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

there, and I dozed off in the sun and … and … I think a bluster of wind may have carried it off?”
    He circled around me, looking me up and down. “That, my dear niece, is a blatant lie! Absolute poppycock! Hogwash! Just look at you!”
    My hand went instinctively to smooth my hair, my skirts. I was suddenly painfully aware of the soaked and filthy hemline of my dress, of my black button shoes now encrusted in mud. I ran my hand across my forehead in an attempt to tidy myself and was appalled to see a streak of red on my fingers. I’d forgotten how I’d entangled myself in the rosebush, how I’d gotten scratched. I felt the color rise to my cheeks at the memory of my hair being yanked by the branches, and could only imagine how wild it must be, hanging from my ribbons as it was.
    None of this escaped Uncle Victor, who grabbed me roughly by the arm. “You might have gotten away with behaving like a wild Indian living under my brother’s roof,” he hissed, “but you’ll not act as a banshee living here with me!” He shoved me along the path, his skinny fingers pressing into my arm like a vise. Mr. Pugsley ran around, circling wildly, yipping in protest.
    â€œI’ll have to have a word with your aunt about this,” Uncle Victor said, shaking his head and wagging a long finger in the air. I tripped along beside him, cringing at the scene I knew would follow—a perfect opportunity for Uncle Victor to bully both me and Aunt Margaret at the same time. It would be doubly bad for me, of course, for once he was done with Margaret, she would take her frustration out on me as well.
    As we approached the house, I was captivated by the sunlight playing off of the front stairs that led to the wide wraparound porch. The afternoon light seemed dappled, dancing across the steps, like sunlight on water. But as we got closer, I grew more excited. It was not ordinary sunlight playing on the stairs. It was sparkling, glittering. I chanced a glance at Uncle Victor, who marched on, unaware, his eye trained on the front door.
    I held my breath as he dragged me towardthe first step, my eyes cast downward. I felt the electricity at my feet and blinked at the wavy lines of energy—like heat shimmering on a paved road baking in the sun—that I saw emanating from that wavering step. I watched as Uncle Victor’s side of the wooden step grew, as though drawn up in the flow of energy surrounding it. Just as he lifted his foot to scale the step, the flute vibrated, and something like the shrill cry of a bird flew from it and pierced the air. Victor swiveled his head, eyebrows raised. The vapor seeped along the base of the stair, and just as he stepped up, the floorboards bulged.
    The jolt of his shoe meeting the swollen step sent him flying forward. He released my arm and I sprang up the stairs and out of his grasp, Mr. Pugsley beside me.
    I heard the clunk of his nose against the upper stair, and the shower of curses that followed. The flute huffed and puffed a ruffle of tuneless air ticklishly against me. I immediately recognized it as the cadence of laughter, and stifled the gahuff that threatened to spring from my lips.
    Aunt Margaret barreled past me, her eyes opened wide, fleshy cheeks jiggling, hands grasping the edges of her apron.
    â€œWhat on earth?” she chirped, her words coming in nervous bursts.
    I shrugged a little and watched Mr. Pugsley run to his hiding space beneath the stairwell. “I guess he tripped,” I said, and rushed toward the library.
    I closed the door behind me, shutting out Uncle Victor’s demands for an ice pack, some brandy (he was always boasting of the medicinal qualities of brandy, after all), a bandage, a cigar.
    I walked slowly toward the painting that hung on the wall opposite the window and stood before it. The blood pulsed in my temples, and my heart hammered against my chest.
    There was Ulysses tied to the mast of his