The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons by Barbara Mariconda Page A

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    Mr. Pugsley darted out beside her, his eagerness grating on me more than a little. I followed along behind. I felt a pang of guilt over the fact that I was excited. It seemed disloyal to Mother and Father to be enjoying things in their absence. This was something, after all—something happening to me that buoyed me up out of the sea of sadness pulling me under.
    â€œSo,” she said, her voice deep and rich, “how are you surviving?” She reached over and gently brushed the hair from my face. Curiously, she ran her finger over the scar on my forehead and nodded, as if pleased.
    â€œUh …,” I stammered, “well, I …”
    â€œSince the accident,” she added. “How are you getting along is what I want to know?”
    I felt my face flush. “How do you know about the accident? How do you know who I am?”
    She looked at me kindly. “Well, dear, everyonealong the coast knows of the tragic event. I’m quite certain I remember the day more clearly than most.”
    â€œWell,” I said, flustered, “I suppose I’m doing … all right.”
    It was all I could manage. Nibbling the inside of my cheek, I stared at her, questions gnawing at me. I believe she understood quite a bit more than I actually offered.
    â€œYou are a brave and unusual sort, Lucy P. Simmons,” she said.
    I felt as though I had passed some kind of test. This bolstered my courage, and my words came in a rush.
    â€œBut, who are you ? I don’t remember ever seeing you about town, or out here by the shore until, well … since …” I avoided the words with a shake of my head. “I’ve watched you at night, out in the moonlight. That’s when things started to—” I stopped abruptly. Perhaps I’d said too much.
    She looked straight ahead, then put her finger to her lips, silencing me. Mr. Pugsley stood still and began to whimper. I followed her gaze and, to my great dismay, saw Uncle Victor clambering along the path.
    â€œIt’s my unc—” I stopped short. The woman had moved off the path and was weaving in and out of the pines. Mr. Pugsley watched her intently, and fora moment I feared he might run off after her. But my faithful friend stood there beside me. I stared after her, fighting the urge to call out. She nodded at me, with a slow blink of her green eyes. It was a gesture of assurance that set my mind at ease, at least for the moment. As she disappeared into the trees, I looked back toward Uncle Victor, his thin legs carrying him swiftly toward me.
    â€œWhat are you doing dawdling out here on the path?” he demanded. “And where, pray tell, is the carpet? Your aunt nearly slipped in the hallway!”
    Before I could answer, he went on. “And who was that I heard you talking with?” He peered this way and that through narrowed eyes. “Answer me, missy!” he said.
    â€œWhich question?” I asked, and rather rudely, I might add. Something about my encounter with the woman had emboldened me.
    â€œWhich question ?” he bellowed. He sputtered for a moment, apparently unsure himself. “What do you think you’re doing dawdling out here, when you have chores to do? I asked you what you were doing, is what I asked!”
    I looked at him in what I hoped was an innocent manner. “I was …” I hesitated. But what with the appearance of Father’s flute, the Brute, and then the woman, well, I was at a loss. “I was … airingout the carpet,” I said quickly. “And doing my needlework.”
    As soon as I said it, I knew I’d made a mistake. I’d left both the runner and my basket of sewing inside my hideaway, forgotten.
    Uncle Victor looked at me closely, his nostrils twitching like a hound picking up a scent. “Really? And where exactly is the carpet now?”
    I bit my lower lip. “It … it was airing out on the rocky outcropping