Penguin Teen On Tour: Spring 2015

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The lions were napping on the runway again.I held up a hand against the blazing African sun and

stared at the small silver plane that was just minutes away from touching down. I’d have to move the pride before it landed.

“Theo!” I called. The Bushman was sitting on the hood of the Land Cruiser, and when he looked my way, I pointed at the three lionesses and two cubs sunning themselves on the hard-packed sand. Laughing, he leaned backward and honked the horn of the truck, his way of saying we’d have to chase them off. I nodded and ran back to the Cruiser, tossing my folder of papers in the backseat.

In a moment, I had the engine roaring and we were off, rattling down the runway toward the sleeping lions. They yawned and chuffed at me in a lazy attempt to scare me off, but I bore down on them. I recognized the pride; the lion-esses were sisters, used to us rambling around the bush. They barely opened their eyes as the truck trundled up to them.

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I stopped the Cruiser, leaving the engine running, and climbed onto the hood. From there, I shouted and waved my arms, to the amusement of the cubs, who rolled and yowled and stretched. At last, their mothers lifted themselves up huff-ily and ambled off the runway. They were soon lost in the waving golden grass, their tawny coats blending into the dry savanna. Just the black tips of their tails showed, flickering slyly above the foliage, and then those too vanished.

I drove the truck back to the other end of the runway and parked it, then grabbed my folder out of the backseat. The plane was dropping lower in the sky, lining up with the runway.

Theo glanced at me sidelong. He was part Bushman, with the lovely golden skin characteristic of his nomadic ances-tors, and though he was older than my father, he was no taller than I was. He had found a praying mantis somewhere, and the insect was crawling over his hands, from one to the other. As soon as it crawled onto one hand, he lifted the other and placed it in front, so that the mantis was continually crawling forward but getting nowhere. Theo could charm any creature that walked, crawled, flew, or slithered.

“You look like you got a toothache, girl,” he said.“Two weeks,” I murmured, my eyes still on the plane.

“What are we going to do with five teenagers from the city for two weeks?”

“You’re a teenager.” He grinned, taking far too much delight in my dismay. “I am sure you will have a grand time.”

“Yeah. A grand old time.” I sank lower in my seat and flipped open the folder, riffling through the documents inside. “I went to school for three months in the States once, did you


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know that? The kids in my class called me Mowgli and threw bananas at me during lunch.”

“What is the problem? At the end of the day, it was you who ended up with all the bananas.” Theo turned in his seat, and though he was still smiling, his dark eyes were serious. “Tu!um-sa, it will be good for you. You cannot live your whole life with only animals for friends.”

“I can try.” I sighed and shut the folder. “Here they come.”The plane touched down in a cloud of dust, its silver sides

reflecting golden grass and blue sky. It taxied down the short length and then turned, the propeller whipping up a whirl-wind of sand. Theo and I got out of the truck and walked toward the plane, and I held my scarf over my mouth and nose to keep from breathing in the dust.

After the engine died and the propeller wound down, the pilot ran around the front of the plane and opened the passen-ger door. I drew a deep breath and put on what I hoped looked like a welcoming smile.

“And here we go,” I muttered through my teeth.An Asian boy with a bright red baseball cap cocked side-

ways over his long, shaggy hair tumbled out of the plane. The pilot, a young Frenchman named Matthieu, was standing at the door and tried to help him out, but the kid ignored him and fell to the ground, where he promptly puked onto the hard-packed sand.

I winced and consulted the papers I was carrying, quickly putting a name to our first guest’s greenish face: Joey Xiong. From California. Seventeen years old, Hmong American. Listed Sasquatch as his favorite animal. I hoped his sickness was due to the plane ride and not a sign of something worse.



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The last thing we needed was flu or malaria in our camp. The nearest hospital was an hour’s flight away.

Next out was a tall, graceful girl with springy dark hair. She paused in the doorway, half bent over, and stared at the spot where Joey had deposited his breakfast. For a moment it seemed as if she would turn around and go back inside the plane, but Matthieu offered a hand and she gingerly stepped down, her expression a mask of disgust. While Joey lurched to his feet, she pointedly stood a few steps away from him and stared in the other direction. Avani Sharma, her profile paper read. Canadian, of Indian and Kenyan heritage. 4.0 GPA. The list of her academic achievements, recorded there for no apparent reason, was long enough to put some college profes-sors to shame.

I let out a little breath, trying to force my thoughts to stay positive, as the next two guests exited the plane: a boy and a girl so entangled with each other that it was hard to see where one ended and the other began. They were both dark haired and pale skinned. They had on khaki from head to toe, but they wore it as if they’d just arrived for a Burberry photo shoot—his shirt was partially unbuttoned, her beige scarf was arranged in a complex knot, and they were both sporting manicured, immaculate hairstyles. There was no denying they were both drop-dead gorgeous and deeply obsessed with each other.

They could only be Miranda Kirk and Kase Rider of Boston, Massachusetts. They had come together and they were both seventeen. Other than that, the profiles they had filled out were scant on information. The space asking why they were here at all—Please state what you hope to gain from this experience—was blank on Miranda’s, while Kase’s form


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said only wildlife photography portfolio.They jumped to the ground without taking their arms

from around each other, then stood between Avani and Joey, whispering in each other’s ears and regarding the surrounding wilderness with suspicious looks.

Last out of the plane was a boy who must have been, by process of elimination, Sam Quartermain, our final guest: shaggy dark blond hair, a plain white tee tucked messily into his jeans, carrying a tattered Adidas duffel bag. The moment his shoes hit the ground, his head was up and his eyes were wide, scanning the trees around us and finally settling on me.

“Hey!” he called out, the first of them to even acknowl-edge my presence. “Sarah, right? I’m Sam!”

“Hi, Sam.”“Mind if I take a picture?” said Kase, pulling out a camera

roughly the size of a lawn mower engine.“Um, no?”“Sweet.” He held up his camera and the shutter clicked.

Then Kase cursed and fiddled with the dials. “Crap. Settings are all screwed up.”

Miranda shielded her eyes from the sun as she whipped out her phone, her fingers a blur as they navigated the touch screen. “Ugh! No service? Are you kidding me?”

I suppressed a sigh and nodded to Matthieu. “Salut, Matt. Bon vol?”

He grunted and began unloading the boxes of food and necessities I’d ordered from our supplier in Maun. “Je ne t’envie pas vraiment dans cette situation. C’est aussi amus-ant qu’un panier de serpents.” I don’t envy you with this lot. They’re about as much fun as a box of snakes.



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Easy for him to say. I was the sort of person who, upon arriving at someone’s house on a social visit, ended up making friends with his or her canary instead. I’d take a box of snakes over these five any day. But as Dad was fond of saying, “We must soldier on, eh?”

