Pride of the King, The Read Online Free Page A

plantation of yesterday. Lauren's childhood home had deteriorated into a pathetic relic of the past. She squeezed her eyes shut. She did not want to be reminded that her father had gambled away their home and died of that unspeakable disease. Why did she have to revisit this place?
    Lauren turned and staggered toward the river trying to remember something other than pain and loneliness. The rushing current of the Mississippi seemed to wash the bad memories away, and she recalled a scene, a small glimpse of her past. It was a warm Sunday morning, and she was standing by the river with her father, listening to church bells. Her hand felt so small in his hand. She remembered the sound of house slaves preparing breakfast as river traffic drifted by lazily. She could smell the sweet potatoes and fresh bread. The sun felt warm on her skin, and Lauren remembered feeling safe and protected. Knitting her brows, she struggled to remember her father. There had been no relatives to keep memories alive, so all Lauren could recall was his shadow.
    The wind began to move the trees again. Lauren pushed the wet, tangled locks from her face and looked up at the sky. Odd-looking clouds streaked across the sky once more. She knew that she must find shelter again quickly. Reluctantly, she looked at the house. It was her only refuge.
    Lauren climbed the crumbling stairs to the front door. Pain stabbed her in the chest when she tried to take a deep breath. Hanging onto the walls and door frames, she passed from the faded foyer directly into the sitting room. A squirrel ran up the smoke-stained chimney scolding and chattering. The house had been abandoned for years. The oak floors were stained from a leaking roof, and the rare glass windows were broken. Pieces of furniture littered every room. It appeared as if transients had smashed chairs for kindling, and the drapes had been used for bedding.
    Lauren pulled herself over to a large oak table and leaned heavily onto its dusty surface. She remembered playing under this table with Simone. A heavy damask cloth had covered the piece long ago. It was long gone. It had been their fort, and they spent hours there in make-believe adventures. Lauren longed for Simone by her side. She said a prayer for her safety and reassured herself that the stone convent was practically indestructible during a storm.
    Suddenly, a memory surfaced. Lauren was five years old again and hiding under that heavy oak table. The De Beauville plantation was crowded with people, and she remembered being relieved to be under the table and out of their reach. She had endured hours of endless hugs and wet teary kisses. She remembered watching the black skirts of the ladies sweep elegantly past the table, and the men shuffled by in highly polished boots. Her stomach churned at the memory of the heavy perfume of the flowers and the sweet smell of the cakes coated in marzipan.
    She hid a long time under the table until the last voice died away that day. The room was quiet and Lauren knew that she was alone in the room with her father‘s corpse. Her solemn father, stretched out soberly in a box, his white hands folded over his chest like a wax mannequin melting in the candlelight. Suddenly, someone reached under the table and grasped little Lauren by the arm. She screamed in terror.
       "Be still!" scolded the nun, wrapping her arms around Lauren. “Everything will be alright. I am taking you and your sister to live with us at the convent."
    The nun wiped her tears and smoothed her hair. Lauren looked at the corpse of her father. He was ready for his journey, and she was ready for hers.
       Swallowing hard, Lauren came back to the present. She looked around the deteriorated sitting room. She took a step, and suddenly the chamber started to whirl. It seemed as if the floor came up and hit her in the face. Lauren crumbled down onto the moldy planking, completely helpless with her head spinning and her stomach churning. She was too weak