Page 11 of Wished

The rumble of the carpet cleaner is overwhelmingly loud. It echoes around the wide expanse of the library, bouncing off the white plaster walls, the stone columns, and the stacks and stacks of books. The machine is heavier than a vacuum, and my arms ache from slowly shoving the behemoth across half a dozen rugs. The library smells of wet wool, frothy soap, and furniture polish.

The room is expansive, wide enough to need six large rugs, with walls of bookshelves and a wooden ladder to reach the tallest shelves. There are cozy leather chairs spaced around the room, a little sitting area centered around a small fireplace, and a large cushioned chair by a tall window with a pile of Dickens novels next to it. Sometimes the side table next to that cushy chair has a half-empty cup of coffee on it too. And sometimes, if I can’t help it, I wonder if Max is lonely when he sits in this huge library, alone, reading a book with a cup of coffee.

But usually, I just clean. I dust the books, I dust the desk, I dust the oil painting on the wall behind his desk. Cleaning people’s homes is a bit like being a genie. When they get home from work, their house is clean, tidy, and smells like fresh linens and lemons, and thatisa bit like magic. And I think it makes them happy too.

I finish with the carpet cleaner and flick off the machine. It groans and rumbles, then the room descends into a soft afternoon quiet. Outside the windows the sun is falling toward the west, and a light golden stream of color branches across the grass.

Now that I’ve stopped the flurry of cleaning, I notice the tranquil, quiet, muted quality of the air surrounding me. My arms have that blood-pumping ache they get after nearly ten hours of scrubbing and sweeping, and my skin tingles as the cool air lights on the sweat running down the back of my neck. My heart is loud in my ears, and I drag in a breath.

There’s a strange sensation vibrating around me. I run my gaze over the room. It feels as if someone is watching me, or as if someone is there, waiting for me to notice them. Sometimes people claim the Barone Estate is haunted. I’ve never believed that. It’s not haunted; it’s just lonely. Waiting.

That’s what it feels like now. As if the library is waiting.

I glance toward the desk at the far end of the room. It’s dark wood with curling legs and carved, decorative edges. I’ve never known Max to use it. The surface is always empty, with a fine layer of dust that accumulates between my cleanings. But today, when I cleaned it, there was a small golden box on top of the desk, with an old, yellowed piece of paper beneath it. I didn’t look at either. I gently pushed them aside while I dusted, then I put them back when I was done.

But now the box draws my eye.

Sunlight lies across the desk and blankets the box, burnishing it in gleaming gold. It’s as if the box is glowing. I can almost hear it humming. I stare at it for a moment longer, and then I swear the gold flares like a flickering flame ... almost like the gold of a genie’s lamp.

The silence of the library rises around me and enfolds me in a breath-held quiet. I can’t help it, I step across the thick rugs, the plush fabric whispering under my shoes. The soapy scent rises around me as I pace toward the desk.

I’m sweaty, I’m bleach-stained, I’m dust-covered and tired, but all the same, when I draw to the edge of the desk, all I want to do is reach out and open the delicate gold box.

I shouldn’t.

I couldn’t.

I won’t.

I don’t snoop. I don’t touch things that don’t belong to me. I don’t ...

I look down in shock. I’ve already opened the box. I don’t remember opening it, but there it is, open before me.

“My word.”

Inside the box is the most beautiful necklace I’ve ever seen. The box was pretty. It was flat and the size of a leather bound book, covered in elegant gold filigree. Inside there’s white satin and black velvet cushioning a necklace.

The necklace.

I’ve never seen anything like it.

It’s a circlet of brilliant pebble-size sapphires. They’re deep, alluring blue; dusky, sky-blue; longing, broken-hearted blue; desirous, seductive blue. The necklace is a chain of blue, spilling in a gradient of color like a river of light.

There are twenty-six sapphires, all linked together with delicate gold collets, set with tiny shimmering diamonds. And then there’s a pendant of gold and sapphire in the timeless shape of a lover’s knot. It’s the promise of forever.

This necklace was made for a woman who was very, very loved.

I wonder what that would be like. To be loved so much.

The glow of sunlight gleams over the blue and winks off the stones like light reflecting off the waves of the lake. The cool air of the room pinches my cheeks, and I resist the urge to reach out and run my fingers over the gleaming sapphires.

After I first met Max I obsessively researched jewelry. I thought if I learned a lot about what he did I might be able to strike up a conversation. Like, “What do you prefer—the cushion cut or the princess cut?” or, “What is your position on lab-grown diamonds?” or, “What do you think of reproduction jewelry? I prefer the Georgian Era.”

I thought if I could talk with Max about something besides which room I was vacuuming, he mightseeme.

But I never struck up a conversation. I never wowed Max with my newfound knowledge. In fact, after a few short, frenzied months of research, I realized my time was better spent helping my little sister, Emme with her math homework, helping Dorene file her taxes, and helping my mom by cooking dinner.

All the same, I’ll never forget the mad amount of research I conducted and all the random knowledge I accrued.

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