Read Online Shadows Falling: The Lost #2 by Melyssa Williams - Free Book Online Page A

it was all a question of skill and mathematics and science and practice. I would never go too quickly with Solomon against my target as I was quite fond of him. I wouldn’t have relished a life in that era without him. The twins were strange and odd and didn’t care for me, not even sweeter tempered Gertie, and neither did anyone else. They only tolerated me at all because I brought in more of a crowd with my tiny, angel-like appearance and because any misgivings they may have had about my personality were stifled by Solomon’s watchful eye and quick tongue. I was used to people not liking me, so it hardly bothered me, but that didn’t mean I wanted no company at all.
    One night in late October, a party came to see us. We already had a crowd, and their group of ten or so, mostly blathering young girls, made it the largest I had ever performed for. We did coin tricks, sold bottles of potions, collected tickets to see the twins in their dark and separate tent, and told fortunes by the light of the gypsy wagon. The group of girls were rich, their frocks the whitest whites with huge bows and boots that laced up tightly. They all had gloves of lace with pearl buttons, and I found myself desiring a pair myself. I eyed them longingly as I took their tickets.
    One, a girl of perhaps twelve, was the ring leader (it was her birthday party) and saw me looking. She tucked her glorious locks of ebony hair behind her ear and tapped me on the nose.
    “ Would you like gloves like mine, little gypsy urchin? Look, girls, how she stares at us!”
    The others tittered.
    “As if we are the odd ones here!” another whispered loudly.
    “ Why are you so yellow haired, gypsy girl? Did they steal you away?” The first girl leaned towards me, as if voicing a conspiracy. “Were you a nice girl like us, with a family, and the dirty gypsies came and stole you away?”
    “ Or perhaps she has an English father somewhere, with a taste for gypsy women?” said the second girl, and they all laughed uproariously.
    “ Here, little child,” The first girl unbuttoned her glove dramatically. “Take mine. Never let it be said I don’t know how to give to charity. That should shut Mother Louisa up this week.” She slapped them against my cheek with wicked force that stung and would leave a red mark behind to remember her by for days after, and they left to get their fortunes told.
    I ’m sure it seems quite obvious that I hated them very much. Any girl would at that point, but I am not just any girl.
    When they came to my tent I wore the white gloves. I threw every knife perfectly, narrowly missing my dear Solomon, who pretended alarm at the last throw, just for the audience ’s sake. Everyone in my crowd applauded loudly, but not that group of girls. They only looked at me with contempt.
    So I asked for a volunteer.
     
    Here the diary has such terrible handwriting that I peer at the book in earnest. My heart is thumping, and my mind is jumping to violent conclusions about Rose Gray and her set of knives. I read on, haltingly, fragments working themselves out into sentences again as though her pen has steadied.
     
    Of course, the girl who gave me the gloves —her lily white hands bare now, bare and lovely and graceful, not tanned and with bitten nails and knife scars like mine—volunteered, the way I knew she would. This one wouldn’t back down from a challenge. She wasn’t easily frightened or intimidated. She knew how to get places and what to do, and say, and act, once she got there. She was ruthless and arrogant. I very nearly liked her, if only she hadn’t turned her contempt towards me. Perhaps we could have been friends?
    Solomon watched me warily, and with concern, as if he knew I wasn ’t feeling well. For the first time ever, my hands shook ever so slightly as I picked up my first blade. I steadied them immediately. I stared at her, with her black shiny locks of hair artfully arranged around her shoulders, as she stood against the