Read Online Gypsy (The Cavy Files Book 1) by Trisha Leigh - Free Book Online
Authors: Trisha Leigh
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that sounded fatherly.”
“It’s cool. You’re still new enough that I like it.”
He surprises me, and maybe himself, by bending to kiss me on the cheek. His scruff tickles but I don’t pull away, breathing deep and trying not to fall apart before the day even starts.
“Have a good day, Norah.”
“Thanks.”
I still haven’t decided what to call him. My inclination is Father, but it’s so formal and I’m not sure if it’s weird, so nothing remains the reigning option. He shuts the door behind me, leaving me alone on the street. He’s some kind of lawyer, and also sits on a couple of historical restoration councils, which is how he lives in a perfect old house south of Broad. He leaves for work the same time I leave for school and promises he’ll be home by six-thirty, latest. Which means I have three hours to kill after Charleston Academy lets out at the end of the day.
It’s not as though I have any friends or plans. Yet.
The last thought lifts my lips into a smile, pushes my feet into a brisk walk, and drowns out my worry of accidentally touching someone. I’ve gotten through the reentry—the chats with the cops, the pokes and prods from the doctors, the school registration—and not one person seems to think there’s anything different about me at all. Or the rest of the Cavies. Sometime last night I started to relax, at least about being plucked up and deposited in a laboratory.
The rest of them aren’t as thrilled about not being different anymore, but I can’t help it. I am.
Possibility tastes sweet on the crisp morning air, coats the sidewalk like helium that threatens to lift my new black flats right off the ground. The new day dawns in gorgeous pinks and purples, and Charleston steals more of my heart every time I step out the door. There’s beauty everywhere, even in the winter, and my eyes dart back and forth trying not to miss a single thing.
Window boxes spill winter flowers toward the treacherous, uneven sidewalks. Camellias burst along every path, their bright pink blooms skipping and tumbling through gardens and graveyards. Spanish moss—its lazy, creepy air inseparable from the portrait of the city—drips through the twisted arms of live oaks standing sentinel over the dead and the living. Wrought-iron gates, leftover boot scrapers, and giant painted doors leading to tangled private gardens exude charm, making it impossible to forget the generations of humans who strolled these streets for centuries before me.
At Darley, the Professor did not neglect local history, and regaled us with tales of the city’s highlights—or lowlights, depending on one’s view of war and independence and slavery and such. But in person, the little curiosities twirling at every twist and turn tug on my clothes like the bony fingers of the ghosts that share this city, however grudgingly, with the living.
My father warned me that the spirit of Charleston’s last British governor haunts our street, but he doesn’t frighten me. Ghosts are extra tenants at Darley Hall, and our old slave cabins were favored places to pop up. Spirits and history live alongside us, after all, and sometimes they poke a hand or a face or a whole stinking body through the pale veil that separates life from death. Living in the lowcountry means making peace with that, which is what the Philosopher told us when we came screaming and crying to him as frightened children. The Professor kept books and articles about how to best handle the spirits, and as with everything else, knowledge calmed our panic. We learned to embrace the history of Darley, even when it insisted on tugging loose our blankets in the middle of the night.
We are Cavies, and we are different, but we are also South Carolinians. And no one knows with more clarity than me that every living thing must die.
I turn onto King Street, which is popular because of its upscale shopping but not one of my favorite spots after my brief explorations. The creepiest
“It’s cool. You’re still new enough that I like it.”
He surprises me, and maybe himself, by bending to kiss me on the cheek. His scruff tickles but I don’t pull away, breathing deep and trying not to fall apart before the day even starts.
“Have a good day, Norah.”
“Thanks.”
I still haven’t decided what to call him. My inclination is Father, but it’s so formal and I’m not sure if it’s weird, so nothing remains the reigning option. He shuts the door behind me, leaving me alone on the street. He’s some kind of lawyer, and also sits on a couple of historical restoration councils, which is how he lives in a perfect old house south of Broad. He leaves for work the same time I leave for school and promises he’ll be home by six-thirty, latest. Which means I have three hours to kill after Charleston Academy lets out at the end of the day.
It’s not as though I have any friends or plans. Yet.
The last thought lifts my lips into a smile, pushes my feet into a brisk walk, and drowns out my worry of accidentally touching someone. I’ve gotten through the reentry—the chats with the cops, the pokes and prods from the doctors, the school registration—and not one person seems to think there’s anything different about me at all. Or the rest of the Cavies. Sometime last night I started to relax, at least about being plucked up and deposited in a laboratory.
The rest of them aren’t as thrilled about not being different anymore, but I can’t help it. I am.
Possibility tastes sweet on the crisp morning air, coats the sidewalk like helium that threatens to lift my new black flats right off the ground. The new day dawns in gorgeous pinks and purples, and Charleston steals more of my heart every time I step out the door. There’s beauty everywhere, even in the winter, and my eyes dart back and forth trying not to miss a single thing.
Window boxes spill winter flowers toward the treacherous, uneven sidewalks. Camellias burst along every path, their bright pink blooms skipping and tumbling through gardens and graveyards. Spanish moss—its lazy, creepy air inseparable from the portrait of the city—drips through the twisted arms of live oaks standing sentinel over the dead and the living. Wrought-iron gates, leftover boot scrapers, and giant painted doors leading to tangled private gardens exude charm, making it impossible to forget the generations of humans who strolled these streets for centuries before me.
At Darley, the Professor did not neglect local history, and regaled us with tales of the city’s highlights—or lowlights, depending on one’s view of war and independence and slavery and such. But in person, the little curiosities twirling at every twist and turn tug on my clothes like the bony fingers of the ghosts that share this city, however grudgingly, with the living.
My father warned me that the spirit of Charleston’s last British governor haunts our street, but he doesn’t frighten me. Ghosts are extra tenants at Darley Hall, and our old slave cabins were favored places to pop up. Spirits and history live alongside us, after all, and sometimes they poke a hand or a face or a whole stinking body through the pale veil that separates life from death. Living in the lowcountry means making peace with that, which is what the Philosopher told us when we came screaming and crying to him as frightened children. The Professor kept books and articles about how to best handle the spirits, and as with everything else, knowledge calmed our panic. We learned to embrace the history of Darley, even when it insisted on tugging loose our blankets in the middle of the night.
We are Cavies, and we are different, but we are also South Carolinians. And no one knows with more clarity than me that every living thing must die.
I turn onto King Street, which is popular because of its upscale shopping but not one of my favorite spots after my brief explorations. The creepiest
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