Discrepancies

Brushes are strewn across the tiled floor. In the centre of the tempest of paints and broken bristles Hazel toys with the interplay of light from the domed ceiling above. It is the most consistently cleaned part of the house, a tribute to Hazel’s mother, who enjoyed many hours painting in the light fractured from the turquoise circles of glass displayed across the dome.

Mr.Everill would think it a positive sign that his daughter asks for paint and notebooks instead of frivolous articles, but her notices the odd visitor at the mansion casting glances at his daughter when she comes up in conversation, and surmises that a child who only writes and paints is a disconcerting child.

Hazel is not a rowdy child, which Mr.Everill is constantly thankful for. There are but a few incidents in which she returns to the house after a day playing in the fields or the woods with a hold in her dress, dirt on her face, looking more like a lad on a farm than a merchant’s daughter.

These occurrences are few and far between. Hazel does not scream or throw tantrums. She is an observational child, with a firm knowledge of what she wants and she is smart enough to know how to get it herself.

Suddenly Hazel rises and wordlessly turns on her heel, heading for the stairs. She glides up them, hand hovering over the railing as she ascends. The stairs open to a long hallway, at the end of which is another set of stairs. Hazel ascends further, pausing only on the fourth story, hesitating as she walks past door after door, listening for signs.

There is a creak, the protest of wood under a very light weight. A hushed whisper.

Hazel opens the door.

She stands in the drawing room, one of a few, watching Hazel wearily.

“What do you have to show me?” Hazel asks, stepping into the room. The shadows grow just darker.

“Did you see your mother’s room yet?” she asks.

“No,” Hazel answers, confused.

Turquoise beads clatter to the floor, scattering across the wood, stuck between floorboards and under the china cabinet, and sounding like a sudden burst of rain.

Mr.Everill’s questioning shout echoes from the ground floor.

“Why?” she asks.

“I just… haven’t, yet.”

She is silent, regarding Hazel with a too-knowing sparkle in her eye. Finally she strides forward, holding out her hand. In the palm of it is a small glass piece, edges jagged, and there is a black streak across it like wet ink.

“What is it?” Hazel asks.

She cocks her head to the side, waiting for Hazel to take it, the glass strangely warm and heavy, before she replies. “Go into her room, and find out.”

The curtains blossom like giant petals, the beads on the floor that have rolled to a stop shiver and roll under the bureau. Pages of art books and accounts flutter like nervous birds, then tear entirely form bindings, thrashing in the sudden wind. The china in the glass cases lining the wall tremble and crack, a starburst of painted pieces shattering the glass cases. Hazel throws up her hands to protect herself from the vortex of glittering crystal.

“Hazel.”

Hazel turns to her father.

Several watercolours litter the floor, edges adust, scorch marks blotting out whole renderings of blossoms and hills and clouds. The decimated pictures are torn from drawing pads that litter the floor like debris. Half of a stained glass window sits in its frame, blue rays and sunlight illuminating Hazel’s pale face.

Hazel’s hand twitches, and she realizes she is clutching the glass in her hand too tightly, leaving long red marks on her palm.

Mr.Everill glances from the colourful shards of glass on the floor to Hazel’s dripping red hand.

“Hazel, what did you do?” he asks.

Hazel begins to protest, then stops. She is not certain her father is inclined to believe in restless spirits. “Nothing,” she says quietly.

He does not seem to believe her.

Art by Abbey Diamond

Text by Lucie MacAulay