Missing Pieces

I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story.

Her name is Margaret Helen Carrington; that much I know for sure. Every Tuesday morning at precisely seven minutes after nine, she enters the bakery to buy bread. On Monday and Friday afternoons she has tea with Miss Porter, the sheriff's mother, and she never misses a Sunday service at the church. These are all things I have seen with my own eyes and therefore must believe are true. The spaces between, however, are a mystery.

When my sister Louisa and I first arrived in this town near six months ago, she immediately made herself known. Within a week, young men were knocking on our door and asking for her company. She is a sight to behold, and it is for that reason only, I'm certain, that she is given everything she wishes. When she asks for bread, a loaf is baked specifically for her. When she cries that her hair is windswept by the coming storm, it is fixed up for her in the parlor, free of charge. Not long after she was labeled Town Princess, she began to pick up stories about the town. The first name she heard was Margaret's. As she grew curious, she received less and less answers. The shop owner, the mayor, even her gentlemen callers replied with silence when she spoke the girl's name.

That's when I began to watch.

Just barely too old to attend the schoolhouse for lessons and too young to work at any of the town shops, I needed something to occupy the vast amount of time I possessed. Beginning on a sunny Monday morning just two weeks after our arrival, I visited the bookstore at seven in the morning, borrowed a book, and sat in an old wicker chair outside the storefront to watch people, pausing only for lunch at the cafe and returning whatever book had accompanied me that day at four in the afternoon to return home to fix supper. That became my routine for five of the seven days of the week; Saturday was labeled market day and Sunday as resting day.

Sitting in that chair, I learned more than I thought possible. I overheard conversations between kinship and friends that alerted me of conflict as well as celebration. At first, the people were wary of me. They smiled and tipped hats as they passed, being friendly but not open, but when they became comfortable with me, my book more often rested closed in my lap. Children waved from their mother's side or stopped to chatter on their way home from school. Young Isabelle Hartley was my most precious companion, and proved to be a quite reliable source of information. On days when her mother went to market in the afternoons, she skipped across the road to sit with me and tell me wonderful tales. When she revealed her age to me, I could hardly believe it; for an eight year old she was extremely intelligent. She was a watcher, like myself, with wide eyes and a heart too big for her tiny chest.

Little Isabelle lived just down the road from the mysterious Margaret. Every week I received at least one story of the Carrington home and its strange happenings. There was often yelling at noontime, yet only Margaret's voice could be heard. Isabelle was once awakened to singing before the sun had begun to wake. These occurrences only grew more frequent, yet no one was brave enough to investigate.

Are there any questions? Of course, plenty. However, the presence of questions does not secure the existence of answers.