Read Online The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons by Barbara Mariconda - Free Book Online

ship, his wild eyes raised toward the sky. He was the focal point of the painting, the part that drew your eye and held it.
    But this time I forced myself to look, really look at the rest of the painting—at the huge white moon that illuminated Ulysses’s fear, casting a ghostly path across the water—and in that path, the head of the siren, the sea nymph, radiating like a star in a black sea-sky.
    I picked up the ivory-handled magnifying glass from Father’s desk and approached the painting. With trembling hands I held the glass up, and the circle behind it sprang into view, increasing impressively in both size and detail.
    The wavy-edged image in the glass fairlysparkled as it tripled in size. And I stared at the siren in the moonlit sea approaching the ship, her silvery hair streaming out behind her.
    I shook my head and stepped away from the painting. Perhaps my imagination was getting the better of me, but the siren in the painting and the woman on the path could have been one and the same.

9
    I n my room I waited out the storm. Standing before my dressing table, I retrieved my precious flute, rolled it over and over in my hands, and brought it to my lips. I kissed it, and placed it on the bureau cloth. A large looking glass hung behind the dressing table, and catching sight of my appearance, I gasped.
    I’d always been told how much I resembled Mother, with her serene blue eyes and auburn hair. But at that moment, it was not the ghost of my mother that stared back at me—it was more like my Aunt Prudence, more mischievous than Motherfor sure, and yes, maybe even a little reckless. My sweaty face was smeared with dirt. My hair, which Addie usually arranged in waves held off of my face with fine ribbons, was mussed and tangled, a halo of reddish curls and frizz. Small leaves were stuck here and there, even a thin twig or two. These I gingerly pulled out and hid in my pocket.
    There was a knock on the door, followed by my aunt’s waffling voice, even higher pitched than usual.
    â€œI need a word with you, Lucille. Open the door and let me inside!”
    I attempted to wipe off my face and pull my hair into some kind of shape before opening the door. I sat on the edge of my bed and looked down, trying to appear repentant.
    Aunt Margaret stood directly before me, twisting the sash of her dress nervously around her plump fingers. She was positioned so that glancing up put me at eye level with her massive bosom. I looked back down and waited.
    â€œWhat in heaven’s name were you up to out there?” she asked. Her voice was whining, wheedling. “Now you’ve gone and got your uncle all upset,” and as if to justify the irritation in her voice, she quickly added, “And I can’t say that I blame him! What do you have to say for yourself?”
    I mumbled an apology. “I’m sorry, Aunt Margaret,” I said. “I didn’t mean to cause any trouble.”
    â€œWell, you’ll have to go down and tell him that yourself,” said Aunt Margaret, who by now was pacing back and forth, her lower lip curled over like a spoiled child’s. “Now you’ve got him in a tizzy.”
    And, as if his tizzy needed explanation, she added, “He’s in a lot of pain, thanks to that little dog of yours.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, thanks to my little dog?”
    Aunt Margaret paused. “For tripping him on the step,” she said, annoyance bending the pitch of her last word up a tone or two.
    I suddenly paid more attention. If he blamed Mr. Pugsley for this fall, would he decide to get rid of him?
    â€œAunt Margaret,” I said, “it wasn’t Mr. Pugsley’s fault. It was my fault.”
    â€œYes, it was,” she said, her bottom lip still curled out, her rolls of chin held high. “He is your dog, after all, and your uncle is nice enough to let you keep him!”
    â€œNo,” I said. “No, Mr. Pugsley didn’t trip