“Hello, everyone,” I said, clearing my throat. They’re just people. Get it together. “Um, I’m Sarah Carmichael and this is Theo. Welcome to the Kalahari.”

Beside me, Theo flashed his brightest smile and said, “Hello, hello,” in his soft accent. I was glad I’d brought him along to meet the plane, because he immediately began put-ting everyone at ease, shaking hands, taking Miranda’s and Avani’s bags and pretending they were too heavy for him. Avani smiled a little, but Miranda rolled her eyes. Only Sam and Joey laughed, and Theo gave them a grin and a shrug as if to say, Girls, eh?

“Climb aboard,” I said, waving at the battered green Land Cruiser. “It’ll be a tight fit. You’ll have to hold your bags. We’re about a ten-minute drive from the camp.”

As the group climbed into the Cruiser, I made a quick check of the supplies Matthieu had brought and then left Theo to stand guard over them until I returned with the car to load them up.

The Cruiser choked to life as I turned the key, and the whole thing began vibrating like it was about to fall apart. I heard a little shriek from behind me but couldn’t tell who it was.

“This is Hank,” I shouted over the engine, slapping the dash. “He sounds like a trash compactor, but he’s the only thing that’ll get through this terrain.”


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I turned the Cruiser around and rumbled down the track to the camp. The sides were all open and the canvas roof was rolled back, allowing the passengers a 360-degree view of the Kalahari semidesert.

A dry wind blasted my face, pulling my hair out of its messy braid and nearly sucking the wide-brimmed sun hat off my head. All around us, the graceful acacias and stocky Terminalia swayed and rustled, and a lone chanting goshawk cut the air above, hunting for mice in the tall golden grass. Behind us, Matthieu’s plane grunted to life, and moments later I saw him climbing into the sky ahead of us, destined for Maun and his next group of tourists to ferry through the cloudless Botswana sky.

When I looked down again, I realized there was a face hovering beside mine and I jumped, gripping the wheel harder and biting back a curse. It was the one named Joey. His baseball cap was now backward, and a sprig of his black hair sprouted over the Velcro strap.

“I’m Joey,” he said. “Nice wheels. Very rugged. I like a girl who can drive manual. And on the wrong side of the car too.”

In response, I kicked the Cruiser into third gear and gave him a tight smile.

I desperately wished we didn’t have to do this, but my dad’s conservation research needed all the funding it could get, and in return for babysitting four American (and one Canadian) students on a conservation exchange program, we’d receive a research grant from the Song Foundation. We might even be able to buy another vehicle, which we sorely needed. It wasn’t a good idea to be this far out into the Kalahari bush with only one form of transportation readily available, not with the way



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the terrain around here destroys cars. We’d had a second car, until Mom’s accident.

I turned to Joey and smiled a bit wider. “Have a good flight over?”

“Ugh! Dude, did you see me hurl?” He laughed and elbowed Sam. “You totally shouldn’t have let me eat all those sausages in the airport, man.”

“You guys know each other?” I asked.“Nah, met on the plane from JFK. Totally bonded

though. We did a Die Hard marathon on the flight over, but my man Sam here conked out halfway through number three. Yippee-ki-yay!”

Joey’s chatter continued, most of it blasted away by the wind, but I nodded and pretended to listen as I navigated the Cruiser through the treacherous sand. There’s not a single stone to be found in the Kalahari, just endless deep sand, white in the north and fading to red in the south, the nemesis of every vehicle that attempts to cross it. I’d lost count of how many times Dad, Theo, and I had had to dig this thing out. It was the reason why I had “muscles like a rugby fullback,” according to my dad. He’s from New Zealand, and in his view, everything on the planet can be analogized to rugby.

We startled a pair of tall gray kudu, and they froze in front of the car, their huge dark eyes fixed on the great gray-green monster that had interrupted their grazing. At once, everyone behind me was leaning forward, and I stopped to let them get a better look. Kase’s zoom lens extended over Joey’s shoulder as he snapped a ream of photos. Avani suddenly spoke up, identifying the “two young female kudu, called cows, scien-tific name Tragelaphus strepsiceros” and rattling off a stream


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of kudu-related information as deftly as any safari guide.As the car approached them, the kudu leaped into fluid

motion, disappearing into the brush in three steps. They weren’t called the “gray ghosts of the bush” for nothing; despite their size—they stood as tall as horses—they could vanish in moments into the dry vegetation.

The group let out a collective sigh and then they all fell silent, now on high alert for more animal activity, but we reached the camp without seeing anything more exciting than a few sparrows and fork-tailed drongos.

My dad was waiting. He stood with a warm smile and an armful of bottled water, outfitted in his usual khaki gear, rug-ged and faded like a worn photograph that’s been handled too many times. He looked older than he was, tanned and leath-ery from spending all his time underneath the suns of a dozen wildernesses, from the Burmese jungles to the Australian outback and now the Kalahari savanna, charting migratory patterns and documenting the myriad ways humans were destroying the natural world. His long graying hair was tied in a ponytail at the back of his head, though a few wispy strands had escaped.

As soon as our guests’ feet touched the ground, my dad introduced himself, his strong Kiwi accent booming across the grass. “Welcome to our little corner of the Kalahari, boys and girls! My name’s Ty Carmichael, and I’m the head researcher here at Camp Acacia.”

You’re the only researcher here, I thought, shaking my head a little.

“Camp Acacia” wasn’t much of a camp. There was my tent, Dad and Theo’s shared one, and then there were the



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two new ones we’d put up that morning to accommodate the guests—one for boys, one for girls. The tents were large enough. You could stand up straight if you were right in the middle of them, and they kept out rain (for the most part), if not bugs and the occasional snake or wildcat. There was a fire pit in the middle of the camp, surrounded by logs for seating, and a portable shower was set up in the trees nearby. It was about as crude a camp as you could ask for, but it had been my home for the past five years, more or less, and resembled every other camp I’d lived in as my family moved from one remote location to the next.

“Where’s the lodge?” asked Miranda.Silence fell. We all stared at her. She took off her de s-

igner sunglasses and gave my dad a bewildered look through mascara-laced eyelashes, then turned to her boyfriend.

“Uh . . . Mir . . .” coughed Kase, looking a bit pale.“You said there would be a lodge,” she replied to him,

quite loudly. “You distinctly promised there would be a lodge! The only reason I agreed to come on this—”

“Miranda, listen, I might not have mentioned . . .” Kase reached for her hand.

She slipped her shades back on and folded her arms, resisting his touch.

“Baby, don’t—” Kase kept whispering apologies.“I’m sorry if there’s been a misunderstanding, mates,”

my dad interjected, looking only slightly rattled as he started handing out the waters, “but you’ll soon see that staying in a tent brings you closer to nature than any lodge could. Now, girls will be there in the blue tent, and fellas, you’ll be there in the green. There’s an outdoor shower behind that


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tree—don’t worry, we’ll put up a privacy screen. We’re close to an old borehole, luckily, so there’s no end to freshwater.” He kept casting anxious looks at Miranda, who glared back at him as if being “closer to nature” was synonymous with “closer to hell.”

