grove rich, say the bells of Shore ditch." "
We all peered through the door into a living room. At first we saw no one. The room had a sectional with its back toward us, two large cushion chairs facing it and a pretty burgundy and black oval rug. There was a standing lamp with a pale yellow shade on the right of the sectional, which provided the only light in the room at the moment.
The walls were quite different from the walls in the Test of the house. These walls were paneled in a dark maple wood. There was a fireplace to the right, but in it was a potted plant. Above the mantle was a rich oil painting of a much younger Madame Senetsky standing on a balcony, in what looked to me to be a scene from Romeo mid Juliet. She had her eyes turned upward and her hands outstretched, palms upward, as if she had just asked. 'Wherefore art thou Romeo?' "
The window in this room had a heavy, dark brown velvet curtain with gold tassels drawn closed over it. On the opposite side of the room was a pedestal holding a small bronze statue of a cherub. Scattered over the floor beneath it were what looked like cutout dolls, found in children's games.
There was a door on the side that made me think this was the door I had seen when I had gone to the rear of the costume room and Ms. Fairchild had come in on me.
The music continued, and we quickly realized it was coming from the front of the sectional. The voice continued, ending with. 'Here comes a candle to light you to bed. Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.' "
The woman we had seen before rose. Her hair was in pigtails and she wore a light pink wool nightgown with a fringed collar and short sleeves. As she rose, she emphatically said. 'Chop, chop. chop. The last man's dead!' "
She clapped her hands and then turned and saw us all standing there. Her look of shock and surprise was almost instantly replaced by a broad smile. Now that we were standing only a few feet from her and looking directly at her, the resemblances we had found between her and Edmond Senetsky were not as pronounced. There were still. I thought, some similarities in their eyes and noses.
The recording of the song ended, but she was playing it on an old phonograph she had on the floor. The phonograph needle was caught and grinding.
"Oh, it's stuck!" she cried, and knelt down to fix it. We walked farther into the room and saw she had a small pile of old records there as well.
She stood up again. Her nightgown was hemmed just below her knees and she wore what looked like a man's pair of old, soft, leather slippers.
"Have you come to play oranges and lemons?" she asked, her face lighting up with expectation.
"No," Cinnamon said. "We've come to find out exactly what's going on."
Her smile went out like a blown bulb. She looked like she might burst into tears.
"We've come to find out who you are and why you've been spying on us through the windows,"' Cinnamon continued,
There was something in the woman's face that made me feel bad about Cinnamon's aggressive tone.
"I don't think she understands," I whispered. Cinnamon's eyes narrowed.
"Is this where you live?" Rose asked the woman.
Despite her childlike manner, the way she wore her hair, the little teddy bear figures on her nightgown and the teddy bears on her bed, I thought she was well into her twenties, if not her thirties.
"Yes, I do. I do live here. Yes," she said. She nodded and looked very thoughtful for a moment. "Once I lived there," she continued. "but now I live here."
"Where was there?" Ice asked, She laughed.
"There was not here. silly. Silly girl. Silly. Who wants to play first?"
"What is this?" Cinnamon muttered to us. I shook my head. I couldn't help but be both frightened and fascinated.
"What's your name?" Rose asked. She smiled at her. "My name is Rose. This is Cinnamon. and Ice, and this is Honey."
"Rose? Name?" She laughed. "Yes," she said with that thoughtful look again. Then she turned, gazed at Madame Senetsky's portrait and, raising her hand slowly, her fingers twitching as if she was imitating the first flight of a baby bird. cried
. " 'What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.' "
She looked at us and laughed.
"Come on. Who's first? Who will play with me first? Who will be the lemon and who will be the orange? I'll be the orange," she said quickly. "You," she said, pointing at me. "You can be the lemon. Come on. Give me your hands. Come on," she urged, holding out her hands.
I looked at Cinnamon, who just shook her head. and then I put my hands out.
She seized them and raised them so we formed an arch.