The old house held many secrets.
They’d discovered hundreds, many of them lost again nearly as soon as they were found.
Scar and Sissy, always together, always looking. Pricilla Rosalyn, or Sissy Rose, to her friends.
Scar, or Scarlette to only her.
“Why do you have a girl’s name?” she’d asked him once as they sat in the rafters of the house, each on their own, their legs swinging in empty space.
“It’s not a girl’s name,” he’d said defensively, shifting his position to a lazy sprawl on the wide beam. “It’s my name.” Continue reading