Dad’s description of camp life and its scant luxuries con-tinued as I fired up Hank for the return trip to the runway. By the time Theo and I had loaded all the supplies and arrived back at camp, the girls had disappeared into their tent and the guys were beating around in the bushes, Kase busy photo-graphing every leaf and spider within a hundred-foot radius with his massive camera. Dad met us and started unloading boxes before I’d even properly parked.

“God help us,” he said in a low voice as I helped him carry a cooler of meat into my tent, where we kept most of the provisions. Above us, the shadows of the trees danced over the beige canvas, like the reflection of rippling water. “What did we agree to, Sarah? Why are we doing this?”

“Just keep smiling and think of all the fancy equipment you can buy with that grant money.”

Dad groaned. “Your mother would have known what to do with them.”

The blood drained from my face. For a moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. In an instant, frost crackled over my heart. It had been four months, and still the simple mention of her crushed me.

Dad’s hand went to my cheek, the warmth in his rough palm shattering the ice inside me.

“Chin up, love,” he said softly, and he kissed my forehead. “We must soldier on, eh?”



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I couldn’t talk about her, not even in passing. Every time her name rose in my throat, I choked on it and fell apart. Dad knew that, and so he didn’t press me but held me to his chest for a moment while I pulled myself together. His rough cargo shirt smelled like all the things familiar to me: gasoline, camp-fire smoke, the lavender-scented laundry soap I used when I washed our clothes under the pump. I used that scent and his quiet strength to steady myself.

“All right, then?” he asked, stroking my hair, and I nod-ded. “Good girl. Because I don’t think I can manage this lot without my Sissy Hati.”

Oh, now he was really fishing for a smile, pulling out that old name. When I was three, I’d thought the Bengali term for a baby elephant was Sissy Hati. Close, but not quite the right words. The village we were living in had turned the mispro-nunciation into a pet name for the little white girl who ran wild through the jungle with their own children, stripped to the waist and without a care in the world.

Another kiss on the top of my head and Dad was gone, striding back to the truck.

It took me a minute to catch my breath, and when I stepped outside again, I saw Sam helping to unload the truck. Kase had disappeared into his tent, and Joey—it took me a moment to locate him—had climbed to the top of an umbrella thorn acacia, which was a remarkable feat considering the two-inch thorns that covered it. I watched him for a moment, incredu-lous. Sam caught my eye and gave an exaggerated shrug, shak-ing his head at Joey’s antics.

“You should have seen him on the plane,” he said. “I think the flight attendants were plotting to sedate him.”


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I showed Sam where to put the box of muesli he was carry-ing and held open the tent flap for him to duck inside.

“This your place?” he asked.“Home sweet home.”He set the box down at the front of the tent with the oth-

ers; my cot and the sum of my worldly possessions were at the back, behind a wall of boxes and crates. I had a shelf made of crates and boards, and it was cluttered with Bushman arti-facts and crafts I’d bought from the children in the village markets. A worn stuffed elephant I’d had since I was three sat on my bed, alongside a stack of Agatha Christie books I was reading through for the third time. The mosquito net draped around the bed was decorated with tiny beads I’d painstak-ingly sewed on.

I felt a sudden flare of embarrassment at this invasion of my privacy. Everything in my tent suddenly seemed shabby and odd. I moved between him and my “room,” feeling far too exposed.

We didn’t normally get visitors, and though I used to love seeing new faces around to break up the monotony of my remote life, lately it seemed as if every new face I saw only reminded me of the one face I loved most, the one face I would never see again. She would have known what to do with them.

Sam brushed his fingers over a delicate dream catcher hanging from the poles that crossed at the apex of the canvas roof. “Nice place.”

“Thanks. We can handle the rest of the boxes,” I said.“Nah, I don’t mind.” His smile was easy and quick, like a

strike of lightning. He picked up a book from my small folding



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desk and stared at the cover; it was a copy of Dreams of Afar, the memoir my mom had written about our family’s travels.

His lips twitched as if he was about to say something; then he put the book down and moved on.

As he slid past me and back outside, I pulled the papers out of my pocket and scanned his file again. Sam Quartermain, from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Age: seventeen. Favorite ani-mal: wolf. His statement for being here simply read Keeping a promise. There wasn’t much else, besides his medical needs (none) and allergies (peanuts).

When I reached the Cruiser, I saw that Dad had stopped unloading the boxes and was occupied with the radio on the dash. The incoming voice, fuzzy with static, could only be from Henrico, the South African warden stationed south of us. He was the only human within communicable distance of our camp, unless we used the heavy, awkward satellite radio that was currently gathering dust in the back of the truck.

Dad’s face was thunderous; whatever Henrico was saying had gotten him unusually riled. My dad was normally as easy-going as they came.

“Theo, what is it?” I asked. The Bushman made a shush-ing noise. He was also listening in. I stepped closer, trying to overhear Henrico’s words, but at that moment Dad said into the speaker, “I’ll look into it and let you know. Give a call if you hear anything more.” He dropped the radio onto the seat of the car and turned to me, his face flushed.

“Sarah. There are reports of poachers in the area. A white lion’s been spotted just west of here, and Rico thinks they’re after it.” The mere mention of poachers sent my dad into a blind rage. I didn’t know how many times I’d fallen asleep at


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night listening to him rant about the declining rhino popula-tion, the uselessness of antipoaching NGOs, the apathy of the world toward the cause. Only my mom’s death had elicited a stronger emotional response from him.

My heart dropped. “Dad. Dad, no—”“It might be the same outfit who slaughtered those rhinos

up in Chobe last year. They slipped past us once—we can’t let them do it again.” Dad had spent the better part of that month helping Botswana’s antipoaching unit track the poach-ers, only to lose their trail in the end. The poachers had cut right through the area we’d been researching, and Dad had been angry about it for months, swearing that he wouldn’t let it happen again.

“Dad, please,” I said, leaning into the word, “you promised you wouldn’t do this. Not after—We had a deal, remember? We stay together. Always.”

Dad paused, the crusader’s fire fading from his eyes. “I remember, kiddo. You’re right. But if this is the same crew . . .”

I sighed, seeing the anguish in his eyes. I’d been the one who’d drawn that promise from him, terrified as I was that the past would repeat itself and I would lose him too. But letting the poachers slip away again would wreck him.

“Promise me,” I said slowly, wilting beneath my own sense of guilt, “you won’t get involved. You’ll just find them and send their location to the government. If you don’t see any-thing by dark, come home, okay?”

