The House at the End of Hope Street - By Menna van Praag Page 0,1

first of May, just after midnight. The moon is full and bright. Vines of wisteria and jasmine twist together across the red bricks, their flowers hanging over the windows and above the door. Their scent puffs through the air and, though she’s sorry she can’t see their colors, the smell begins to fill Alba with a sense of calm she’s never felt before. Her shoulders soften as she reaches up to touch the flowers hanging in wispy bunches above her head. Soon she’ll feel strong enough to walk again. But then she remembers, she no longer has anywhere to go.

In the silence Alba hears something, a low hum in the air, almost indistinguishable from the breeze. Still cupping the flowers in her palm, she listens. The hum grows louder and becomes a tune, the notes drifting toward her, and suddenly Alba is captivated. She knows the words to this song:

Sleep, sleep my sweet

Sleep and dream of butterflies . . .

The next line slips away as Alba thinks of the summer her mother sang that song, when she was eight years old, just before her father left. The tune grows louder, seeping through Alba’s skin, sending shivers down her spine. She knows she should be scared, but she’s not; she’s enchanted.

Alba steps back to look up at the house, at its rows of dark windows, the panes of glass glinting. For a second Alba thinks she sees a face in the window above her, a flash of white and blond that disappears so the night is mirrored back at her. Alongside the window grows a plant with flowers so purple they’re almost black. Its strangeness beckons Alba to come closer, rub its leaves, smell its flowers, slide her fingers into the earth . . . The charms of the house and its garden sink deeper into Alba and, without realizing what she’s doing, she steps forward and rings the bell.

As Peggy Abbot scurries down the steps, pulling on her patchwork dressing gown, a picture of Alba starts to take shape in her mind: tiny and built like a boy, spiky black hair, intense blue eyes, a mouth that rarely smiles, a weight of sadness and self-doubt heavier than Peggy has ever felt before, but a sense of sight stronger even than her own. Suddenly she knows that this might be a dangerous thing indeed. The midnight glory is in bloom tonight. If Alba looks for too long she might see what makes its petals glow and, worst of all, sense what’s buried beneath it.

Wishing she were forty years younger, Peggy hurries along the hallway, slipping on the wood in her woolen socks. But she doesn’t have to worry. In her current mental state, Alba’s sense of sight is significantly dimmed so the secret is safe for now.

When the door swings open, Alba steps back in shock, staring into the face of the oldest and most beautiful woman she’s ever seen.

—

The moment Alba steps into the house, she knows it’s different from any home she’s ever known. It is, quite clearly, alive. The walls breathe, gently rising and falling beside Alba as she follows the old woman down the hall. The stripped oak floorboards soften under her feet in welcome, the lightbulbs and lampshades pull at the ceiling to get a closer look at her.

As she walks Alba gazes at the walls, weighted down by hundreds of framed photographs: black-and-white pictures of different women, in group shots and singles, wearing trouser suits and top hats, flapper dresses and flat caps, ribbons and pearls. Among the photographs are pictures, pencil drawings and silhouettes, and a few miniature oil paintings of powder-puffed female faces with curls piled high on their heads.

“Wait.” Alba almost stumbles into the wall. “That’s Florence Nightingale.”

“Oh yes,” Peggy says. “She stayed with us for a spell before she went off to the Crimea. When my great-, great-, great-aunt Grace Abbot ran the house. A lovely girl by all accounts, Flo, though rather strong willed and a little too fond of sailors . . .” Peggy smiles.

“Gosh, really?” Alba whispers. “That’s . . . gosh.”

As Peggy ushers her into the kitchen Alba feels a flash of fear. She ought to think twice before entering the homes of complete strangers. Hidden behind Peggy’s bright eyes might be the mind of a murderess; under the folds of her patchwork dressing gown could beat the heart of an evil witch who sees Alba as a modern-day Gretel. But when Alba enters the kitchen she’s