The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons Read Online Free PDF Page A

been cast over the entire land. And with it, the scent of earthy smoke. I thought of Grady and his warnings about the “Grey Man.” Shivering in the chill, I tried to dismiss the notion. The smell of burning turf was surely nothing more than the smoke from the hearth of some neighboring cottage. Still, I ran a pace or two ahead until I was at Walter’s side.
    â€œThere’s an old crumbling church set at the top of a hill. A graveyard beside it. You’ll recognize it.”
    â€œFrom the cards . . .”
    â€œYes.”
    We continued to walk the dirt road along the rocky incline. To the left the land dropped steeply to the sea. From time to time I glanced back to ensure Marni and Pru were still behind us. I remembered that it was along a coast much like this, at home in Maine, where I’d met Marni in the first place—and how she’d been such a part of the sea, as she was even now. She must have felt my gaze, or perhaps she was recalling the same memory. Even from a distance I saw her sea-green eyes, the strong, chiseled face framed in straight silver hair. She nodded, fingering the pendant at her neck, as she did whenever she was pensive. What a sight we must have been—my beautiful, eccentric aunt, one-of-a-kind Marni, Walter, and me, still in our sailing clothes and smelling of ten months at sea.
    We trudged on. How much wiser it would have been to draw a bath, wash our rank clothing, set up our beds, and rest.
    â€œIt’s not far now,” Walter said. “Just beyond the next ridge and to the right.”
    The top of a rough, stone building became visible, its peaked roof stark against the white sky.
    â€œUp here,” I shouted, waving wildly to Pru and Marni. Walter and I ran ahead toward the ancient church. Sections of it had crumbled into piles of rubble. The homely structure had a number of small windows placed here or there with little regard for beauty or symmetry. A long, narrow pair of pencil-shaped windows along the back wall was its only decorative element. It was surrounded by a small cemetery, and a variety of headstones jutted crookedly out of the earth, as though the ground around them had quaked and shrugged, casting them this way and that.
    A stone wall enclosed the whole of it, with an occasional opening through which visitors could pass. Walter went ahead and I leaned against the wall, waiting for Pru and Marni.
    â€œLook,” Walter called, pointing at the gravestones. “There’s no doubt the famous Gracie O’Malley lived on this island. Look at all of them!”
    Sure enough, this was the place where generations of O’Malleys were laid to rest, the O’Malley name carved into many a slab—likely all descendants of Granuaile, the pirate queen.
    â€œThere’re other names here too,” Walter said as Marni and Pru caught up. “O’Gradys and Morans.” He paused. “And then there’s this. . . .”
    We crowded around him to get a look at one small, nondescript headstone at the back corner of the graveyard. Just two letters in an old-fashioned script: E.S.
    I recognized them—the same inscription as on the king of diamonds stacked in my deck of cards back at the cottage. My great-grandfather’s initials.
    Pru traced the letters with her finger. “Edward Simmons. It has to be. No small wonder he chose this place—he’d probably viewed it as a shrine to the pirate life and the values—or lack of them—that he lived and died by.”
    Suddenly I caught sight of a glass-enclosed placard affixed to the outer wall of the church. As I inched closer I saw a plot map of the graveyard. Something about it seemed familiar. I squinted at the grid, grasping at the slim straws of recognition teasing my memory. “Look at this!” I exclaimed.
    Pru leaned closer. “Oh my goodness!” she exclaimed, turning toward me. “This matches the grid I discovered at