Dad’s face relaxed into a grateful smile. “I swear. Cross my heart.” He drew an imaginary X on his chest, then took my shoulders and quickly kissed my forehead. “Thanks, sweetie. I’ll be back tonight. Everything will be fine. It’s just a few



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hours, and I have the radio. Got yours?”I tapped the radio clipped to my belt. Dad sighed at my

expression of unease. “If you really want me to stay—”“Just hurry,” I said. “And don’t do anything stupid or

heroic, all right?”His grin did little to soothe the constricting knot of worry

in my gut. He climbed into the Cruiser and cranked it. “You can look after these guys for a few hours, honey. You’ll be fine,” he said. Sam stood a short distance away, watching sol-emnly, and I could see that even from up in his tree, Joey had heard what was happening. The tents behind us opened, and the other three emerged curiously to see what the fuss was about.

Dad leaned out far enough to grip my shoulder. He had that look in his eye, the one that could stop a lion in mid-charge. “Love you, Sissy Hati.”

Theo returned with bottles of water, jackets, and my dad’s old shotgun, and he jumped into the passenger seat.

“What? You’re taking Theo?” I grabbed hold of the win-dowsill, standing on the footstep below the door.

“Hey, now!” said Theo. “Can’t keep me out of the action!”“He’s the only one who can track them,” said Dad. “We’ll

be back before dark, I promise!”He stomped the gas, forcing me to jump back from the

vehicle. Hank seemed to have caught my dad’s anger, chug-ging like a locomotive. Theo threw me a wide smile and a cheery wave. You’d have thought he was going on a picnic.

“Be careful!” I yelled, but he was already gone, churning up a whirlwind of dust and sand, massive tires crunching over the dry brush as Hank hungrily devoured the land in his path.


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Sound travels extraordinarily far in the rolling Kalahari. A minute later, I was standing in the same spot, still hearing the Cruiser’s roar. Then I turned on my heel and froze. Five pairs of eyes stared back at me.

For a moment, my brain went blank and I had no idea what to say or do. Dad was supposed to have taken the group out on a drive to spot the nearby animals while I made a light lunch. That was The Plan. We’d been working on it for days—sectioning these two weeks into carefully premeditated activities designed to give our guests maximum exposure to the gritty, unglamorous face of conservation fieldwork, so that they could return home with their cameras loaded with shots of themselves saving the planet.

Instead, there I was in the middle of the Kalahari wilder-ness with no Dad, no Theo, no Hank, and no Plan—with four Americans (and one Canadian) wholly unsuited to this place and this life. I looked at them, they looked at me, and I think we all came to the same realization:

This had been a bad idea.


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T W O

An hour before dark, I sent them all out to gather fire-wood. Joey and Sam took off like a shot, eager to explore,

and Avani wandered off with a bit less zeal. Miranda promptly sat on one of the logs around the fire pit and began buffing her nails, looking not the least bit ashamed, as if the request to scrounge firewood couldn’t possibly have been directed at her. Kase looked from her to the bush, then settled for something in between, picking up tiny twigs around the tents. I stared at Miranda, who ignored me, then sighed and gave it up.

In minutes, the first three returned with armfuls of wood. In this waterless scrubland it was easy to find dry kindling. They piled the wood by the pit, and I knelt in the sand and began stacking the pieces together, stuffing dry grass beneath them to catch the flame. Kase deposited his handful of twigs beside me, then sat with Miranda, who cuddled against him.

It took one match to light the wood, and it flared up instantly. I’d seen entire stretches of land go up like that—all


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at once, bone-dry wood almost instantaneously combusting. Bushfires were common out here but still dangerous. Our camp was surrounded by a firebreak, but there had been two or three times when it wasn’t enough, and we’d had to pack up and drive to Ghansi until the fires had passed. Then there would be the fallout—animals my parents had been studying had moved on to find better grazing, and we’d have to move after them, roaming the wilds of central Botswana like the nomadic Bushmen who’d lived there for thousands of years. Even they had gone now, moved on to the towns and cities, and though its edges were being gradually eroded by cattle ranches, this land was still a vast wilderness where nature, not man, reigned supreme.

As the fire settled into a steady, flickering blaze, my five visitors sat around it. They’d all fallen quiet, even Joey. I glanced at each one and found varying levels of worry and discomfort in their eyes. I wondered what had brought each of them here, what they were expecting, and how disappointed they were. According to the schedule, this was the time Dad would start a discussion about conservation and wildlife man-agement, since that was technically what they were here to study. That would be followed by a San dance by Theo, who’d insisted that no visit to the Kalahari was complete without a display of Bushman culture. He’d even got out his traditional outfit made from animal skins, ostrich feathers, and cater-pillar cocoons filled with bits of twigs to make them rattle when he danced. My primary job for these two weeks was to cook, clean, and take notes on how it all went for the Song Foundation, which planned on expanding its teen wildlife ambassador program if this trip went well.



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Dad had asked me to also be in charge of the “teenybop-per fun stuff,” meaning games and what he called a “bush party,” or a night of music, dancing, and talking. I’m pretty sure this was his roundabout way of trying to get me to hang out with kids my own age. He always worried that I didn’t get enough age-appropriate social interaction, despite my insistence that I was just fine, thank-you-very-much. Between him and Theo and the abundant wildlife that found its way around and even into our camp, I had a more than sufficient social life to keep me busy. I barely found time each day to do my schoolwork.

“I’ve got loads of friends, Dad,” I’d said.“Monkeys,” he returned, “do not count.”At which I’d poked my tongue out at him and proceeded

to split my orange with one of the vervet monkeys who some-times hung around hoping for scraps.

Reluctantly, I pulled out a wadded paper from my pocket on which I’d scribbled a few halfhearted activities just to appease Dad. Now that I looked at them, they all seemed stu-pid. But anything was better than sitting in awkward silence. I sighed and picked one at random.

“Want to play a game?” I asked, pitching my voice into a high, bubbly tone.

Their heads lifted, and I was reminded of a row of giant eagle owls by the way they blinked at me.

“Okay,” said Avani uncertainly.“Wait right here,” I said. I jumped up and ran into the

bush, searching for the spot where I’d seen a kudu earlier. After a few minutes of scouting through the underbrush, I found what I was looking for, then stopped by my dad’s tent.


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I grabbed his canteen of whiskey and poured a small portion into a cup, then returned to the fire.

“I learned this from some kids in a village near Gaborone,” I said. I held out my hand and opened it. They all stood and came over, peering at the contents of my palm.

“Is that . . .” Sam began.“I think it is,” said Avani, holding a hand over her mouth.“Kudu droppings!” I said brightly. “So what you do is, you

just drop one into the whiskey—that kills any bacteria and also helps with the taste—then you put it in your mouth like this, and—” I demonstrated, popping one of the brown pel-lets in my mouth, then shooting it out. It sailed an impressive distance, and I was pleased. A yearly dung-spitting champion-ship (the Afrikaners called it Bokdrol Spoeg) was held in South Africa, and I’d seen some of the best contestants do worse.

