Sing Sweet Nightingale by Erica Cameron Read Free Book Online Page A

the Internet for music I haven’t heard before. New singer-songwriters, old and almost-forgotten arias, hidden gems from one-hit wonders of the sixties. It’s all fair game. After lunch, I listen to the songs I love until I have them memorized, creating a playlist of my favorites for my iPod and letting it play on loop while I curl up in the window seat downstairs and read. I’d rather be in my room, but the compromise with my mother means spending time in the main part of the house. Afternoons downstairs, mornings and nights upstairs.
    I put my book down and rub my thumb along the cool, smooth back of my glass nightingale. The bird is about two inches long from beak to tail and fits perfectly in the curve of my fingers. Bringing it up to my eyes, I admire the way it gleams in the sunlight streaming through the window. It’s not simply the way the glass reflects the light. My nightingale creates its own light—a gorgeous, pearlescent shimmer that only I can see. A light that marks it as a gift from Orane.
    He’s given me dozens of trinkets and figurines over the years, but this one is my favorite. I’m his nightingale, after all.
    The glow gets brighter as I watch it. I smile. The gifts he leaves for me are beautiful, but what I love most is the reminder that I’m on Orane’s mind as much as he’s on mine. I know he’s working on finding a way to let me stay. It’ll happen. I have to be patient.
    The front door bangs shut, and I jump. My nightingale flies from my fingers. I dive after it, catching it before it smacks against the wood floor.
    Sighing, I drop my head. It’s never fallen that far before. I don’t know if it would shatter, but I really don’t want to take the chance.
    “Honey, it’s time for—Mari, what are you doing on the floor?”
    I push myself up, holding out the nightingale with one hand and signing with the other, “Dropped.”
    My mother’s confusion clears. She nods and helps me up. “Well, be careful and come set the table.”
    I slip the nightingale into the pocket of my flannel pajama pants and nod. Putting my book back, I follow her into the kitchen. My father is already there, pouring two glasses of red wine. His tie is hanging loose around his neck, and his suit jacket has been tossed on a side table. Normally it takes him a little longer to unwind after work, but tonight he’s grinning as my mother and I come into the room.
    “Dana, remember how I told you the house on the next block might have a buyer?”
    “The fixer-upper?” my mother asks as she checks the oven. “I still think you’re crazy. No one would buy that place. The roof nearly caved in after that storm last winter!”
    “You better believe it. I was right! It sold a couple days ago, and I found out who bought it. Makes perfect sense now.”
    My father is nearly bouncing. I haven’t seen him this excited in years. Maybe ever. I glance at him as I pull the plates out of the cupboard, wondering why this is such big news. Swallow’s Grove is a tiny town, but newcomers aren’t that uncommon.
    My mother’s lip quirks as she watches him. “Are you going to tell me who it is or do you expect me to guess, Frank?”
    “Horace Gregory Lawson III.” He says the name with strong emphasis on each part. My mother blinks at him, waiting for the punch line.
    “I’m sorry, honey. Should that ring a bell?” she finally asks.
    My father sighs and shakes his head. “Dana, he’s the father of the Lawson who rebuilt the apartments in the center of town.”
    She stares at him without recognition, her brown eyes steady as she sips her wine.
    “He single-handedly designed the rebuild of Albany’s capitol building?” my father says.
    “Oh!” Her eyes brighten, and she nods. “I remember now. Are you sure it’s him? His family has the money to live anywhere.”
    “He’s on public record as the new owner. And Jen Selwyn already went over to meet him. He’s here !”
    My mother nearly drops her glass. “He moved