Mistwalker

Начало книги

The hope was used up; all we had left was superstition.

That’s why Seth Archambault took my place on my father’s fishing boat. That’s why I stacked egg-salad sandwiches in a cooler instead of pulling on my oil clothes.

“Bad luck to have a woman or a pig onboard,” my father told me over dinner the night before. Mom didn’t blink; she knew it was coming.

“Which one am I?” I asked.

Dad didn’t answer. He drained his coffee, then drifted from the table. His weighted steps shook the floor as he jammed a baseball cap onto his greying head. Last summer, his hair gleamed copper, the same watery shade as mine.

Old-time navy tales said it was supposed to be bad luck to have redheads aboard too, but we Dixons had proved that wrong for years. Like a bunch of Down East Weasleys, we’d always been ginger. Even the black-and-white pictures in Gran’s albums showed generations of freckles on milky faces and waved hair too in-between to be blond or brunet.

Читать дальше →