Flowers in the Attic (Dollanganger 1)

it would be Cory's made of yellow, with green and

black splotches, and tiny little red stone eyes. Our

trees were made of brown cording, combined with

tiny tan pebbles to look like bark, and the branches

gracefully entwined so brightly colored birds could perch or fly between the leaves. Chris and I had taken chicken feathers from old pillows and dipped them in watercolors, and dried them, and used an old toothbrush to comb the matted hairs, and make them

lovely again.

It may be conceited to say that our picture showed

signs of true artistry, and a great deal of creative

ingenuity. Our composition was balanced, yet it had

rhythm, style . . . and a charm that had brought tears

to our mother's eyes when we showed it to her. She

had to turn her back so we, too, wouldn't cry. Oh, yes,

by far this collage was the very best piece of artwork

we had as yet turned out.

Trembling, apprehensive, I waited to time my

approach so her hands would be empty. Since the

grandmother never looked at Chris, and the twins

were so terrified of her they shriveled in her presence,

it was up to me to give her the gift . . . and darned if I

could make my feet move. Sharply, Chris nudged me

with his elbow. "Go on," he whispered, "she'll go out

the door in a minute."

My feet seemed nailed to the floor. I held the long

red package across both my arms. From the very

positioning it seemed a sacrificial offering, for it

wasn't easy to give her anything, when she had given us nothing but hostility, and was waiting her chance to

give us pain.

That Christmas morning, she succeeded very well

in giving us pain, even without a whip or a word. I wanted to greet her in the proper way and say,

"Merry Christmas Day, Grandmother. We wanted to