Read Online The Seeker A Novel (R. B. Chesterton) by R. B. Chesterton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: R. B. Chesterton
Ads: Link
idea he’d spent time with her recently. He said she was unstable, which was often code for sexually exciting. Unstable people lacked the inhibitions and restraints of normal people.
The cuticle of my ring finger beaded with bright red blood. Fretting, I’d picked it to the quick. I had to switch my mind off Joe and Karla. Determined to regain control of my mental energy, I entered an office supply store. Ten minutes later, an ink cartridge, highlighting pens in several colors, gel-tip black pens, clips, and Post-it notes were snuggled in a recyclable shopping bag. Not a huge haul, but enough of a financial setback to make me hesitate over an expensive coffee and sticky bun at the Honey Bea. The sacrifices I made for my education!
While I was in town, I ambled over to Cassidy’s Vintage Resale. I loved vintage clothing, and New England had the best shops I’d ever seen. Most mountain people in Kentucky were poor. Dresses were utilitarian by design and worn out by the number of hand-me-downs. A Sunday dress might last three generations in the same family.
Photos of my female relatives showed women with clear gray eyes, glossy dark hair, high cheekbones, long-fingered hands, and severe dresses, none with the slightest frill. “Pretty for the sake of pretty” seemed to be considered sinful. The Cahill clan nurtured some farfetched ideas about sin and redemption. In between the two, the Cahill Curse waited to spring upon the unsuspecting.
The dress shop smelled of lavender soap and vanilla. I migrated to a sale rack, where a beautiful sage-green silk dress caught my eye. The ruched bodice was tucked with tiny pearls, and the hem floated free and swingy above the ankle. Holding it against my chest, I consulted a mirror.
“It’s the perfect color for your eyes,” the saleswoman said with a well-aimed strike at my weakness. The dress brought out the dark green streaks in my irises, my one vanity.
“Thanks.” I checked the tag and put it back on the rack. Right size, wrong price.
“If you lived in Salem two hundred years ago, you’d find yourself hanging at the end of a rope.” The clerk laughed nervously. “It’s your eyes. During the witch trials, people were hanged for a lot less than unusual eye color.” She went behind the counter and brought out a book on Salem’s infamous witch trials and hangings. “Sorry, it’s been slow today and I’ve been reading too much.”
She was my age or maybe younger, a pert woman with dimples and smooth, pink skin. Her make-up was elegant and understated. The ring on her finger told me she had both a career and a private life. “Innocent men and women were murdered, all in the name of stopping Satan.” She opened the book and read: “To spot a witch you must look for the mark of Satan upon her body. A mole or mark, a crooked finger, the unusual coloration of the eyes.” She put the book down. “Beautiful could get you in a lot of trouble, I guess.”
I cast a glance in the mirror. The dress seemed to focus the light directly into my eyes. Maybe a spell had been cast on it. “And I thought green eyes weren’t unusual.”
She shrugged. “Any reason was good enough to accuse someone of consorting with demons and the devil. Green eyes like yours, marbled with light and dark. Pretty extraordinary.”
“Good to know. I’ll steer clear of Salem.”
She laughed, a bubbly sound of fun. “The witch trials were a long time ago. 1700s, I think.”
“Actually, the witch trials were held from 1688 through 1692, and in many cases they were about property.” I’d researched this topic in gender studies classes. “The women who died were mostly land-owning widows. The cheapest route to land acquisition was to accuse them of witchcraft and steal their property for a pittance when they were dead.”
The sales clerk frowned. “That’s not in the history books. Not this one, anyway.”
“History is written by the victors. The dead women didn’t have a chance to
The cuticle of my ring finger beaded with bright red blood. Fretting, I’d picked it to the quick. I had to switch my mind off Joe and Karla. Determined to regain control of my mental energy, I entered an office supply store. Ten minutes later, an ink cartridge, highlighting pens in several colors, gel-tip black pens, clips, and Post-it notes were snuggled in a recyclable shopping bag. Not a huge haul, but enough of a financial setback to make me hesitate over an expensive coffee and sticky bun at the Honey Bea. The sacrifices I made for my education!
While I was in town, I ambled over to Cassidy’s Vintage Resale. I loved vintage clothing, and New England had the best shops I’d ever seen. Most mountain people in Kentucky were poor. Dresses were utilitarian by design and worn out by the number of hand-me-downs. A Sunday dress might last three generations in the same family.
Photos of my female relatives showed women with clear gray eyes, glossy dark hair, high cheekbones, long-fingered hands, and severe dresses, none with the slightest frill. “Pretty for the sake of pretty” seemed to be considered sinful. The Cahill clan nurtured some farfetched ideas about sin and redemption. In between the two, the Cahill Curse waited to spring upon the unsuspecting.
The dress shop smelled of lavender soap and vanilla. I migrated to a sale rack, where a beautiful sage-green silk dress caught my eye. The ruched bodice was tucked with tiny pearls, and the hem floated free and swingy above the ankle. Holding it against my chest, I consulted a mirror.
“It’s the perfect color for your eyes,” the saleswoman said with a well-aimed strike at my weakness. The dress brought out the dark green streaks in my irises, my one vanity.
“Thanks.” I checked the tag and put it back on the rack. Right size, wrong price.
“If you lived in Salem two hundred years ago, you’d find yourself hanging at the end of a rope.” The clerk laughed nervously. “It’s your eyes. During the witch trials, people were hanged for a lot less than unusual eye color.” She went behind the counter and brought out a book on Salem’s infamous witch trials and hangings. “Sorry, it’s been slow today and I’ve been reading too much.”
She was my age or maybe younger, a pert woman with dimples and smooth, pink skin. Her make-up was elegant and understated. The ring on her finger told me she had both a career and a private life. “Innocent men and women were murdered, all in the name of stopping Satan.” She opened the book and read: “To spot a witch you must look for the mark of Satan upon her body. A mole or mark, a crooked finger, the unusual coloration of the eyes.” She put the book down. “Beautiful could get you in a lot of trouble, I guess.”
I cast a glance in the mirror. The dress seemed to focus the light directly into my eyes. Maybe a spell had been cast on it. “And I thought green eyes weren’t unusual.”
She shrugged. “Any reason was good enough to accuse someone of consorting with demons and the devil. Green eyes like yours, marbled with light and dark. Pretty extraordinary.”
“Good to know. I’ll steer clear of Salem.”
She laughed, a bubbly sound of fun. “The witch trials were a long time ago. 1700s, I think.”
“Actually, the witch trials were held from 1688 through 1692, and in many cases they were about property.” I’d researched this topic in gender studies classes. “The women who died were mostly land-owning widows. The cheapest route to land acquisition was to accuse them of witchcraft and steal their property for a pittance when they were dead.”
The sales clerk frowned. “That’s not in the history books. Not this one, anyway.”
“History is written by the victors. The dead women didn’t have a chance to
Similar Books
