“My daughter, Jeanne, also sailed to New France almost two years ago. Although she sent word through the nuns in Ville-Maria that she was fine, I do not hear from her. She does not know how to write.”
I tried wracking my brain, trying to recall if he slept on the couch that night. If not, he should have.
The rain had just stopped pouring on the twins as they arrived home. Anthony and Marcia were alike in almost every way and today, they were both miserable. Their first day back to school after winter break had not gone well and now they were both wet, cold and despondent.
Words hold power.
She turned back to the rock face and simultaneously let go of the rope with both hands, just like she had lost consciousness, flung herself backwards and (my favorite part) screamed like she was falling to her death.