Janice pinched a curl of peeling wallpaper between her fingers and tugged , pulling a strip away from the wall with the firm directness she might use removing duct tape from a kidnapping victim's mouth. She grimaced at the ancient, yellowing pattern of faded roses and other Victorian flora. Even with the heavy velvet curtain pulled back and the window open to invite a breeze, the room was cloying and close. Dust motes swirled in the sunbeams, and Janice sneezed as she dropped the paper to the cluttered floor.
Dorothy, her sister, bustled into the room, disapproving brows arched and severe. "Why did you do that?" she demanded.
"Because it's awful. All of it is awful," she said, sweeping her arm over a room full to bursting with several generations worth of family heirlooms that her grandmother had never seen fit to purge. Some of it may have been there since their great grandparents had built the house. "What are we supposed to do with this stuff? And who would buy this house with this busy excuse for decor on the walls?"
"It's wonderfully vintage!" Dorothy replied.
In silence, they returned to their Sunday afternoon cleaning marathon, picking over islands of junk and sorting items into appropriate boxes. After several strained minutes, Janice turned back to the wall. She just couldn't stand the deteriorating paper any longer. She tore away a great swath, then stared at the revealed plaster behind it. Dorothy turned toward her to scold, then stepped forward in curiosity.
Behind the paper, a secret alcove awaited discovery. Janice thrust her hand inside and found the form of a notebook waiting in the darkness. She pulled it out. It was a leather bound journal, and Janice swapped it from hand to hand. It felt soft and buttery as a freshly a shaven cheek and was as pale and freckled as Irish flesh.
"Open it!" said Dorothy.
"No, you open it," replied Janice.
They threw it into a fire instead.
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