The Reader by Traci Chee Read Free Book Online

desperate to find the cure for the sickness that plagued his beautiful daughter.
    But his parents had been gone for six months, traveling with a troupe of other acrobats and actors and street performers. They didn’t make enough to hire messengers, so he had no idea when they’d be back. He didn’t even know if they were still in the kingdom of Deliene or if they’d traveled south to the other islands.
    Sighing, Lon sprinkled a pinch of incense over the brazier, and in the sweet-scented smoke that spiraled from the embers, he felt as if his life were unraveling before him: a string of days that would turn into years, each one the same as the last, telling fortunes by the city gate, until he grew too feeble to carry his table out onto the street.
    As the smoke dispersed, he spied an old man wandering through the crowd, his graying shoulder-length hair uncombed, his eyes darting wildly from the terra-cotta rooftops and ornamented iron balconies back to the cobblestone streets as if it were his first time in Corabel. You could always spot visitors to Deliene’s capital by their bewildered looks and crooked necks as they tried to take in all the busy sights of the city on the hill.
    Squinting, Lon studied him carefully. The man’s skin was dark and wrinkled as a walnut shell, though there was little sun damage on his face and hands. His sweeping velvet robes were ill suited to travel on the crowded streets, and as other passersby stepped on his trailing hems, Lon caught sight of his soft slippers, the uppers already splitting from the soles.
    He must work inside,
Lon observed,
but he left the house today without thinking to change his clothes.
In a hurry? Or just absentminded? And if he was a visitor to Corabel, why did he look like he had just stepped out of his house in his dressing gown?
    â€œHey, grandfather!” Lon called. “Over here!”
    Blinking, the old man looked up. He seemed to have trouble focusing.
    He probably wears glasses.
Lon stood, waving him over.
    The old man made his way through the handcarts and fishmongers fresh from the sea, stubbing his toes on the cobbles and bumping into sailors on shore leave. He collapsed gratefully on the short stool Lon offered him, dabbing at his brow with the edge of his embroidered sleeve.
    Lon grinned. After that, it only took a little prodding to learn the old man’s name—Erastis—and a little more to get him to exchange a few copper zens to have his fortune told.
    â€œTake a pinch of incense and sprinkle it over the coals,” Lon explained, pocketing the man’s coins. “I’ll be able to see what’s in store for you in the smoke.”
    Obediently, Erastis did as he was told. The fire crackled and through the smoke, Lon began scrutinizing him, mentally noting the callus on the middle finger of his right hand, the ink stains and the stray hair on his embroidered sleeve, the curve of his back and shoulders, the purple shadows beneath his eyes, the shallow indentations on the bridge of his nose.
    But Erastis didn’t bat an eye when Lon explained that he wore glasses, that he rarely went out but was on an important errand, that he spent most of his time hunched over a table, inking fine details with a sable brush.
    The old man smiled, creasing his already wrinkled face. “Any con artist could tell me that. I heard
you
were special.”
    Lon balked. “From who?”
    â€œYou tell me.”
    Never one to back down from a challenge, Lon swept his hands through his dark hair, making it stand up at the ends. Inhaling deeply, he stared straight into Erastis’s hazel eyes. He felt his awareness begin to split in two as the bright colors and the clatter of traffic began to fade, replaced by his perception of the world that went beyond sight and sound and smell. Usually, all it took was some observation and a few leading comments, and his clients would practically tell him what they wanted to hear.