“So basically,” I said, “the object is to see who can shoot them the farthest, and . . .”

My voice died as I took in their expressions. Each one was gaping at me with a mixture of shock and horror. My heart quailed.

“It . . . it’s not gross. See? It’s just grass, really.” I broke apart one of the pellets to demonstrate, but they turned away, mak-ing retching noises and cursing. Only Sam was left staring at the droppings in my hand, and then he looked up at me as if he wasn’t sure what language I was speaking.

“Okay,” I said quietly. “So maybe a different game?”I tossed the droppings back into the grass, and when I

turned around, they were all seated at the fire again. Kase, Miranda, and Joey had their smartphones out and were either playing games or listening to music. Avani took out an



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electronic reading device and was soon absorbed in a book. Their faces were all illuminated by soft blue light that seemed otherworldly out here in the wilderness. Sam was writing in a journal, stopping in between words to chew on the end of his pen.

I stood and watched them for a minute in silence, then tossed out the rest of the whiskey and went to make dinner.

There was still no sign of Dad and Theo. A seed of anxiety had settled in my gut, and now it was growing, a toxic vine that wrapped around my nerves and my heart. Every time he left, even for a little while, a part of me was certain that he wouldn’t return. I even dreamed about it, a regular nightmare that had plagued me since Mom’s death. It was like my sub-conscious had reasoned that by always expecting the worst, I could somehow blunt the pain before it struck.

The others noticed me haul a stack of pans out of the sup-ply tent and looked over curiously.

“Dinner?” asked Joey hopefully, and I nodded.“Where’s your dad?” asked Avani.“He’ll be back by dark,” I said, in a tone far more con-

fident than I felt. The light was already beginning to fade, turning the sky murky gray. “In the meantime, I’ll get some burgers going.”

“Miranda’s vegan,” said Kase. His girlfriend sniffed and gave me a challenging look.

Well, of course she was. “All right. I’ve got beans.”“Are they organic?” asked Miranda.“Oh my gawd.” Joey flopped backward off his log, landing

with his arms spread in the dust. Miranda gave him a venom-ous look.


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“Yes,” I said. I had no idea if they were organic or not, but honestly, it wasn’t like there was a grocery store down the street.

It didn’t take long to cook up burgers and beans on our portable propane grill. Avani handed me the burger buns and passed the finished ones out on aluminum plates. I wondered if Dad had even stopped to think that he’d driven off with most of our supplies still in the Cruiser. We’d unloaded only the cooler and a few boxes of muesli before he’d taken off. Other than that, our supplies were pretty low.

I stirred up a quick pot of lemonade and served it in tin cups. Having smelled the food, our local vervet monkeys came sauntering into camp. Normally, the monkeys wouldn’t have stayed out here through winter; they would have followed the elephants north to the Okavango Delta after the summer rains were gone. But thanks to our borehole, there was usually a large puddle under the pump, which sustained the monkeys and enabled them to beg at our table year-round.

One of them broke into a loping gallop, and before I could cry out a warning, it scurried up to Miranda and snatched a handful of her beans. Miranda let out a bloodcurdling scream, scaring the monkey witless. It sprang away with a loud shriek, then bucked and flung dirt at Miranda while she scrambled away. Everyone was on their feet now, shouting excitedly. Recognizing a familiar face, the monkey scurried to me and leaped onto my shoulder, sitting with his paws on top of my head and his tail curled around my neck. I reached up and stroked his back to calm him.

“He didn’t hurt you. See?” I held up a piece of bread, which the monkey snatched and gobbled up. In thanks, he began grooming my hair, making me laugh; his tiny fingers tickled.



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“They’re really quite friendly! You were lucky; they usually don’t let strangers touch them. Do you want to pet him?”

She gaped at me as if I’d been speaking gibberish.“She could have gotten rabies!” Kase snapped.“That’s ridiculous! The monkeys aren’t rabid.”“What is wrong with you?” Miranda sobbed. “It attacked

me!”“No, it just wanted—”“Leave her alone,” said Kase. “You’re only making it worse.”Ears burning, I turned and walked away, while the rest

of them stared from me to Kase and Miranda as if they were spectators at a Ping-Pong tournament. The offended monkey screeched at them in reproach. When I drew near the edge of camp where the rest of his troop was waiting, he took a flying leap off my shoulders and vanished with them in the bush, with only one backward glance. People who say that animals don’t have emotions have never seen the expression on the face of an insulted monkey.

I took my time washing the dishes under a small pump rigged over the borehole, which was one of the few working ones left in the area and the only reason we were able to stay out in the field for such long periods of time. There is no per-manent surface water in the Kalahari, not this far south, and the borehole was our lifeline.

“You’re not going to eat?” asked a voice.Sam was standing behind me, his hands in his pockets.

He’d put on a gray fleece and a raggedy knit cap against the quickly falling temperature.

“I ate while I cooked,” I lied. Truth was, I didn’t have an appetite. My stomach was too full of worry over my dad.


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“Don’t you have a radio or something? Some way to reach him?”

I studied Sam thoughtfully, wondering how he had guessed my thoughts. “I tried earlier. He’s either out of range or he turned it off. Or the batteries are dead.” I picked up the stack of clean dishes and turned off the pump. “There could be a hundred reasons for him to still be out there, and ninety-nine of them are nothing to worry about.”

“And the one reason left?”I started to reply, then found I couldn’t.“Sarah, should we be worried?” His voice was soft enough

that the others couldn’t hear, and I could tell he was already worried but didn’t want to upset the group. He met my gaze, and I was the first to look away.

“The poaching has been getting worse lately,” I said. “The fewer rhinos and elephants there are left, the higher the price of ivory and horn gets on the black market. Which means higher competition to bag the animals.” I set the dishes down again and looked Sam squarely in the eye. “When I say poach-ers, I don’t mean a few guys with hunting rifles. Selling illegal animal goods is one of the most lucrative crimes in the world. These poachers operate like military strike teams. Tactical gear, assault rifles, helicopters, you name it. They’re often working for terrorist outfits that operate in central and North Africa, and even in the Middle East. The ivory and rhino horn they take goes to fund people like the Lord’s Resistance Army in Uganda. That’s why my dad was so upset. It’s not just that they’re driving species to extinction—they’re sending the money to slavers, warlords, and terrorists.”

Sam’s eyes went wide as he digested this. “And he’s going



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to take them on by himself?”“He’ll just get their location, and then he’ll send that to

the government.”Sam nodded.But I really didn’t know what Dad would do once he

found them. In India, he’d chased a pair of poachers for miles through the jungle all by himself. He’d shot up the foliage and raised as much noise as he could to make them think there were a dozen of him. That time, it had worked. But out here? There wasn’t enough ground cover for that kind of approach. If they saw him . . . I swallowed the thought, but it stuck in my mind like a splinter under a fingernail. Once I’d have shared his reckless heroism, even begged to come along.

