Ambrose
The New Yorker|September 30, 2024
Lily wants to live in the old days. Her mom, Debra, says, No, you don’t, because in the old days all women did was cook and sew and die in childbirth, but Lily still wishes she could travel back in time.
- Allegra Goodman
Ambrose

Her older sister, Sophie, says, Stop, you just hate school, and that is true. Lily hates sixth grade. However, Lily hates other things, too, like parties and kissing games and boys keeping score. Guess what? Sophie says. There were parties in the old days, too.

Sophie is more pragmatic than Lily. Debra says so on the phone late at night. Lily is more anxious, Debra says. Then Lily thinks, Am I? She sits up in bed and strains to hear her mom’s voice downstairs.

“Yeah,” her mom says. “Yeah, I know. Well, she’s upset.”

She’s wrong, though. Lily is not upset. She just wants to live in a castle or a secret cottage in the woods. She is writing a novel about a girl named Ambrose who becomes a swan at night. The novel is in a journal her teacher gave her. It’s a black-and-white composition book for her feelings or whatever she wants to say.

East of the sun and west of the moon lived Princess Ambrose with her mother the Queen, her father the King, and her eleven sisters. She was a regular princess except for one thing. Every night at dusk she turned into a swan.

“How?” Sophie says, but Lily ’s teacher comments in green pen, “Lily, what a wonderful story! Tell me more about the swan.”

“Why is her name Ambrose?” Lily’s dad, Richard, asks when she’s at his house that weekend.

“It’s short for Amber Rose,” Lily explains.

He says, “Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”

Ambrose keeps her wings under her bed and at night she slips them over her shoulders to fly across the sky and gather tiny stars. She pours the stars into the drawer of her nightstand where they sparkle secretly. She loves to look at them—but in the morning she must sit at her loom with her eleven sisters and weave nonstop. Her mother is always telling her, hurry up, work faster.

“Oh, wonderful,” Debra says. “Is that supposed to be me?”

“What are the sisters weaving?” Lily’s teacher asks in green.

この蚘事は The New Yorker の September 30, 2024 版に掲茉されおいたす。

7 日間の Magzter GOLD 無料トラむアルを開始しお、䜕千もの厳遞されたプレミアム ストヌリヌ、9,000 以䞊の雑誌や新聞にアクセスしおください。

この蚘事は The New Yorker の September 30, 2024 版に掲茉されおいたす。

7 日間の Magzter GOLD 無料トラむアルを開始しお、䜕千もの厳遞されたプレミアム ストヌリヌ、9,000 以䞊の雑誌や新聞にアクセスしおください。

THE NEW YORKERのその他の蚘事すべお衚瀺
ART OF STONE
The New Yorker

ART OF STONE

\"The Brutalist.\"

time-read
6 分  |
December 30, 2024 - January 6, 2025
MOMMA MIA
The New Yorker

MOMMA MIA

Audra McDonald triumphs in \"Gypsy\" on Broadway.

time-read
5 分  |
December 30, 2024 - January 6, 2025
INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS
The New Yorker

INTERNATIONAL AFFAIRS

\"Black Doves,\" on Netflix.

time-read
5 分  |
December 30, 2024 - January 6, 2025
NATURE STUDIES
The New Yorker

NATURE STUDIES

Kyle Abraham's “Dear Lord, Make Me Beautiful.”

time-read
5 分  |
December 30, 2024 - January 6, 2025
WHAT GOOD IS MORALITY?
The New Yorker

WHAT GOOD IS MORALITY?

Ask not just where it came from but what it does for us

time-read
10+ 分  |
December 30, 2024 - January 6, 2025
THE SPOTIFY SYNDROME
The New Yorker

THE SPOTIFY SYNDROME

What is the world's largest music-streaming platform really costing us?

time-read
10+ 分  |
December 30, 2024 - January 6, 2025
THE LEPER - LEE CHANGDONG
The New Yorker

THE LEPER - LEE CHANGDONG

. . . to survive, to hang on, waiting for the new world to dawn, what can you do but become a leper nobody in the world would deign to touch? - From \"Windy Evening,\" by Kim Seong-dong.

time-read
10+ 分  |
December 30, 2024 - January 6, 2025
YOU WON'T GET FREE OF IT
The New Yorker

YOU WON'T GET FREE OF IT

Alice Munro's partner sexually abused her daughter. The harm ran through the work and the family.

time-read
10+ 分  |
December 30, 2024 - January 6, 2025
TALK SENSE
The New Yorker

TALK SENSE

How much sway does our language have over our thinking?

time-read
10+ 分  |
December 30, 2024 - January 6, 2025
TO THE DETECTIVE INVESTIGATING MY MURDER
The New Yorker

TO THE DETECTIVE INVESTIGATING MY MURDER

Dear Detective, I'm not dead, but a lot of people can't stand me. What I mean is that breathing is not an activity they want me to keep doing. What I mean is, they want to knock me off. My days are numbered.

time-read
3 分  |
December 30, 2024 - January 6, 2025