Free The Voyage of Lucy P. Simmons by Barbara Mariconda

followed with a vow to do whatever I had to do, hoping, believing, that Mother and Father would understand.

10
    T he very next day I stood before my bedroom window, staring toward the shore. I’d already spent some time playing Father’s flute. The notes of the chantey were now confidently beneath my fingers, the tone pure and clear. There were times, however, when the instrument seemed to play of its own accord, ornamenting and embellishing the simple tunes I was capable of—or perhaps it was my imagination working overtime, bored as I was as a prisoner in my own house. I laid my precious flute down on the windowsill and gazed longingly outside.
    There had to be a way to earn Uncle Victor’s confidence, or at least a way to convince him to allow me out of doors. I ran down a list of tedious outdoor chores that might sound virtuous to him—weeding the garden, picking rose hips out along the shore. I even thought of suggesting clamming, for I knew he loved to slurp raw clams from the half shell. The problem with that notion was that I hadn’t the faintest idea of how to collect clams—I knew it involved digging in the mud, but beyond that, I hadn’t a clue.
    While muddling through these schemes, I caught a glimpse of a most amazing sight down on the bumpy old shore road—a wide dirt path, really, that was the only link between our small peninsula and the village. A squarish wagon, drawn by a swaybacked old brown horse, made its way lazily along, raising a cloud of dust beneath its large spoked wheels. The wagon itself was painted black, the letters RFD emblazoned on the side in fancy red-and-gold script.
    My heart thumped wildly. I had heard Father speak of his efforts to bring the mail wagon—the Rural Free Delivery—to our home and to the other remote homes along the shore, for up until that time, receiving mail required a trip into the village to the postal office. The carefully constructedwooden mailbox Father made had stood at the edge of our property along the shore road for perhaps a year awaiting the promised Rural Free Delivery. But the mail wagon had never come—at least not until now. At this very moment, I surmised, the postman might be carrying a letter from Aunt Prudence—a letter he would place in our mailbox! There was a small red-hinged flag on the side of the box that remained inconspicuously tucked in place. But when the postman placed mail in the box, he would lift the flag—a signal that mail had arrived. And I further surmised that Uncle Victor would notice that flag in an instant and be upon the box, the letter, and the key to my freedom in the blink of an eye. I had to get to the box before he noticed—I had to!
    My first thought was to tiptoe down the staircase and out the front door. But there was no way to know whether Uncle Victor was sitting in the front parlor, in view of the door; in the library, which was set off to the side; or even on the front porch. I would just have to take a chance.
    As I stepped toward my bedroom door, a curious dizzy feeling came over me. The door seemed to spin before my eyes, and to my great dismay, despite all of my pulling and yanking, the door would not budge! The glass knob slipped inmy sweaty palms, and the door seemed to actually swell up stubbornly in its frame. I furiously twisted, jiggled, and tugged at the crystal knob, but the door remained resolutely shut.
    A faint tinkling noise over near the window interrupted my efforts. I turned to face the sound and found another of those swirling, glittering clouds floating about my bedroom window. I stood staring as the mist seeped between the window and the ledge, and watched the window slide effortlessly open. Father’s flute slowly floated on the mist and began to play, coaxing me, calling me, as though played by an invisible Pied Piper.
    Mesmerized, I stepped forward. The flute dipped and bobbed in encouragement, the tune increasing in tempo. The