But that was before Mom.I carried the dishes past Sam and to the small folding table

I had set up by the grill. Sam grabbed the towel on the table and began to dry the dishes, handing them to me so I could stack them in a crate.

“He’s brave,” Sam said. “I’ll give him that.”“A brave idiot,” I muttered.Sam’s lips twitched. He rolled up his sleeve in order to

reach into the bucket of water for the clean plates, revealing a muscular arm dusted with fine blond hairs. His hands were large, his fingers long—ideal rugby hands, Dad would have said. I realized I was staring a bit long and jerked my gaze away. I reached up to tuck a stray wisp of hair behind my ear, and Sam’s eyes followed the gesture.

“Nice tattoos,” he said. “What do they mean?”I paused, a plate in my hand, to look at my arm. “This

one I got last year. It’s for Bangladesh, where I lived from the


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time I was three until I was eight.” The stylized Bengal tiger stalked over my left shoulder, teeth bared and claws extended. I tapped the skin behind my left ear, where a spiral was inked in black. “This is a Maori symbol from New Zealand. My dad’s country. It’s called koru and stands for new beginnings.”

“And your mom?”“She’s from North Carolina. This one is her.” I turned

over my left wrist; on the delicate skin, still pink around the edges from the recent inking, was a simple black bee. “She loved bees.” Loved them to death, as it had turned out.

He nodded, looking very serious, then pulled up his sleeve farther to reveal a yellow star inked on the inside of his arm. “That’s for Adam, my older brother,” he said softly, his eyes going distant, and then suddenly he yanked the sleeve down again and grinned. “So when are we going to see lions?” His tone was light and casual. I suspected he was trying to distract me from Dad, and though it wasn’t really working, I appreci-ated the effort he was making.

“Tomorrow, maybe. There’s a pride not far from here.” I said, my eyes lingering on his arm. I tore them away and dried the last pan. Somewhere out in the bush, an eagle owl let out its first piercing whistle of the night. The nocturnal Kalahari was beginning to wake, and still there was no sign of Dad. “I’m going to try Dad again. I’m sure everything’s fine,” I added.

He didn’t look convinced, and I felt his stare on my back as I hurried to my tent.


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INTENTIONAL BLANK

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WHAT’S THE FIRST THING YOU REMEMBER?

I’ve heard the Question before. Who hasn’t? But when some-one asks me, the Question has a different meaning. It’s not often that the whole world knows who you are, has known you for-ever, has given you a nickname. Baby Mia. They still call me that. Strangers still call me that. Baby Mia, who fell down the well. Like a nursery rhyme. When someone asks about my first memory, what they really want to know is do you remember the well?

Do I remember the well? I was four years old in 1999, when I became famous. I broke my arm, two ribs and my nose—it’s still a little crooked. People tell me that they honked their horns when I was pulled free, that they hung the picture of me bundled and ban-daged on their fridge for years. Baby Mia, who fell down the well.

But truthfully, there is no memory. Only darkness. Consider-ing how deep I was, maybe darkness is the memory. Blackness, water up to my knees, lucky it was August and it didn’t rain, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich lowered in a Pink Power Rangers lunchbox. My memories are the stories everyone tells, the sto-ries about where they were, what they were doing, about the time Baby Mia fell down a well.

Reporters come and go. When my mom died (blizzard, pine

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tree), at least a dozen inquiries came through. As if what I most wanted to do after my mother’s funeral was talk about my stint un-derground. The funny thing is, underground was all I could think about. My mother was going to be cold down there, dark, with no one to save her and with no one watching and holding vigils and honking horns and crying.

I’m sure that’s what reporters wanted to hear from me.But I admit that something about this reporter feels different.

For one, he looks different. No wrinkled, collared shirt underneath a wrinkled beige sweater. No notebook and no smell of fast food. He’s clean-shaven, his cheeks looking almost crisp, like a banker. But he’s not in a suit. Instead, he’s wearing a tight fleece, hiking boots and dirty jeans, as if he’s just returned from a stroll in the woods. His brown hair recedes hesitantly back up his forehead, leaving a small tuft up front. He smiles gently enough, and he has a notepad and paper, but he hasn’t pulled out a recorder of any sort. I’m not sure I remember ever doing an interview where there wasn’t a recorder. Staring at him, I find myself uneasy and keep wiggling in my chair. He seems distracted, uninterested in me and the story, which, I’m embarrassed to say, is making me jealous. We’ve been sitting here on a cloud-covered Thursday, in the con-ference room of the main faculty offices at my boarding school, Westbrook, for about ten minutes now, quietly bouncing our legs. We’re waiting on my father.

The reporter—his name’s Blake Sutton—glances at his watch and sighs, then pulls himself to his feet and goes to examine the class photos strung evenly along the walls.

“Your father is in one of these photos, isn’t he?”


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These are his first words since nice to meet you. At least we’re done with the staring contest. “That’s right,” I say, pointing down a few frames from where he’s standing. “Class of ’78.”

Mr. Sutton shuffles over, bends and squints at the photo. He shakes his head a little and looks back at me, then to the image. “Quite the similarities.” It’s true: we both have the same high cheekbones and small foreheads, same wavy brown hair, same camera-shy smile.

“I guess,” I say, bored already. Why do I agree to do these in-terviews anymore? Maybe it’s time to stop. As if reading my mind he turns back to me and claps his hands together once and then pushes his right fist toward me—the mike’s on you—and asks me what the local attractions of Fenton, Colorado, are.

I don’t roll my eyes, but it’s close. “What? Are you talking about Gracie?”

“Gracie?” he asks, returning to his seat.“The tallest sycamore in the world.” She’s five miles up the road

and a few hundred yards into the tree line, and it takes five kids holding hands to ring around her trunk.

Mr. Sutton smiles, and his teeth are überwhite and straight and thick. “I didn’t know that.”

“You didn’t? It’s true. Did you know that Fenton has the only Roman aqueduct in North America? It’s handmade of over a mil-lion bricks.”

He leans back now, impressed, letting me run the show. “What else you got?”

“I’ve got annual migrations of locusts, and we’re the home of the national-chicken-thigh-eating competition.” Suddenly I’m relaxed,


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in my element, having answered this line of questioning dozens of times, the familiarity of this back-and-forth a comfort. He’s not taking any notes, but whatever—at least he hasn’t asked me the Question yet.

The door opens behind me, and since I’m staring at Mr. Sutton’s face, I get a good look at the moment he sees my father walk into the room. He grins, his lips parting slightly, and I see his tongue peeking out ever so slightly like a giddy dog. And then he seems to realize what kind of face he’s making, because he straightens up and stands, extending his hand. Dad hasn’t come into the room yet. He’s still in the doorway.

