Daughters of the Summer Storm by Frances Statham (best sci fi novels of all time .TXT) 📗

it is not a complete metamorphosis. Your tongue still runs away with you."

Marigold, in exasperation at Jason's teasing, pummeled his chest, but her tall, handsome brother, just put his arm around her and hugged her as they continued down the pathway.

Eulalie and Robert Tabor were surprised to see their daughter and Crane. But they were also delighted. They quickly shifted bedroom arrangements, moving Robbie into the nursery with the baby Raven.

"Why can't Crane stay in the nursery?" Robbie asked his mother as he reluctantly moved his clothes from his own room. "Then, Marigold could stay with me."

"Married people stay together, Robbie," Eulalie explained to her son, brown from his hours spent on the beach. "It's much more gentlemanly to give up your room for a few days, than have Marigold and Crane separated."

"I don't want Crane in my room," he pouted. "He might take some of my shells."

"Robbie, don't be stubborn. It's only for a little while, darling. And I'm sure that both Marigold and Crane will be very careful and not harm your shells."

There was little Marigold could do about sharing a bedroom with Crane. She had promised, because of Jake, not to mention her husband's mistreatment and her subsequent flight. But it was hard to be civil to him in the presence of her family.

Marigold took delight in being with her family again. Raven had grown so much that she would not have recognized him. Everything would be perfect, she thought, if Maranta were there on the island, in the same bedroom with her, rather than Crane.

Despite Crane's friendly overtures, Robbie would have nothing to do with the man. He stared disapprovingly at him at dinner and answered Crane's questions in monosyllables.

Everyone at the table—except Crane—put it down to Robbie's annoyance at being moved into the nursery.

The wooden cottage was rustic but comfortable. Built on the opposite end of the island from where the old tabby house of oyster shell and lime once stood, it was a short distance from the lighthouse, which Marigold was curious to explore.

Early in the morning, Marigold set out, persuading Feena to accompany her. They walked along the sandy beach, and Marigold picked up a shell washed on the beach by the previous tide and held it to her ear.

"Years ago, when we were on the island," Feena recalled, "Monsieur Jason used to come to this very spot and hunt for shells. Now, it is Robbie."

"Yes. Robbie seems to be quite concerned about his collection," Marigold answered. "Afraid that something will happen to them—But tell me, Feena, what was it like on the island back then? Why have Maman and Papa ignored the island for so many years—and then suddenly decided to build the cottage?"

"Maybe they were waiting for the ghosts to disappear. The island was beautiful but treacherous—with alligators and marsh tackeys and wild boars. . ."

"What ghosts, Feena?" Marigold interrupted.

Feena hesitated. "Madame Eulalie has never told you about Jason's governess, Florilla. But I see no harm in telling you now. That woman was a wicked one. She dressed up as a ghost, frightening your poor maman. And on the same morning the British landed on the island, she locked Madame Eulalie in the spring room and left her there to die. And she would have, too, except for Monsieur Robert getting back to the island to rescue her."

"But where were all the others?" Marigold asked.

"This was war time, you remember, ma petite. The British had taken everyone off the island and then set fire to the house."

"Why was Papa not on the island, too?"

"Monsieur Robert had come to get me at Midgard to be with your maman, since the time was drawing near for you to be born."

More questions formed in Marigold's mind, and eagerly she asked, "Was this. . . Florilla ever caught and punished for doing this to Maman?"

"Oui. She was bitten by a moccasin and died in Emma's Bog," Feena admitted. When Marigold began another question, the old woman shrugged her shoulders and said, "That is enough from the past. I am tired of talking about it."

They were in front of the old lighthouse, and Marigold, realizing she would get no more information from Feena, opened the heavy door and stared inside at the steep, narrow stairway that wound several flights until it disappeared above. A feeling of excitement lured Marigold, and she hurried up the steps—eager to see this aerie where she and Maranta had been born.

She had no need to rely on Feena for information, for Marigold knew this part of the story well—how they had barely gotten across the island from the old tabby house to seek refuge from the hurricane; how, at their birth, their father had breathed life into Maranta when she had refused to cry. All this, Marigold knew.

She gazed at the room with cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and looked out onto the sun-drenched sea with its miles of blue water fading into the sky. She turned to look at every angle, in every direction, drinking in the scenery—the sandy beach, the palmettos, and the palms.

Then she saw her brother, Robbie, stooping down to pick up a shell. "He's out early," Marigold said to Feena who stood beside her. "Adding to his collection. I don't know where he'll put any more."

"Jason and Neijee used to stack them in piles near the porch of the tabby house," Feena offered.

The two stood at the window, watching the little boy. And then Marigold noticed Crane coming down the beach. Robbie spied the man and hurried on, going in the opposite direction. Marigold watched as Crane caught up with her little brother. The man grabbed Robbie's arm and, in doing so, loosened the child's grasp on his shell. The shell fell to the ground, and Marigold's hands tightened on the railing at the window when she saw her husband kick the fallen shell into the water.

Robbie cried out, and a furious Marigold ran down the steps, out of the lighthouse. Feena, standing at the window