Read Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 16 for Free Online

in his sleeves. A silver coin behind my ear. I smile, laugh, and am thankful. But he does not know what my heart desires, while you, my son, do. When he was given up, when he has retreated, you bring in your knives. We tear pages from books no longer read, in languages I do not know, and wade through seas of paper in silent tag. We practice throwing knives at each other. We tie each other up and lock each other in closets, and count the seconds by heartbeats. I hold you in my arms and whisper stories of the great Evil Knivel, chained and locked in a barrel. How he went over a waterfall, a hill of water that crashed and the spray was like a cloud. That there are holes so deep that bodies don't always come back.
    * * * *
    The Way From This House
    You must pick one direction on the path and travel that direction. Remember that if there is a fork, you cannot turn back. So take the first fork you come to, or the house will be at your back no matter how far you travel. Right hand for God, left hand for Devil. Turn off, take a branch, and we will disappear. As long as there are no locked doors, no streams, and no rain, you are still here.
    I have a dream, the same dream, every night. No one tells about dreams here. They are like bits of hair and fingernails, pieces to be disposed of or else they become a tool for witchcraft, another soul stolen.
    In the dream I am in a house that I have never been in before, a large old imposing house with oil portraits that stare down at me, dowagers in pearls and velvet, family coats of arms. Perfect sunny and green vistas that do not exist here. It is not a house people live in but rather where people take tours, now. Or else I am sifting through an antique store of my childhood, an antique store on a farm, an antique store which specialized in cast-offs from carnivals and fairs and so that the yard was filled with overgrown forsythias and melting carousel horses. Remnants of fairs and gatherings, bright colors dripping into the ground.
    It is in one of these two places I find the tortoiseshell, flip it over. The underside coated in dust, not just-settled yearly dust, but the dust of ages: from generations spent in an attic, in a forgotten museum storage closet. A tortoise that is endangered, extinct, harvested and disappeared years before my time. And in the dust is written, in my finger letters, “I was here.” It is like the card tricks, that—had I the hands—I would have taught my son. Always producing the ace of spades. Pulling silver coins from his ears. “We are like you, too,” I whisper. But I know it is not the same, because we are playing. Here there is no playing.
    When you leave, my son, remember what I have told you of islands:
    There are bodies of rock, some small as your hand or this bed. Some large as this house, or larger. Some that seem solid but are not, give them a day, give them a month of walking towards the sun. They are alone in the water. Not like a boat, not like a piece of wood, bobbing up and down. They are grounded. They do not sway in the storm. The waves beat over them. It will take years to wear them down, to carry off their shell. You can find them by accident or the stars. The way your father found me. When you look to the horizon, there is nothing but water between you and the sun. The sun is your enemy, the sun is your only friend. That, too, is like your father.
    When you leave, my son, I hope you find an island. I hope you take a boat and head into the sun and never come back. When you find a tortoise, a unique rock, leave your mark. Pile up flat stones into a tower to mark the way, like Hansel and Gretel. On sheer cliffs leave your mark. Carve it in with your father's knife, your father's knife that bears my blood, your father's knife that seals us together. Decorate tree trunks with your scroll, and they will petrify. On spires of lava, on arches of limestone, leave your mark.
    When I return, I will find you. I will go swimming in the lake of my