Spirit of Lost Angels Read Online Free PDF Page A

behind an oak tree. We leaned against the trunk, listening to the women chattering about what their husbands made them do in bed.
    ‘… bend over like a dog,’ one was saying.
    ‘Tie … rope around … neck,’ another said, giggling. ‘… lead him … like a pig!’
    I nudged my brother and we cupped hands over our mouths to smother the sniggers.
    As much fun as it was listening to their stories, we tramped on until we came to our secret place where the water flowed fast around a bend, sweeping across ferns, and boulders with mossy faces, emptying acorns, twigs and leaves into a deeper pool.
    From the pebbled shore, we skimmed stones, breaking the smooth surface, waiting for Léon. Grégoire was showing off, boasting he could skim pebbles better than I could.
    Léon soon sauntered towards us, and as he pulled off the boots he now wore instead of his old clogs, I saw Grégoire eye them, and I knew he would love to have such a pair.
    Perhaps, if we found that golden treasure from the fables’ book, my brother would have a lovely pair of boots, and I might have a princess dress.
    The boys rolled their breeches up and waded into the river.
    Grégoire grimaced. ‘Ah, freezing!’
    I knotted my chemise and petticoat on the side and followed them into the icy water.
    I never understood why Maman worried so about the river. Grégoire and I had come to know every ditch and hole in which you might lose your footing; we were aware of every twist and bend where the current snagged and became a swirling whirlpool. We paid no attention to the villagers who called it la Vionne violente .
    If Maman discovered we actually swam in the river, she’d have worried even more. The river was for scrubbing clothes, for cooking and drinking. Nobody wanted to swim, or even wash, in it.
    Grégoire always said we must not tell people we came here; that they believe the river is bad for you, even deadly if you get your skin wet. He said they would treat us as if we had a curse.
    Tiny fish darted like fireflies, moss glowed the brightest green, and the sun’s rays stretched right down to the smooth, rounded stones on the riverbed. I flicked water at the boys and laughed, longing for the hot summer days when we would swim and lounge beneath the waterfall.
    ‘This is the loveliest place in all the world,’ I said.
    ‘That’s because you’ve never been out of Lucie,’ Grégoire said.
    ‘Oh but I will, one day, Grégoire. I’ll journey across the country like Papa did, and see exciting places.’
    ‘I don’t see why you’d want to do that,’ Grégoire said with a snort.
    Léon’s large hand wrapped around a trout, and as he held up the writhing fish, the poor hanged boy flashed through my mind.
    ‘Your supper,’ Léon said.
    ‘Keep your fish,’ Grégoire said. ‘Or our mother will know we’ve been at the river.’
    Léon pushed the trout towards me. ‘Tell her I gave it to you, it is the truth.’
    Grégoire shook his head. ‘Keep it, I told you. I’ll catch one for us.’
    Léon lit a fire. We danced around the small blaze, and when our feet were warm, we fell into a heap on the grass, giggling. I never knew what we found so funny, but something always made us laugh until we were breathless, and clutched our sides.
    Léon plucked a poppy, lifted my cap and wove it through my braid. The afternoon sun lay across my shoulders like a warm stole and my father’s words chimed in my head.
    You have your mother’s tresses, Victoire, that gleam like a fox in the moonlight.
    How I missed him, and how the rage bubbled in me each time I thought of that noble baron and how a peasant could do nothing to punish such a person.
    ‘Stop touching her hair,’ Grégoire said. ‘You’re not supposed to play with girls’ hair.’
    ‘Wherever did you hear such a thing?’ Léon said. ‘Anyway, your sister doesn’t seem to mind.’
    ‘She’s only eleven — not old enough to know what she minds.’ Grégoire grabbed my arm and pulled me