Read Online Angel in Scarlet by Jennifer Wilde - Free Book Online

There had been no real drama since that day I had scrambled over the wall at Greystone Hall, and that had been three years ago. It seemed even longer. The feisty, rambunctious child had vanished, transformed into an awkward, too-tall fifteen-year-old subject to all the moods and contradictions of that age, silly as a goose one moment, silent and wistful the next. I hated being fifteen, hated it sorely. When she was fifteen Solonge was already a woman, mature and alluring. Me, I was like a gawky, skittish colt.
    Eppie Dawson and I sauntered idly down High Street, warm sunshine washing the old brown cobbles and the rows of weathered tan shopfronts. Painted signs hung over the doorways, colors faded with age. Through the bakery window we could see the baker kneading his dough, a heavenly smell wafting out onto the pavement, and up ahead the knife sharpener was turning his stone, sparks flying as he honed the blade of a knife. A little boy with flaxen hair was playing with a dog across the street, tossing a stick the mutt fetched with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm, and a few village women were shopping, faces grim as they examined the bins of vegetables in front of the greengrocer’s. Eppie kept an eye out for boys, but nary a husky lad appeared. I paused to look at the books in the window at Blackwood’s but saw nothing of interest. I wanted splendor, spectacle, sensation, anything to relieve the tedious monotony that seemed to mark each day.
    â€œI was hopin’ Will Peterson might be hangin’ around,” Eppie said. “He lounges about the square sometimes when he idn’t busy at his father’s farm.”
    â€œWill Peterson’s a dolt,” I informed her.
    â€œOh, Will’s all right. He’s randy, always thinkin’ about tail, true, but he’s got a lot of charm.”
    â€œAnd a vocabulary of approximately twelve words,” I added.
    Eppie gave me an exasperated look and clicked her tongue, looking more than ever like a giraffe with her straw-colored hair piled up on top of her head, her enormous brown eyes, her long neck and tall, angular body. Eppie was a bore at times, but we’d been friends most of our lives and she was the only person I could really talk to. Eppie was a simple girl who never had a serious thought in her head, never worried or wondered about life, perfectly satisfied with her lot. Give her a shiny new hair ribbon and a rousing tryst with a muscular oaf like Will Peterson and she was blissfully content. Sometimes I almost envied her.
    â€œYou know what your problem is, Angie? Your problem is you need to get laid. That ’d cure you of what ails you quick enough, I promise-ya.”
    â€œBull,” I said.
    â€œIt’s ever so excitin’, Angie, and much better than any silly tonic you might take. Can’t tell you how wonderful it makes you feel—warm and cozy all over, like you’re glowin’ inside.”
    â€œI’m not interested,” I told her.
    â€œAll the boys find you fascinatin’,” Eppie continued. “They’re always askin’ me about you, askin’ why you’re so aloof and distant. Will Peterson said he’d love to ask you out, said he was scared to, scared you’d give him one of your cool, haughty looks and freeze his balls off.”
    â€œSomeone should,” I said.
    â€œI often think you really are a snob, Angie,” she replied. “The boys all say so.”
    â€œI haven’t the faintest interest in what the boys say.”
    â€œBosh! You’re interested all right, you just won’t admit it. They’re certainly interested in you. ”
    I sighed, bored, and Eppie gave me another one of her exasperated looks and told me that if I wanted to spend all my life moonin’ around and readin’ dreary books and bein’ a tragic princess that was fine with her, she intended to have a good time before she got too old. I pinched her. She