　out　of　karen’s　garden　and　turned　my　steps　back　toward　the　lodge　gates。　the　ground　for　the　new　hotel　had　been　flattened；　and　when　i　tried　to　remember　the　old　house；　i　could　find　only　photographs　in　my　memory。　but　then　it　came　to　me　how　it　always　seemed　to　face　the　wrong　way。　it　had　been　twisted。　the　new　building　was　going　to　be　much　better。　it　would　face　straight　toward　you。
i　diverged　from　the　gravel　pathway　to　cross　the　snow…covered　lawn　toward　the　old　deer　park　and　the　woods。　the　dark　branches　were　heavy　with　snow；　which　sometimes　fell　in　soft　swathes　at　my　passing。　i　came　at　last　to　the　vantage　point　on　the　slope。　you　can　see　everything　from　there。　the　church　and　its　graveyard；　the　wreaths　of　flowers　bright　against　the　snow。　the　lodge　gates；　chalk…white　against　the　blue　sky。　the　coach　house；　denuded　of　its　shroud　of　thorns。　only　the　house　had　gone；　and　it　had　gone　pletely。　the　men　in　their　yellow　hats　had　reduced　the　past　to　a　blank　page。　we　had　reached　tipping　point。　it　was　no　longer　possible　to　call　it　a　demolition　site。　tomorrow；　today　perhaps；　the　workers　would　return　and　it　would　bee　a　construction　site。　the　past　demolished；　it　was　time　for　them　to　start　building　the　future。
i　took　the　envelope　from　my　bag。　i　had　been　waiting。　for　the　right　time。　the　right　place。
the　letters　on　the　envelope　were　curiously　misformed。　the　uneven　strokes　either　faded　into　nothing　or　else　were　engraved　into　the　paper。　there　was　no　sense　of　flow：　each　letter　gave　the　impression　of　having　been　pleted　individually；　at　great　cost；　the　next　undertaken　as　a　new　and　daunting　enterprise。　it　was　like　the　hand　of　a　child　or　a　very　old　person。　it　was　addressed　to　miss　margaret　lea。
i　slit　open　the　flap。　i　drew　out　the　contents。　and　i　sat　on　a　felled　tree　to　read　it；　because　i　never　read　standing　up。
dear　margaret；here　is　the　piece　i　told　you　about。
i　have　tried　to　finish　it；　and　find　that　i　cannot。　and　so　this　story　that　the　world　has　made　so　much　fuss　about　must　do　as　it　is。　it　is　a　flimsy　thing：　something　of　nothing。　do　with　it　what　you　will。
as　for　titles；　the　one　that　springs　to　my　mind　is　“cinderella’s　child；　”　but　i　know　quite　enough　about　readers　to　understand　that　whatever　i　might　choose　to　call　it；　it　will　only　ever　go　by　one　title　in　the　world；　and　it　won’t　be　mine。
there　was　no　signature。　no　name。
but　there　was　a　story。
it　was　the　story　of　cinderella；　like　i’d　never　read　it　before。　laconic；　hard　and　angry。　miss　winter’s　sentences　were　shards　of　glass；　brilliant　and　lethal。
picture　this；　the　story　begins。　a　boy　and　a　girl；　one　rich；　one　poor。　most　often　it’s　the　girl　who’s　got　no　gold　and　that’s　how　it　is　in　the　story　i’m　telling。　there　didn’t　have　to　be　a　ball。　a　walk　in　the　woods　was　enough　for　these　two　to　stumble　into　each　other’s　paths。　once　upon　a　time　there　was　a　fairy　godmother；　but　the　rest　of　the　time　there　was　none。　this　story　is　about　me　of　those　other　times。　our　girl’s　pumpkin　is　just　a　pumpkin；　and　she　crawls　home　after　midnight；　blood　on　her　petticoats；　violated。　there　will　be　a　footman　at　the　door　with　moleskin　slippers　tomorrow。　she　knows　that　already。　she’s　not　stupid。　she　is　pregnant；　though。
in　the　rest　of　the　story；　cinderella　gives　birth　to　a　girl；　raises　her　in　poverty　and　filth；　abandons　her　after　a　few　years　in　the　grounds　of　the　house　owned　by　her　violator。　the　story　ends　abruptly。
halfway　along　a　path　in　a　garden　she　has　never　been　to　before；　cold　and　hungry；　the　child　suddenly　realises　she　is　alone。　behind　her　is　the　garden　door　that　leads　into　the　forest。　it　remains　ajar。　is　her　mother　behind　it　still？　ahead　of　her　is　a　shed　that；　to　her　child’s　mind；　has　the　look　of　a　little　house。　a　place　she　might　shelter。　who　knows；　there　might　even　be　something　to　eat。
the　garden　door？　or　the　little　house？
door？　or　house？
the　child　hesitates。
she　hesitates…
and　the　story　ends　there。
miss　winter’s　earliest　memory？　or　just　a　story？　the　story　invented　by　an　imaginative　child　to　fill　the　space　where　her　mother　ought　to　have　been？
the　thirteenth　tale。　the　final；　the　famous；　the　unfinished　story。
i　read　the　story　and　grieved。
gradually　my　thoughts　turned　away　from　miss　winter　and　to　myself。　she　might　not　be　perfect；　but　at　least　i　had　a　mother。　was　it　too　la