For some reason, I don’t move. I feel off-kilter, like I’m missing something very important. After a short while, Mr. Sutton lowers his hand, unshaken, and backs into his seat.

“Please, Mr. Kish, join us.” He nods toward the empty chair next to me. “I was waiting for you to begin. Mia’s been telling me all about Fenton.”

The boards bend under my dad’s feet, and he moves to kiss my head. “Hi, hon,” he whispers, and takes a seat. He’s clenching his jaw over and again, the bone protruding from his cheek like a twitch as he stares intently at Mr. Sutton.

“Dad?” I ask, sensing something wrong.“Mr. Sutton,” Dad says, not acknowledging me, “when I agreed

to this meeting I didn’t know it would be with you. I have to get back to work soon, so why are we here?”

Mr. Sutton nods his head knowingly, but ignores Dad’s ques-tion. “Yes, yes. Late nights at the Cave nowadays?”

My father grips the chair tight enough for the wood to creak.


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There is no Take Your Kid to Work Day with my dad. In fact, I’ve never met another employee of Fenton Electronics. I think about the tunnel he drives into every morning on his way to work. The one that’s behind steel doors. I’ve only ever seen the entrance of the Cave—a nickname since before my time—because all us kids do it in the summer: take our bikes to the door, dare each other to pedal up and knock. Not many people actually work up the guts to do so, but I have. Not with anyone else, though. It was in the snowstorm; it took me a couple hours to walk there. It was after Mom died, and Dad wasn’t picking up his phone. I beat on that door for fifteen minutes until it opened, and there he was, warm as can be, totally clueless. But that’s all I’ve seen. Behind him was a long driveway and then another steel door. Like an air lock; I bet the two doors are never open at once.

Dad doesn’t talk about work; I’ve just come to accept it. Every-one has. He goes into the mountain and then comes home. He makes me lunches and watches my swim meets. He only admits that his work is classified, that he programs code for the govern-ment; my dad says the mountain helps keep their electronics cold. But he also says that the code he programs is boring, basic stuff. I believe him. Why shouldn’t I?

“Why are you here?” my dad asks again, this time through grit-ted teeth. And suddenly I realize, just as my dad already knew, that Blake Sutton is not here to see me.

Mr. Sutton raises his hands, palms up, in a shrug. “You know why I’m here . . .” He pauses, taking in my father, then looks at me and smiles again. “To interview your beautiful daughter, of course. What a story! Falling into that well must have been incredibly


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terrifying.” His voice has taken on a familiar tone, one I’ve heard dozens of times, almost baby-talk. It’s the buildup to the Question. And here it comes: “I have to ask, Mia. What is the first thing you remember?”

I have it all in my head. I’ve said it enough that sometimes, for no reason at all, I find myself rehearsing the speech. In bed, walk-ing to class, in the pool. But before I even have a chance to open my mouth, Dad blurts out, “Mr. Sutton, I think you should go.”

The reporter shakes his head sadly and points at my dad. “Testy, isn’t he?” he says to me, like it’s a joke and I’m on his side. I’ve never seen Dad like this, and I feel helpless and uncomfortable, itchy and unable to scratch. “The thing is, Mia, your father’s right. I shouldn’t be here. I should be in the Cave right now, granted a ‘tour’”—he ac-tually uses air quotes—“of Fenton Electronics, as I have requested so many times before. I’m sorry to use you this way. Your story re-ally is quite incredible.”

“I don’t get it,” I say—I can’t help myself. “Dad, what does he mean?”

“I mean,” Mr. Sutton says, answering for him, “that Fenton Elec-tronics has some pretty big secrets, and it is my job as a reporter to make sure the doors of the Cave are as wide open and forth-coming to the public as they ought to be.” He gesticulates with his hands held apart in front of his face, as if he were describing a huge fish he’d caught. Then he stands and gathers his bag and the heavy jacket that he’s laid on another chair and heads for the door, but stops and turns back to us. “Did you know, Mia, that I’ve been trying to get into the facility for years now? That I’ve been stone-walled the entire time? No interviews, no responses. But there’s a


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time limit to how long they can keep this up. And that’s the reason I’m here. To let your father know that if he doesn’t grant me access by this weekend, I’ll have to make it happen by other means.” He opens the door and steps through, staring intensely at Dad. There’s a vein that has snaked its way onto his forehead, slithering up un-der his receding hairline. I swear his lips glisten, as if they were soaked in spit. “Maybe, Mr. Kish, I’ll bring young Mia with me to show her what her daddy really does.”

Dad’s out of his chair in a flash, but Mr. Sutton closes the door in his face. He moves to the doorknob, but I call out, “Dad!” and he freezes. He stands there for a moment, his hands clenching and unclenching, his body heaving. Unlike the reporter, Dad’s in slacks and a tie, his undershirt peeking through the thin white cotton of his button-down. There’s a thick line of sweat running down his back, even though it’s winter and the room is chilly.

“What’s going on? What’s he talking about?”One thing my father has always been is quick to smile, and quick

to forget—or hide—his anger. He turns to me and does just that: his forehead smooths, and his bushy eyebrows lose their furrow. He seems old, suddenly, as if his hair went from salt-and-pepper to gray instantly and the bags under his eyes became permanent and not just about his recent spate of late nights. Dad’s always seemed young for his age, looking late thirties when he’s really in his fifties, but at the moment, he projects old and a sort of helplessness I don’t like being witness to.

“Oh, Mia,” he says, his voice tired and even a little bit sad. “He’s just some crackpot conspiracy theorist. He’s been trying to get in for years, writing letters, leaving threats in our mailbox, calling the


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sheriff. Of course we have secrets, but you know that. We handle government contracts, which necessitate a certain level of secrecy.”

“But what makes your company so special?” I ask. “I mean, why here?”

Dad mulls this over. He has been coming home late and devot-ing more time to the job. I know because he’s never home when I call. He gets obsessive, and it’s tough because I live here at West-brook, on campus, and I can’t be home to make him dinner and take care of him. When I don’t have a swim meet, I visit him on weekends, and I often find the house a mess, delivery boxes ev-erywhere and laundry needing to get done. But now something’s worse. I have the feeling that, even though he’s staring right at me and talking directly to me, his mind is back in his lab. He’s fidget-ing, ready to leave. I’ve never seen it this bad. The reporter must have really spooked him.

“Dad?” I ask again, vying for his attention. I imagine the pages I’ve seen lying on the kitchen table. The notes. The blueprints. Does he actually keep state secrets out for me to see? No idea what they’re for, of course, but I’d be an idiot if I couldn’t take a shot in the dark: “Is it about those computer chips you’re designing?”

He jolts, shocked. I definitely have his attention now.“What are you talking about?”“What?” I say, a little embarrassed at being so forward. “You

leave your paperwork around the house. Who do you think cleans it up?”

