The Firebird's Vengeance Read Free Page B

lake to the island.
    Memory rolled over her as it always did. That the terror was thirty years old did nothing to lessen it. She remembered the water pressing relentlessly against her filling eyes and ears. She remembered the taste of it in her mouth, the pain in her lungs, how her fingers stretched up to the light, how her own skirts entangled her like a net and dragged her down. She remembered the silence, and her heart hammering against her ribs.
    Fear tightened her throat, turning her breath into gasps. Fear shifted the ground under her feet, and Grace caught herself against Everett’s stone. The icy edge of it bit into her palm even through her mitten, reminding her where she was and in a moment she was able to stand again.
    Grace pulled her shawls more tightly around her. I could turn away. I should turn away. It would serve her right. She turned away from me .
    This time, though, the anger was a lie, and Grace knew it. It was because she was afraid. Afraid of the deep water, afraid of what lay asleep beneath it waiting for life and warmth. That was why she hadn’t gone to see Ingrid while she waited in Everett’s house to give birth to Bridget. She couldn’t make herself cross the lake again. She had thought there would be time. She had believed Ingrid must come to Bayfield at some time, and then they’d meet and then …
    And then Ingrid died.
    Deep inside herself, Grace felt her heart stir. If this was a genuine plea for help from the only one of her family who had ever reached out for her, her heart would break again, and this time it would not heal.
    Wrapping herself as well as she could against the strengthening wind, Grace took herself down the sloping road to the lakeside and the port.
    Normally, Bayfield’s port was a busy place, but winter’s cold had brought it to a standstill. The big steamers had all left for open water and big cities to the south. The fishing boats wintering at the quayside all rested in cradles on the shore to keep them from being broken by the ice that would soon form. A few men braved the cold, but they did not linger about as they would have in spring or summer. They strode purposefully between the grounded boats, chins tucked in their high coat collars and hands thrust deep into their pockets.
    Grace made her way between the curving sides of the boats, trying not to look at the dull silver expanse of water that waited beyond them. She pushed open the door to the long, grey shack that was the harbormaster’s quarters, letting in a swirl of snow and cold to announce her entrance. Men huddled by the stove cursed in rough voices, looked up, saw a female form, and shut their mouths. It took them a minute longer to see which female it happened to be. Eyebrows lifted. Pipes were pulled from mouths.
    Grace did not give any of the weather-roughened men a chance to make their comments. “I’m looking for Mr. Bluchard.” She lifted her shawl from around her head and shook off the blown snow that clung to it, casually, as if being stared at by eight or so fishermen was a matter of no moment to her.
    Francis Bluchard must have gotten down here early, because he had a spot right next to the potbellied stove. He stood up, straightening out his whole, lean length. He’d never been a handsome man, but standing against the hard work of years had given his horsey face and brown eyes a comfortable solidity and assurance.
    And he remembered to call her “Miss” in public, something not many did. This raised Grace’s estimation of him.
    He took his long-stemmed pipe from his mouth and tapped it against his palm. “What can I do for you, Miss Loftfield?” he asked.
    “I’d like a word with you, if I may.” She left the “in private” implied. More than one of the men caught that implication, however, and knowing glances were exchanged. Someone sniggered. Grace held her ground. She was old enough that she was no longer an object of attraction to these ruffians. Her past, however, was