The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons Read Online Free PDF

Pugsley was enchanted, I was convinced—the way he lay within my grasp, calm as I’d ever seen him, and silent, with barely a trace of his usual wheezing and panting. I, too, felt unnaturally calm in such a peculiar circumstance. Once again I gazed through the lens, wondering if the old woman had noticed this strange phenomenon.
    Through the lens I saw her watch the house, her lips parted slightly, eyebrows raised. But then, suddenly, she turned, as though startled. She backed up, her posture stiff, her face alert. I aimed my spyglass off in the direction in which she was peering.
    I must say, I do not know how I was able to even hold the scope steady, so shocked was I at the sightbefore me. I must have stiffened, for Mr. Pugsley began to bristle and squirm, a growl rumbling in his small, broad chest.
    The old woman continued to back up, her eyes never leaving the Brute, who appeared out of the pine grove before her. Yes, it was the Brute—the wild bear of a man who had been the cause of Mother and Father’s accident. He lunged at the old woman, and my heart nearly stopped beating. I watched in a kind of suspended dread as the woman continued backing up, step by step, into the sea, the water rising around her ankles, then her knees. The Brute yelled something at her, his voice lost to me in the wind. He waved his arms wildly and approached the water’s edge. But the old woman just continued her retreat, holding him on the shore with only her gaze, calmly and deliberately backing out farther and farther along the moonbeam path into the sea. She continued until all that was visible was a circular ripple on the surface where the water enveloped the top of her head, her silver hair streaming out for a moment and then disappearing from view. I stared, transfixed. Mr. Pugsley began to bark, that high-pitched yipping that had punctuated the boating nightmare that took my father and mother from me.
    To my horror, the Brute cocked his head as if listening, and slowly turned, peering straight up at the house. I clamped my hand over the dog’s muzzle and, in my struggle to silence him, somehow let the spyglass slip from my grasp. As it hit the floor, there was a harsh clank of metal followed by a sickening shattering of glass. I found that I could not move, could scarcely breathe for the beating of my heart.
    And then a shuffling sound overhead. A shuffling sound and a voice—clearly my uncle’s.
    That, and then the sound of his approaching footsteps on the stairs.

5
    S till hugging Mr. Pugsley, I stepped into the nook between the edge of the tall bookcase and the windowsill, inching back as much as I could so as to move out of the moonlit area around Father’s desk.
    With each approaching step I realized that, of course, we would be discovered. As if the broken spyglass wasn’t enough to prove my guilt, there sat the lamp glowing on the desktop, illuminating the gaping lower drawer—not to mention the wide-open window, curtains billowing like sails on a ship. “Who’s there?” he called from down thecorridor. “Who’s there, I say?”
    Mr. Pugsley squirmed and growled, and I held him close, praying he’d settle down. I thought of just answering, of making some excuse about not being able to sleep, but my tongue felt thick and my voice couldn’t seem to connect with the breath to carry it. I stood dumb, silent, waiting to be found.
    Uncle Victor approached the door. The soft glow of the lamp began to expand, and from it emanated a small swirl of the same glittering vapor I’d seen float through the window. Mr. Pugsley and I stared, hypnotized, our eyes following the vapor that was traveling like a graceful swarm of microscopic fireflies. The sparkling mist surrounded the lamp, snuffing out the flame, and then drifted over the desktop toward the drawer.
    An instant before Uncle Victor stepped into the room, Mr. Pugsley and I watched, openmouthed and bug-eyed,