Read The Day the Falls Stood Still for Free Online

him, and besides, Father had nothing when Mother met him.”
    Again, that huff. “Case in point.”
    I want to tell her she is acting like Mother, but she appears fragile against the starched-white linens and the solid wood of the headboard, not at all herself. “I’ll open the window,” I say.
    As I struggle with the window sash, I notice, just beyond the pane, small pieces of biscuit sitting on the windowsill. The birds left the crumbs behind, their bellies already full. I turn to her, my eyes surely saying what I know.
    “If you tell Mother,” she says, “I’ll have to mention your crush.”
    “You’re not well.” I hand her the plate, roughly, so that the biscuit nearly slides onto her lap.
    Suddenly she is weeping, tears silently streaming down her cheeks, unhindered by an attempt to wipe them away. “You’re right,” she says. “I’m not well.”
    What has become of my sister? Where is the girl who once taped a handy list of possible offenses to the confessional wall at the academy, the girl who let me borrow her rose chiffon gown even though she had not yet worn it herself, the girl who took so long to say good night that she regularly fell asleep in my bed? “I won’t tell, but you have to eat the biscuit.”
    She places a small piece into her mouth and chews until it can be nothing more than a watery pulp. With great concentration, she swallows. I watch her throat constrict, also the barely perceptible heave that follows, convincing me she will be sick. Once half the biscuit is gone, I say, “That’s enough.”
    She hands me what remains, and I place it on the windowsill with yesterday’s crumbs.

    M other is in the spare bedroom, which I suppose I should call a sewing room now. The bed is gone, replaced by bolts of fabric, a dressmaker’s mannequin, and a sewing machine. She is on her knees, pinning a craft-paper pattern of her own making to a length of pale gray silk. I piece together the forms, the almost rectangle of a skirt, the convex cap of a sleeve tapering to the wrist, the four pieces of a bodice, the smaller forms of the waistband, neckline facing, and cuffs.
    On her feet, she lifts a length of the same silk from the back of a chair and says, “Take a look.” She loosely gathers the fabric and sweeps it back and forth, causing it to catch and reflect light as a swaying skirt might. She holds up a delicate tulle, a coil of rouleau, and another of soutache, all of the same luminous gray. The end result of her handiwork will be quietly elegant, refined in a way that will set it apart from the flounced and sequined frocks at the party where the gown will first appear.
    “Mrs. Coulson’s third order,” she says. “It’s for a party at the Clifton House. The Chamberlains’ eldest girl is coming out.”
    “Are we invited?” Even as the words leave my mouth, I know I should not have asked. The Chamberlains are acquaintances, unfamiliar enough to dodge any obligation others might feel.
    She shakes her head and says, “But I’ll have two gowns there: Mrs. Coulson’s, and Mrs. Atwell is wearing one, too.”
    “I can pull out basting threads or sew on buttons or run up the seams,” I say, “until I prove myself.”
    “You proved yourself with the tea dress. I unpacked your trunk this morning. Such a pretty thing deserves better than the corner of a trunk. You can press it later.” She returns to her knees, smoothes the craft-paper cuff over the silk, and begins to pin it into place. “I won’t let you cut. Not yet. The fabric is too expensive and I haven’t got time for another trip to Toronto. I’ll look after the fitting. You can hand me the pins and chalk, and learn as much as you can.”
    So I am to work for the first time in my life. I can almost feel a needle between my fingers, basting together bodice seams, each stitch exactly the same length as the one before. There is serenity in sewing, maybe something like what I found sitting in my window seat.
    “But Isabel