Who Is Frances Rain?

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Authors: Margaret Buffie
Tags: Children's Fiction
at rocks in the high bush country. Then back to her little castle and moat.
    Had she chosen to live her life the way she’d wanted, or had she been running away? I thought about Dad. Which one had he been doing?
    Here I go again, I thought. Questions and no answers. I can’t even answer why my own father left two years ago. How could I possibly find out why Frances Rain came here all those years ago?
    All I knew was that I’d live my life the way I wanted, too. And I wouldn’t leave anyone behind. Because I wouldn’t get married. I’d become a writer or artist. Definitely
not
an archaeologist. Feeling good about my mature decision, I watched the sun go down. Pink and orange edged clouds drifted above the cabin and lit the veranda with a warm glow. The low putt-putt of a small boat moved across my line of vision. Alex angled the boat towards shore. Tim lumbered onto the dock and held the boat while Erica scrambled out, batting mosquitoes with her hat. The three of them swatted bugs, talking and laughing. They stampeded up the path and crowded onto the steps trying to escape the vampire horde.
    â€œHey, Lizzie,” said Erica, “guess how many I caught? Six! Big ones.” She held her arms wide apart.
    The argued for a while about who caught the biggest.
    â€œWe’ll fight this out in the morning, little one,” said Tim. “Right now, your eyes are at half mast. Bed!”
    Erica was too tired to fight it. She mumbled something about a zillion pound pickerel and wandered sleepily out of the room. Tim sank into one of the big chairs. I expected Alex to make up some excuse to go home, but he sat down beside me. I was glad that it was dark enough to hide the stupid grin on my face. We settled back and looked out over the dusky lake. Bugs tapped and hummed against the screens.
    â€œDo either of you believe in ghosts?” Tim asked casually.
    â€œGhosts?” we repeated in unison. Only in my case, it kind of croaked out.
    â€œNot ghosts necessarily,” said Tim, “but something paraphysical or otherworldly, if you like.”
    Alex stared at him. “Why are you asking us? Planning on a good ghost story?”
    â€œNo. It’s just that ... well ... the funniest thing happened when we were out on the lake,” said Tim. “I’ve always been a bit ... what the Scots call ‘fey.’ My grandmother was a Scot and she knew when something was going to happen. I can’t do that, but I’ve been into a few houses where I felt ... something. A kind of pressure. Anxiety. And a few times, I’ve been told that the house was thought to be haunted.”
    â€œA pressure?” I gasped. “Like when someone pushes on you?”
    â€œA bit like that. But as soon as I leave, the feeling just goes, and I usually convince myself that I ate too many onions for dinner or drank too many beers. Speaking of beers.” He got up.
    â€œWait a minute,” I demanded. “You can’t just leave. What happened on the lake?”
    â€œYeah.” Alex leaned forward. “That’s dirty. Tell us.”
    Tim fell back on his chair and laughed. “Tell you so you can jeer at me and make fun, huh?”
    â€œNo,” I said. “Honest. Come on. Give.”
    â€œYou’ll be disappointed, kiddo.”
    â€œIf you don’t tell me, I’ll tell Mother that you’re dying to go back to the city tomorrow.”
    He guffawed. “Anything but that! Jeez! You’d make a good interrogator. Get ‘im where it hurts. Okay, what happened was this. We were just on our way back and we were passing that big island ... the one over there ... you can almost see it from here.”
    I felt my scalp prickle.
    â€œWe putted around it, trying for that one last bite, eh, Alex? Well, that’s when I felt that pressure I was telling you about. And when I looked over at the island, I thought I saw someone standing on

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