Spirit of Lost Angels Read Online Free

thrown up by the hooves of horses that came galloping over the hill, clouded our view. The coach appeared, and as it careened along the road towards us; towards my father, I could see its gilded decoration.
    ‘Get out of the way, Papa!’ Grégoire yelled, over and over.
    ‘No, Papa, no!’ I screamed.
    ‘ Mon Dieu, mon Dieu . Move, run!’ Monsieur Bruyère shouted.
    Papa must have been so weak and sick that he didn’t hear the hammering hooves behind him, or our frantic shouts before him. I don’t even think he realised we were there, so close to him.
    My eyes widened in horror as the coach drew closer to my father. We kept waving our arms and shouting. Surely there must be some way to stop it?
    My breath caught in my throat, strangling me so I could no longer breathe, as the horses ran down my father without even slowing.
    Monsieur Bruyère swerved the cart sideways to avoid the coach thundering past us. I gripped my brother’s arm as I caught the unmoving gaze of the noble, from inside.
    The cart came to a stop beside Papa’s bloodied, broken body. I was numb with shock, and the pain slicing through my breast — a thousand swords at once — was so great I was certain it would kill me. My quivering legs could no longer hold me, and I sank to the ground.
    ‘No! No!’ I clutched at my brother’s legs, dug my nails into his flesh, and beat my fists against his calves.
    ***
    Even before any of us spoke, I think Maman sensed something was very wrong.
    She said nothing though, as Monsieur Bruyère told her of the accident. Her face a milk-white mask, her green eyes wide and staring somewhere beyond, her fingers groped about her neck for her angel pendant. She rubbed the old bone between her thumb and forefinger.
    ‘Death came instantly, Madame Charpentier,’ Monsieur Bruyère said. ‘Emile did not suffer.’
    Still Maman did not flinch; the only movement was the angel pendant rising and falling with her shallow breaths. My mother’s tears came only when Grégoire told her the noble didn’t even stop; he hadn’t descended from his decorated carriage to check on the commoner he’d run down.
    My tears came too, burning my cheeks, and I wept long and hard for my father; for the fascinating stories he conjured up to entertain me — tales of werewolves, of flying snakes with boils for eyes, and of green men who looked frightening but were harmless. I sobbed for his stories from the far-off coast — of mermen who broke fishermen’s nets and of horned men who stole young girls, because there were no horned women. I cried for the touch of his tender hand, which seasons of carpentry and knife-grinding had roughened and calloused.
    ***
    ‘ Dieu n’existe plus !’ Maman cried, as we buried Papa beside Félicité and Félix.
    The villagers gasped in horror. How could their healing woman, their midwife — whose skilled hands saved the lives of mothers and babies — no longer believe in God?
    ‘I will never again enter the church!’ Maman said.
    ‘Maman shouldn’t say such things,’ Grégoire hissed at me. ‘She only ignites the fires of rumour as if she herself were holding the blazing flambeau.’
    ‘She’s shocked and sad,’ I said. ‘Maman does not mean what she says.’
    Grégoire and I too, were shocked and sad, and my anger at that murdering baron wouldn’t leave me, the pain like all of Maman’s sewing needles jabbing into me at once.
    ‘We’ll find the villain,’ Grégoire said, his dark eyes grim, his face pale with the rage. ‘And throw rocks at his head until he too leaks out all his blood.’
    ‘I’ll kill him myself,’ I said, feeling the first stirring inside me — a bitter hatred of every noble person.
     

4
     
    The following year Maman decided I was old enough to attend my first hanging.
    ‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to go; I cannot see such a terrible thing.’
    ‘Don’t be an idiot, hangings are fun.’ Grégoire said. ‘And there is always such a crowd.’
    Maman