The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons by Barbara Mariconda

were quite riveting—the palest shade of green—and staring at them from the side made me think of a pair of shiny aqua marbles. In the hollow of her throat hung a large oval silver locket.
    I watched her expression change from rapt attention to one of slight amusement, the skin around those fine eyes crinkling, the corners of her mouth turning slightly up. She cast a quick glance my way, nodded outward with her chin in the direction of the path, and then raised a long, bony index finger to her lips as a reminder for silence. She tipped her head, a motion that made me listen more closely.
    That was when I detected a weak huffing sound out along the path. She raised an eyebrow at me and I nodded, acknowledging that we both heard it. The huffing got louder, raspier, an escalating series of ragged pants and gasps. I knew even before I saw him—it was the Brute climbing the steep trail in pursuit of the woman he’d called a sea hag, a witch of the sea. The woman I was crouching beside, who had my dog in her arms.
    And, I might add, I felt more than a tinge ofjealousy at Mr. Pugsley’s carrying on. There he was in her arms, flirting in the way he usually reserved for me, blinking his long-lashed brown eyes adoringly, nudging her hand with his nose, looking for a pat on the head, snuggling as close as he could. And, not only that—as the Brute emerged over the summit, I’d have expected a barrage of yipping and ferocious growling, but Mr. Pugsley behaved like a docile lamb.
    This was a good thing, because the Brute placed himself like a sentinel at the top of the trail, not fifteen feet from where we hid, shielding his eyes from the sun and peering down toward the shore. He muttered under his breath, and shook his head of wild black hair in agitation. I strained to hear the snippets of his utterings that drifted toward us: “playing with magic,” “swimming like a siren,” “the singing of a sea nymph.”
    We both knew whom he was referring to. She gave me a quick glance, her eyes amused, one corner of her mouth pulled up in a half smile, an eyebrow raised. The smile I returned felt stiff and peculiar on my face.
    The Brute’s words disturbed me. Not the babbling about playing with magic. No. It was the part about the sirens—the sea nymphs—that sent a chill along my spine. I remembered all too wellFather’s tales of these mythical sea creatures whose haunting songs charmed seamen to leap into the sea to their deaths. I recalled the painting back in our library of Ulysses, the famous Greek mariner bound to the mast of his ship in order to resist the sirens’ death call.
    I couldn’t help but wonder whether my own father, and perhaps the Brute himself, had heard such a call on that fateful day. Or whether the Brute’s words had something to do with the terrible curse Aunt Pru referred to. Those thoughts continued to pull at the edges of my brain, the image of that painting I’d always found fascinating—in a dark, foreboding way—nudging me. It was as if there was something important I was missing, something almost understood but just beyond my grasp. At that moment I felt the flute tingle against my skin through the lining in my pocket. Or perhaps it was a shiver.
    The Brute, apparently satisfied that the woman had vanished, threw up his hands and started off again down the path. We watched him trudge along the zigzagging trail until he reached the shore. He stared across the water for some time before moving down the beach and into the pine grove in the distance.
    The woman put Mr. Pugsley down and turned to me.
    â€œSo,” she said, her voice rather low-pitched, smooth, and warm, “we finally meet, face-to-face—officially, that is.”
    To this, I said nothing, although I imagine I probably nodded stupidly.
    â€œWell, come along then,” she said.
    Without waiting for my reply, she crawled out through the opening in the