Free How It Happened in Peach Hill by Marthe Jocelyn Page A

Horehound, has gone to be trained for the wars. The next brother, Matts, is gone to a monastery. I reached the age of fourteen and could not be married easily as I am homely and tall. I angered my father in many ways. I was sent away from my home, nine days’ journey with a mule, to join the convent at Craighn, the order of Saint Lucy, patroness of blind people and writers.…
    Mrs. Torn began to read aloud over my shoulder, which made me falter for a moment, but I quickly resumed my masterpiece. She caught up to me and then had to wait for every word.
    Although it is not usual for a damsel to be a scholar, the sisters recognized my gift and permitted me to read the Holy Book and to compose odes of a dramatic nature. Until my father, Arne the Vast, had occasion to visit the convent. He was displeased with my occupation and this led to my grim death
.
    Mrs. Torn stopped reading. “Oh! Poor thing!”
    I kept writing.
    Now I wander the heavens seeking outlet for my verses, until today, when I am joyous to enter my spirit into the willing vessel of young Annie, newly healed and an open soul
.
    I stopped. Mrs. Torn stopped. The candle flames quivered. I threw my head back and then forward, steeling myself for the thwack of pain as my forehead smacked the walnut tabletop.
    Miss Weather sighed. Mr. Poole stood up and came around the table to pat my shoulder.
    “Ooh, I was hoping we’d hear how she died,” said Mrs. Torn.
    Mama went into her crooning song while I shivered and twitched, my hand still gripping the pencil and outstretched across the page. The customers, normally afraid to move for some time at the end of a calling, clustered around me where I sat, my head still pressed to the polished wood.
    My mother spoke in her own voice.
    “What has happened here? Annie? Is Annie all right? Peg?” She flung open the door. “Peg? Come here at once! Bring a damp cloth!”
    I shuddered once more and sat up, rubbing the bump on my forehead.
    “Oh, thank goodness!” breathed Mrs. Torn.
    “Caterina.” Mr. Poole followed Mama to the hallway. “Your daughter is awake.”
    Peg scurried in. I was blotted with a dripping tea towel, and the customers clucked with relief. Only Mrs. Newman hadn’t prodded me or expressed concern for me. From the corner of my eye, I saw her retrieve the accounting book holding the pages dictated by Gwendalen.
    Peg bundled the ladies into their jackets. Mr. Poole put a hand on Mama’s arm. “Thank you, my dear. That was extraordinary.” He handed her an envelope, which she tucked neatly away. “Was it everything you hoped for, Sylvia?”
    Mrs. Torn clasped her hands. “Oh, Madame! I have dreamt of Buddy every night for five years, and he never spoke to me so nice as he did tonight. Thank you with all my heart!” She followed her friend outside.
    Mr. Poole leaned in closer to Mama. “I have a proposition to make, my dear. I would very much like to offer my services as a manager for your talents, and those that your daughter is now displaying. May I take you out for dinner very soon to discuss the possibilities?”
    Mama smiled at him, tossing her hair ever so slightly. “Gregory, you’ve made two tempting offers!”
    Manager? We didn’t need a manager!
    He kissed her hand and bowed his way out the door. She turned her attention to the remaining guest.
    “Thank you for joining us this evening, Mrs. Newman.” Mama swept her arm wide as she held the door open.
    “It was …” Mrs. Newman paused, her notebook held against her chest under folded arms. “It was eventful,” she said. “And most gratifying to know that young Annie has quickly mastered her letters so well. I feel confident that she could succeed, even in the tenth grade. Let’s see how that works, when she comes back to school in the morning.”
    With those words of doom, she whisked herself off into the night.

11
In ancient Egypt, when a cat
in a private house died
a natural death,
all the residents shaved
their