Read An Owl's Whisper for Free Online

Sister Arnaude to reconnoiter the outside world. In thirty minutes or so she returned and briefed Mother privately. As they conferred, the vault vibrated with girls’ whispers.
    Mother cleared her throat to restore order and spoke in a loud voice that echoed through the chamber. “My flowers, Sister Arnaude has investigated the situation outside. Things seem quite peaceful there, at least for the moment. It is mid-morning. We can now go up to God’s good sunshine and air, but I want you all to stay together in your classrooms. You may read while luncheon is prepared. We hope to hear more news from wireless broadcasts and from Father Celion. When I learn anything, I will inform you.”
    The girls were giddy with excitement at the twin prospects of leaving the dank vault and learning what parts if any of their wild speculations and whispered rumors were true. For Eva there was also the prospect of celebrating her seventeenth birthday, that Friday, May 10, 1940.

     
     
    Be the Leaf
    In the older girls’ classroom that afternoon, ancient Sister Eusebia got the students seated and ambled off to settle the younger ones next door. The moment she left, Camille ran to the window, the ribbons on her brunette braids dancing behind her like butterflies. Pointing outside, she shrieked, “There in the orchard! Soldiers on black horses…I think.” Like apples tumbling into a bin, wide-eyed girls scrambled to the window. But they found the orchard tranquil. Other such sightings followed, and in every case, the alarms proved false. The remains of the downed aircraft, its burned hulk and the black-smudged pasture around it, would have fanned the fires of excitement, but they were hidden from view by the old stables and Eva told no one what she’d seen. So quiet, accompanied by disappointment, began to blanket simmering fear. It was in that broth that eight St. Sébastien girls, including Eva and Françoise, clustered together.
    Isabelle from Namur was nicknamed Soleil —Sunshine. Pushing her fingers through her auburn hair, she said, “Call me selfish, but I say tough luck if the muddy boots of war tromp someone’s toes. My heart’s racing, and I like it!”
    “Call you selfish, Soleil ?” said Clarisse LaCroix. “I’d call you easily amused. What have we found? A few crumbs of excitement. Well, it leaves me wanting. Wanting the whole cake.”
    Camille fingered her braids. “How’s this for cake, Clarisse? Down in the vault, I dozed off and dreamed of armies moving on the hillsides like swarms of insects. It was tingling terror, seeing those swarms seethe in battle! Then, merde , I woke up.”
    Clarisse slipped a hand under Camille’s sweater and ran wiggling fingers up her back, squealing, “Here’s your tingling terror, Cami!”
    Camille shrieked, but soon she was laughing with the others.
    Simone Jaffre had a voice so tiny her nickname was Trout. “I’d dream of a handsome boy, no matter his side, brought in badly wounded. Imagine cleaning his wounds! Comforting him. Nursing him over many months.” She hugged herself.
    “Hey, Troutsie,” jeered Clarisse, “don’t forget to imagine his torrid tongue flicking your ear and his frantic fingers dashing up your linens.”
    “Clarisse!” Simone whined.
    Isabelle from Paris huffed, “LaCroix, you’re the only one slut enough to think that.”
    Clarisse studied her nails. “I doubt it.” She blew Isabelle a kiss and strolled off.
    Laetitia took Simone’s arm in hers. “Well I like your dream. My soldier’s a cavalry officer on a white charger. He’s got curly, black hair and a strong mouth. As I nurse him back to health, we fall in love and ride off on his steed, eloping to the Riviera.”
    Isabelle said, “For me, his name is Laurent. We too fall madly in love, then have an exquisite, tearful goodbye when he’s sent back to the front.”
    Camille giggled. “We’ll have Puccini write you a farewell duet, and I can just see the last scene: Laurent dies at