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

at that hour, at a time of night when everything familiar seemed rather odd and cold in the dim light. I had intended to leave immediately, to return to my room as swiftly as I’d come, but I hesitated. Perhaps it was the light of the moon spilling into the room, or perhaps it was something else. The night felt peculiar, but I could not determine whether it felt menacing or magical, or whether perhaps the strangeness was just me, drowning in the feeling of being so completely alone.
    I went to the window and stood, my mind as blank and as gray as a slate rubbed clean. The moon was full—a gigantic cool white pearl suspended over the ocean. I had never seen a moon quite like it before.
    I stood, nearly hypnotized, staring out at the pale white moonbeams dancing across the black water, creating a shimmering path of light from horizon to shore.
    Thinking I’d indulged myself long enough, Istarted to turn from the window. But then I saw something.
    It was only the smallest of movements out there that caught my eye and held me at the window. There was someone outside—someone on the path of the moonbeams. Not quite trusting my own eyes, I leaned forward, squinting. I rushed back to Father’s desk and picked up the spyglass. At the window I extended the tubular lens and peered through it. The distant shore jumped into close view, requiring a second to reacclimate myself to this new perspective.
    It was a woman. She swam in long, graceful strokes, barely rippling the water around her. I watched as she pulled herself from the sea and shook herself off. She tossed back her head, her long silver hair swinging away from her face in a brilliant, sleek sheet that sent a shower of water droplets in an arc behind her.
    A wave of foolish disappointment washed over me. I had thought—or desperately hoped—that somehow the woman in the water was Mother. But of course, it wasn’t. How could it be?
    Despite my disappointment, there was a feeling of strength about her that pulled at me, as if a brush with her might transfer a measure of her fortitude my way.
    I watched her wrap a large pale blanket around her narrow frame. Then she turned and stared up in my direction, toward the house. It was not a casual gaze—not at all—rather, it was focused and intense. I drew back from the window and into the shadows, still watching, hopefully undetected.
    The old woman knelt at the water’s edge and scooped up a handful of the sea. I stared, fascinated, as she lifted her chin up toward the house, shut her eyes, and placed her cupped palm just beneath her lips. She inhaled deeply and blew at the water in her hand, much the way Mother would blow a cascade of feather-light bath bubbles as we soaked in the tub. Or perhaps it was a kiss, blown my way.
    A noise in the hallway broke my reverie. I spun from the window and listened so intently that my entire face hurt. It was a soft and rhythmic clicking sound approaching along the stairway.
    It was Mr. Pugsley, of course. I rushed to the door and scooped his wriggling body up in my arms. I prayed he would remain quiet, and fought the urge to cover his small black muzzle with my hand. I stood perfectly still, struggling to detect any sound whatever, straining until the silence itself seemed thunderous in my ears.
    Satisfied that Mr. Pugsley and I were the only ones awake, I shifted my attention back to thewindow. I held Mr. Pugsley firmly, his stocky little body neatly tucked under my left arm. I reached again for the spyglass, this time anchoring it in place with only my right hand. I stared through the lens and gasped.
    A brilliant mist seemed to float and gently cascade off the roof of our house, curling in wispy clouds around the bay of windows where I stood. I took the lens from my eye for a second and pushed the hinged glass panel all the way open, allowing the vapors to filter in. The room felt suddenly alive with energy, a tingle that was almost physical. Even Mr.