The Siren by Kiera Cass Read Free Book Online Page A

said one day out of the blue.
    “What yellow?” I asked. We were talking low. We could hear the movements of people above us and were trying to be extra careful. Gazing down on the street from our safe and empty apartment, the city was moving through some haphazard dance of errand running. The people who usually lived here must have been performers of some kind. There were tons of books and paints and musical instruments. It was the most interesting place we’d stumbled upon yet.
    “In the sky. See how the sun is breaking through those clouds? It’s making the most interesting shade of yellow.”
    “It’s really beautiful.” I smiled at her speaking so freely.
    “It’s more than that. Look, it’s bright and muted at the same time; it’s shining, but it doesn’t hurt your eyes. It’s a miracle that such a color should be.”
    I stared at her in awe. I had no idea that she thought this much or even had the words “miracle” or “muted” in her head. Soon after that, Miaka started to describe small things from her past life when she could remember it. She remembered her house very well, but then there wasn’t much of one to remember; it was minuscule. She used phrases like “the walls were weak with time” and “so brown it seemed the earth had given birth to it.” I was amazed. Once she chose to speak, she said the sweetest and loveliest things.
    It was divine that we ended up in France first. Miaka came to love art. Since she could not describe things with words, she did it through paintings. Her delicate hands worked fast. Not needing to rest, she would sit in front of a canvas for days straight. I would pass every once in a while and watch as blank papers would blossom with images. She had a gift resting in her and had never even known.
    It only took those first few years to get her to open up, and then I really started to see who she was. Miaka was polite and funny and warm. She was smart, without a doubt, and incredibly graceful. Each year I grew more and more appreciative that the Ocean had spared her. Not only was I thankful to have her company in particular, but I was happy that Miaka had a chance to become who she was now. None of her finer qualities would have been discovered in her tiny village as the lowest in her family.
    Together, we took in everything we could. We went to museums and art shows. I marveled at the statues and oil paintings. How could human hands create things so divine? What took Miaka days must have taken their slower bodies months. Miaka saw even more in them than I did and tried to write me notes about what she saw in the paintings, but her notes were in Japanese, and I couldn’t understand them. That meant that once we got home, I’d have to brace myself for her onslaught of words. She would not pause until every detail she’d enjoyed had been thrown out into the air. In that creativity, Miaka became satisfied.
    I was jealous that my desires were not so easily met.
    We also enjoyed an array of food. I didn’t know how many different kinds of cuisine there were. Using French translation books, we would go to cafes and point to phrases to ask for what we wanted. We were lucky that most of the waiters we came upon were so understanding. Cake was by far my favorite indulgence, but I loved the little tarts and pastries we discovered there, too. I vaguely remembered American food, and I had already experienced the spices and brightness of Spanish food. French food was savory and designed to be enjoyed slowly. So we took our time discovering it all.
    And when we couldn’t walk around anymore, we went to see movies— that was our favorite. Later we would gush and gush over actors and actresses and favorite scenes. By now movies had sound to go along with the action, and this made them so much more enjoyable than what I remembered of the movies in my old life. I couldn’t get enough of a good love story; it was my own personal escape. Always, afterwards, I’d live through