River’s End

couple of times. She kicked discarded shoes under the bed, tossed clothes in the direction of the hamper or the closet. She blew away dust and eraser bits from the surface of her desk, stuffed pencil stubs in the glass jar, pushed papers in the drawer and considered it a job well done. She thought about curling up on her window seat to dream and sulk for a while. The trees were stirring, the tops of the soaring Douglas firs and western hemlocks sighing and shifting in the incoming breeze. The western sky had taken on the bruised and fragile look of an incoming storm. She could sit and watch it roll in, see if she could spot the line of rain before it fell.
    Better, much better, would be to go outside, to smell it, to lift her face up and draw in the scent of rain and pine. An alone smell, she always thought. The better to be absorbed in solitude.
    She nearly did just that, was already turning toward the tall glass doors that led to the deck off her room. But all the boxes and games and puzzles jammed on her shelves pricked her conscience. Her grandmother had been asking her to sort through and straighten out the mess for weeks. Now, with Aunt Jamie coming—and surely bringing presents with her—there was bound to be a lecture on the care and appreciation of your possessions.
    Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Olivia snatched down old, neglected board games and jigsaw puzzles and made a teetering stack. She’d take them up to the attic, she decided, then her room would be practically perfect.
    Carefully she went up the stairs and opened the door. When the light flashed on, she glanced around, looking for the best place to store her castoffs in the huge cedar-scented space. Old lamps, not quite ready to be shipped off to Good Will, stood bare of bulbs and shades in a corner where the roofline dipped low. A child-size rocking chair and baby furniture that looked ancient to Olivia were neatly stacked against one wall along with storage boxes and chests. Pictures that had once graced the walls of the house or the lodge were ghosted in dust covers. A creaky wooden shelf her grandfather had made in his wood shop held a family of dolls and stuffed animals.
    Val MacBride, Olivia knew, didn’t like to throw things away either. Possessions ended up being transferred to the attic or to the lodge or simply recycled within the house.
    Olivia carried her boxes to the toy shelf and stacked them on the floor beside it. More out of boredom than interest, she poked into some of the drawers, pondered baby clothes carefully wrapped in tissue and scattered with cedar chips to keep them sweet. In another was a blanket, all pink and white with soft satin edgings. She fingered it as it stirred some vague memory. But her stomach got all hot and crampy, so she closed the drawer again.
    Technically she wasn’t supposed to come to the attic without permission, and she was never allowed to open drawers or chests or boxes. Her grandmother said that memories were precious, and when she was older she could take them out. It was always when she was older, Olivia thought. It was never, never now. She didn’t see why it was such a big deal. It was just a bunch of old junk, and she wasn’t a kid anymore. It wasn’t as if she’d break something or lose it. Anyway, she didn’t really care.
    The rain started to patter on the roof, like fingers lightly drumming on a table. She glanced toward the little window that faced the front of the clearing. And saw the chest.
    It was a cherry wood chest with a domed lid and polished-brass fittings. It was always kept deep under the overhang, and always locked. She noticed such things. Her grandfather said she had eyes like a cat, which had made her giggle when she’d been younger. Now it was something she took pride in.
    Today, the chest wasn’t shoved back under the roofline, and neither was it locked. Grandma must have put something away, Olivia thought and strolled casually over as if she weren’t particularly interested.
    She knew the story about Pandora’s box and how the curious woman had opened it and set free all the ills upon the world. But this wasn’t the same thing, she told herself as she knelt in front of it. And since it wasn’t locked, what was the harm in opening it up and taking a peek inside?
    It was probably just full of sentimental junk or musty old clothes or pictures turning yellow.
    But her fingers tingled—in warning or anticipation—as she lifted the heavy lid. The scent struck