The Attic Child

by Lola Jaye

“All right then,” he said. But I was far from finished with him yet. “I will also inform Sir Richard of what you did today, and he will be sure to secure the services of another baker and bread boy.” His expression was of surprise and confusion. “But I didn’t do nothing.” “You mean, ‘I didn’t do anything.’ And actually you did, by doing nothing.” “Yeah, but it was me that stopped them—” I slammed the door and blocked out his voice.

This is where Celestine begins to separate himself from the others. He was always aware he was different but was now acting on it - using this chance to defend himself & the opportunity he was given.

helplessness. I lived in this house full of wealth yet did not have the personal means to change my own destiny. I was at the mercy of a situation I both enjoyed and despised, all at the same time.

This was no longer about who once owned a creepy doll; I now had to satisfy this need to find out more about that necklace and the little boy wearing it in the photograph. Celestine had lived in my parents’ house all those years ago as a “companion” to this Richard Babbington. What did that even mean? Where were his family? How did he end up in Ranklin? How did his necklace end up under the floorboard of the attic? That day I told myself I was going to find out more about Celestine. I wasn’t sure how, I just knew it was something I had to do—as if my life, in some small way, depended on it.

The young swarthy being with unkempt clothing is an object of desire I despise in myself. This is wrong. I know this. Yet my flesh sings whenever one appears before me. They are unknowing and unwilling and yet I am aware.

EW

stash of money

£200 in 1909 is equivalent in purchasing power to about £30,457.93 today,

All of them were as bad as each other.

agreed no real redeemable characters except the lawyer

We were two children born in different centuries; lost and alone, yet connected by a set of experiences I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.

“Who?” I said. “My dad.” “Sorry?” “My dad will know.” “Celestine is alive?” I said, not believing my own words. “Yes, and he’s in the next room.”

I COULD CRY

“Celestine, I’ve been offered a gig in Paris. A dancer named Josephine Baker is doing well there, so I think I can too. Some folks even say I look like her.”

love the historical references

heart. But sometimes a word or a sentence would evoke a memory that would then feel like a shotgun going off in my head, with my heart and mind no longer willing to communicate.