Book 1 > The Sirens
My multicolor gypsy skirt swirls around me in a rainbow blur, tickling my ankles and jingling because of the bells sewn into the edge of the material. My bare toes grip the shag carpet of our living room floor as I twirl in circles, enjoying the cool created by the momentum of my heavy swinging hair that whispers against my cheeks and neck every time I complete a turn. Air rushes into my lungs. I start to sing, though my singing gives my father a terrible migraine.
“Alyse,” he calls in a strained voice. He waves at me to stop, but it’s my eighth birthday, and I deserve, for once, to do what I want. Don’t I?
My mother is seeing a customer out, so I’m safe, for the moment. The song makes my lungs full. I need to sing. I have to sing. I throw my head back as I sing, the room spinning me somewhere else, somewhere beautiful. I can’t even hear Stevie Nicks anymore over my own beautiful voice. I should sing more. Why won’t anyone ever let me?
A cold hand grips my arm and jerks me to a halt. My mother’s face twists as she screams at me before she shoves me to the carpet. I hit the floor with a thud and land face-to-face with my father. A tiny sliver of blood runs down the left side of his cheek. His eyes are rolled back in the funniest angle. “Stop that,” I demand of him.
