Free The Siren's Tale by Anne Carlisle Page A

better.”
    The native grapevine buzzed with that story, and not a few had a laugh at his expense.  E veryone knew Vye's granddaughter was a standoffish snob, that the outsider's beauty and consummate musical skill were not the virtues valued in a native woman; those were community spirit, self sacrifice, and fervent religious piety. Others assumed the story about a Salem witch in the Captain's family was a tall tale meant to compete with their stories in Halloween ghoulishness.
    However, those who took the tale at face value buzzed the loudest and the longest.  Thenceforth, these natives believed the name of Vye was associated with witchcraft.
    At sundown, young and old alike were fighting for turns in the bathtub. The soaking was followed by the braiding or slicking of hair, and then began the arduous process of layering on clothing that would both hold up against the chilly night air and also fit the occasion. A gaily-colored ribbon was added to a bonnet, or a fringed leather jacket was put on over breeches and homespun cotton shirts. Young children donned skeleton masks and ghoulish capes, and small boys smeared soot on their faces, brandishing wooden swords, pitchforks, and broomsticks as they went out the door for a night of fearsome revelry.
    The older settlers looked forward to a full night of gossip. The weather was sure to be a major topic of conversation, but the choicest of all morsels to chew over would be the secret wedding—nothing more savory!
    Wor d had gotten out that the long delayed union between the innkeeper and the widow's niece had taken place that morning in Corinthus, the furthest north of the three villages that were strung like beads along the high neckline of tall, brooding Alta Mountain.
    It was a stunning report. Six months before, Widow Brighton had stood up in church and forbidden the banns on the grounds Drake was not a practicing Christian. Since then, Curly Drake had been the butt of the native sons' jokes.
    One credible source of the rumor was Rita Simmons, dressmaker and best friend of the shy bride, Clare Brighton. Rita was expected to marry handsome Jason Harrison, the merchandiser's son, when she turned seventeen. She claimed to have fixed Miss Brighton's blonde hair into a single braid in advance of the elopement. The rumor was traveling through Alta at the speed of light.
    Much slower was the progress of a sheep wagon along the winding white road that ran along the furthest part of Hatter’s Field, which was fairly deserted. Indeed, the only wayfarers on it were a young cart-driver and, just ahead, a much older man on foot.
    Caleb Scattergood drove his two shaggy ponies with the large cart trundling behind. As the dust from the road got into his teeth, he would spit occasionally, which appeared a useless exercise, as he was covered from head to foot in coal dust. Then he would get down and peer into the cart, with a solemn expression on his face.
    The two men traveling in the same direction soon met up, exchanged a few words, and went on their separate ways. 
    Showing more agility than most his age , the older man sprinted up the last incline to his home, a stone structure beside the small, banked pond at Mill’s Creek. There Captain Marcus Vye spotted his granddaughter. She was pacing, her red-gold curls flying freely in the wind. Why wasn't Cassandra out with young people from the village? Shaking his head, he strode through the door, which banged shut behind him.
    When Cassandra came in, the Captain told her about meeting a coal miner on the road and hearing some surprising news . “Contrary to public opinion, young Scattergood told me the wedding that was to have taken place in Corinthus 'may not have been.' Those were his exact words: 'the wedding, sir, may not have been.'“
    Cassandra was attentive while her grandfather was speaking. She turned aside so he would not see her smile of pure triumph.
    He added, “Even if the innkeeper ain't married tonight, he is taken. You