Travellers and began to read.
The origins of Travellers were very unclear, probably due to the fact they were a nomadic people and barely able to read and write. They had horrible attendance records in school, a high infant mortality rate, and a life span about twenty-five years shorter than average.
I pulled out my journal, jotted down notes, and then sat back in my chair. It sounded pretty bleak. Different sorts of Travellers went by different names. Gypsies, Pavees, Tinkers, Knackers, and derogatory ones like Pikey or Gypo. They operated on the fringes of society, shunned by respectable people. A cruel and harsh existence.
I thought about Michael, with his nose in an organic chemistry book, and swallowed hard. Most Travellers didn’t get past the eighth grade, but he was studying at university. I remembered the look on his face as he watched me in the window and could finally describe his expression.
Longing. I wrote that down in my journal because it felt important. He looked at me with longing.
Maybe this connected to what Nigel said, although his beauty queen idea seemed ludicrous. According to the article, Travellers kept to themselves. Mingling with non-Travellers was definitely frowned upon. Perhaps Michael couldn’t date non-Travellers. Maybe it was taboo.
I rubbed my eyes and looked at my watch. It was almost midnight, and the library would close soon. Surely, Lucinda would be done by now. I stood up and stretched, looking out the window at a patch of sidewalk illuminated by a street lamp. It was very dark, and looked like it might rain again. I reached for my coat and saw him outside, walking with his head down and completely oblivious to the fact I watched him. Michael Nightingale.
Chapter Four
Well, butter my bum and call me a biscuit.
~Grandma Sugar
I threw on my coat and tossed my backpack over my shoulders. As I ran out of the library, I pulled up my hood. My hair made me easily recognizable, and I didn’t want to advertise my identity at the moment.
Instead of my usual skirt, I wore yoga pants, allowing me to follow Michael more easily this time. Seeing his face in the glow of a streetlight made my silly old heart squeeze in my chest. I’d missed him.
Once again, he led me through The Shambles. Twice he answered his phone, and although his words were unclear, something in his voice sounded a whole lot like fear. Maybe Nigel was right about Michael being afraid of something, but at least this time it definitely wasn’t me.
The Shambles looked very different after dark. There were still people about, but they seemed seedier and more dangerous, and the smell of beer and vomit permeated the air. I ignored catcalls from the occasional drunk, kept my head down, and focused only on Michael’s back. I didn’t want to lose him. Not again.
Soon we reached a part of York I’d never seen before, darker and poorer than the area where I lived. Garbage bins lined the streets, and lights were few and far between. I hung back as far as I dared. There weren’t as many people here, making it harder to blend in. I couldn’t risk being seen, or Michael would most certainly disappear again.
He turned down a dark alley, and I followed, sticking close to the buildings and moving slowly. Three young men stood in the middle of the alley, right under a streetlight, staring down at what looked like a body on the ground. I came as close as I dared and hid in a doorway.
“What happened?” Michael’s voice sounded clipped, rough. He knelt down next to the object on the street. Definitely a body, and one wearing black high-top tennis shoes.
One of the boys standing next to him shifted nervously. They all had close-cropped hair like Michael, and similar taste in clothing. They looked like a motorcycle gang. I wondered if this was standard Traveller garb.
“Tad never goes out alone. He knows the rules, Mikey.”
“Then what the hell happened?” Michael’s voice was quiet, but filled with anger and
The origins of Travellers were very unclear, probably due to the fact they were a nomadic people and barely able to read and write. They had horrible attendance records in school, a high infant mortality rate, and a life span about twenty-five years shorter than average.
I pulled out my journal, jotted down notes, and then sat back in my chair. It sounded pretty bleak. Different sorts of Travellers went by different names. Gypsies, Pavees, Tinkers, Knackers, and derogatory ones like Pikey or Gypo. They operated on the fringes of society, shunned by respectable people. A cruel and harsh existence.
I thought about Michael, with his nose in an organic chemistry book, and swallowed hard. Most Travellers didn’t get past the eighth grade, but he was studying at university. I remembered the look on his face as he watched me in the window and could finally describe his expression.
Longing. I wrote that down in my journal because it felt important. He looked at me with longing.
Maybe this connected to what Nigel said, although his beauty queen idea seemed ludicrous. According to the article, Travellers kept to themselves. Mingling with non-Travellers was definitely frowned upon. Perhaps Michael couldn’t date non-Travellers. Maybe it was taboo.
I rubbed my eyes and looked at my watch. It was almost midnight, and the library would close soon. Surely, Lucinda would be done by now. I stood up and stretched, looking out the window at a patch of sidewalk illuminated by a street lamp. It was very dark, and looked like it might rain again. I reached for my coat and saw him outside, walking with his head down and completely oblivious to the fact I watched him. Michael Nightingale.
Chapter Four
Well, butter my bum and call me a biscuit.
~Grandma Sugar
I threw on my coat and tossed my backpack over my shoulders. As I ran out of the library, I pulled up my hood. My hair made me easily recognizable, and I didn’t want to advertise my identity at the moment.
Instead of my usual skirt, I wore yoga pants, allowing me to follow Michael more easily this time. Seeing his face in the glow of a streetlight made my silly old heart squeeze in my chest. I’d missed him.
Once again, he led me through The Shambles. Twice he answered his phone, and although his words were unclear, something in his voice sounded a whole lot like fear. Maybe Nigel was right about Michael being afraid of something, but at least this time it definitely wasn’t me.
The Shambles looked very different after dark. There were still people about, but they seemed seedier and more dangerous, and the smell of beer and vomit permeated the air. I ignored catcalls from the occasional drunk, kept my head down, and focused only on Michael’s back. I didn’t want to lose him. Not again.
Soon we reached a part of York I’d never seen before, darker and poorer than the area where I lived. Garbage bins lined the streets, and lights were few and far between. I hung back as far as I dared. There weren’t as many people here, making it harder to blend in. I couldn’t risk being seen, or Michael would most certainly disappear again.
He turned down a dark alley, and I followed, sticking close to the buildings and moving slowly. Three young men stood in the middle of the alley, right under a streetlight, staring down at what looked like a body on the ground. I came as close as I dared and hid in a doorway.
“What happened?” Michael’s voice sounded clipped, rough. He knelt down next to the object on the street. Definitely a body, and one wearing black high-top tennis shoes.
One of the boys standing next to him shifted nervously. They all had close-cropped hair like Michael, and similar taste in clothing. They looked like a motorcycle gang. I wondered if this was standard Traveller garb.
“Tad never goes out alone. He knows the rules, Mikey.”
“Then what the hell happened?” Michael’s voice was quiet, but filled with anger and
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