The Tale of Halcyon Crane by Wendy Webb Read Free Book Online Page A

cold.”
    It took a moment for her words to take root in my mind. She was right, of course, it must’ve been a dream. Now it was my turn to apologize. “I feel like such an idiot, waking you up in the middle of the night and running outside like a crazy woman.”
    She smiled. “Don’t sweat it. There’s something about this island that does things to people. I should’ve mentioned it to you earlier. I think it’s the combination of the horse-and-carriage thing and the rhythm of the lake itself, but people’s imaginations get thrown into high gear when they’re here. We get a lot of writers and artists who come specifically for inspiration.
    “And it’s not only that,” she went on, leading me up the steps. “You may very well have seen a ghost.”
    I stopped. “You’re kidding, right?”
    “Oh, not at all.” She winked at me. “I lead ghost tours around this island for visitors during high season. There isdefinitely something here, Hallie. The old-timers say it has something to do with ancient legends about the island being a sort of gateway to the spirit world. This place is chock-full of ghosts. I’m not surprised you picked up on it.”
    Back in my room, I noticed the first hint of light appearing in the eastern sky. Early as it was, I turned on the shower and stood under the hot water for a long time, trying to wash the image of that drowning person out of my mind.
    After drying off, I figured I might as well dress for the day. What to wear for my meeting with a lawyer? A pair of comfortable jeans and a cotton sweater? Combined with a tweed jacket, it would have to do. I got the impression most people didn’t dress formally here, anyway. I hunted in my suitcase for my hair dryer and found that the steam from the shower was still hanging in the air, like fog. It made me think of that foggy day back home, when this all began. As I ran a brush through my hair, the reflection in the bathroom mirror made me catch my breath: A hand print was on the outside of the steamy glass shower door. It was clear as daylight.
    I felt exactly the same way I felt that day in the fog; fear was seeping up off the floor into my body. Did I make that hand print as I got out of the shower? Or had someone been in that steamy bathroom, standing there, watching me? I fervently hoped it was the former, but really, how often do you make a full hand print on the shower door?
    I checked the bedroom. In all the excitement, I must’ve forgotten to flip the dead bolt when I came back to my room. Somebody could’ve come in here and lurked outside my shower. But who, Mira? Nobody else—that I knew of—was in the house.

· 6
     
    I hitched a ride into town with Mira in her carriage behind two enormous Clydesdales. It was too early for my meeting, but I figured it was wise, here on the island, to take advantage of the opportunity for a ride whenever it presented itself. A chill wind wrapped around us from off the lake, and dark clouds hung low and threatening in the sky. I buttoned up my jacket and was thankful for my warm sweater.
    Mira dropped me at the coffee shop on Main Street, Jonah’s, armed with directions to William Archer’s office. “See you later!” she called over her shoulder, as she clopped away. “Good luck with your meeting!” I looked at my watch and found I had just over an hour to kill.
    I pushed open the door of the coffee shop and saw a group of people, all of them about my dad’s age, sitting at a table by the window: a woman in a red fleece vest and jeans, a couple of men in flannel shirts, another woman in a fisherman’s-knit sweater. Locals, obviously.
    I heard their laughter and chatter as I came in, but all conversation stopped when I entered the room. Those peoplesilenced themselves mid-laugh, mid-story, mid-sip, and every head turned in my direction. Had they been looking at me with curiosity and friendliness, it would have been one thing. But this—I felt as if I had just stumbled into a