“Well,” he finally says, not without some reluctance, “custom programming for microscopic analysis is one thing.”


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I get a thrill hearing this; my dad programs top-secret computer chips? But for what, microscopes?

“But that’s not what this guy’s talking about,” he says, going on. “I don’t like that he’s here speaking to you as a way to get to me.” Dad comes close, takes me by the shoulders and looks me in the eyes. Whenever he does this, he looks first at my left eye, then my right, back and forth and back and forth, and it’s superdistracting. “Mia, listen . . . if he calls you and tries to set another interview up, don’t let him. Stall him and let me know, okay?”

“Relax, Dad. I wouldn’t anyways; he’s really strange. And I won’t even be around. I’ve got my race in Durango this weekend. Re-member?” I don’t bother mentioning my birthday on Sunday. It will just give him something else to forget about.

He pauses, then smiles. “Right, right. Okay, great. Just trust me on this one, okay?”

I nod, feeling a tremor of fear flutter in my stomach. Why would this reporter stalk me to get to my dad? I think of his muddy shoes and imagine him staking out the Cave, watching my father come and go. “Are you sure you shouldn’t call the cops on him or something?”

Dad raises his eyebrows and smiles weakly. “I wish. No, he’s harmless, just annoying.” I don’t believe him, of course. I’ve seen him try to make me feel better before. “Listen, hon, I have to get moving. You’ll call me if you see him?”

“Sure . . .” I follow him into the hallway, and he kisses me on the head again, something I normally hate in public but now, even with a few faculty members coming and going, it is exactly what I need.


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I head the opposite direction, toward central campus and my dorm. On the way, I pass the dean’s office, with its great mahogany doors spread wide, and I see him. Mr. Sutton. He hasn’t noticed me at all, and for a moment I’m stuck in the doorway, watching this strange man who freaks my dad out so. The thing is, he’s just standing there, shaking Mrs. Applebaum’s hand. I stop and put my back to the wall, listen for a moment. Mrs. Applebaum, the dean’s secretary—most students love her—is asking about his piece. If he got everything he needed. If he had ever been to Fenton before, or Westbrook. Mr. Sutton says, Yes, absolutely, then asks about last week’s snowfall.

I shake my head, entirely confused by the encounter, and push my way out the glass doors of the building and into the quad. The weather is sharp, the wind biting; the sidewalk is sure to be covered in ice. It’s dark, and I think I can see my dad’s car pulling out of the main gates, heading for the Cave.

I breathe the cold air and move quickly along the path from lamp to lamp, trying to stay in their light. I don’t do well in the dark. But this time, with my dad acting all weird, it’s worse than usual. I’m sucked back in, like I’m in the well, feeling the darkness around me, all through the campus and blanketing half the world. Just like my first memory. I think of my friends hanging out in the dorm, entirely unaware of this discomfort in my skin. I think of my dad in his car, the air only just now turning warm, his hands clutched tight around the steering wheel as he drives onward, through town and down the snowy roads, catching up to whoever else works at Fenton Electronics as they go one by one through the air lock and deep into the mountain.


CAST OF CHARACTERS

Southern kingdom Cleiona(Cleo)Bellos Youngest Auranian princess emiliaBellos Eldest Auranian princess TheonRanus Cleo’s bodyguard simonRanus Theon’s father aRonlagaRis Court noble; Cleo’s intended CoRvinBellos King of Auranos elenaBellos Deceased queen of Auranos niColo(niC)Cassian The king’s squire miRaCassian Nic’s sister and Emilia’s lady-in-waiting RogeRusCassian Nic and Mira’s late father Cleiona Goddess of fire and air

Falling Kingdoms pages 724.indd 9 8/9/12 7:23:10 PM

Middle kingdom

Jonasagallon Youngest son of wine seller Tomasagallon Jonas’s older brother silasagallon Wine seller; Jonas’s father FeliCiaagallon Jonas’s older sister Paulo Felicia’s husband BRionRadenos Jonas’s best friend eiRene Village woman seRa Eirene’s granddaughter hugoBasilius Paelsian leader/chieftain laeliaBasilius Basilius’s daughter eva Original sorceress; Watcher


xi

Northern kingdom

magnusdamoRa Prince of Limeros luCiadamoRa Princess of Limeros gaiusdamoRa King of Limeros alTheadamoRa Queen of Limeros saBinamallius King’s mistress Jana Sabina’s sister miCholTRiChas Lucia’s bashful suitor ToBiasaRgynos Gaius’s bastard son andReasPsellos Lucia’s suitor; Magnus’s rival amia Kitchen maid valoRia Goddess of earth and water

Watchers

alexius Young Watcher TimoTheus Elder Watcher PhaedRa Young Watcher danaus Elder Watcher


PROLOGUE

She’d never killed before tonight. “Stay back,” her sister hissed.

Jana pressed against the stone wall of the villa. She searched the shadows that surrounded them, briefly looking up at the stars, bright as diamonds against the black sky.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she prayed to the ancient sorceress. Please, Eva, give me the magic I need tonight to find her.

When she opened her eyes, fear shot through her. On the branch of a tree a dozen paces away sat a golden hawk.

“They’re watching us,” she whispered. “They know what we’ve done.”

Sabina flicked a glance at the hawk. “We need to move. Now. There’s no time to waste.”

Keeping her face turned away from the hawk, Jana pushed away from the safety of the wall to follow her sister to the heavy oak and iron door of the villa. Sabina pressed her hands against it, channeling the magic that had been strengthened by the blood


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they’d spilled earlier. Jana noticed that Sabina’s fingernails still bore traces of red in the cuticles, and she shuddered, remember-ing. Sabina’s hands began to glow with amber light. A moment later, the door disintegrated into sawdust. Wood was no barricade against earth magic.

Sabina sent a victorious smile over her shoulder. Blood now trickled from her nose.

At her sister’s gasp, Sabina’s grin faded. She wiped it away and entered the large home. “It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing. Using too much of this temporarily enhanced magic could harm them. Could kill them if they weren’t careful.

But Sabina Mallius was not known to be the cautious one. She hadn’t paused earlier tonight in using her beauty to lead the un-suspecting man from the tavern to his fate, while Jana had hesi-tated far too long before her sharp blade finally found its mark in his heart.

Sabina was strong, passionate, and completely fearless. Heart in throat as she followed Sabina inside, Jana wished she could be more like her older sister. But she’d always been the careful one. The planner. The one who’d seen the signs in the stars because she’d studied the night skies all her life.

The prophesied child had been born and she was here in this large and luxurious villa—built of sturdy stone and wood com-pared to the small, poorer straw and mud cottages in the village nearby.

Jana was certain this was the right place.She was knowledge. Sabina was action. Together they were

unstoppable.Sabina cried out as she turned the corner of the hallway up

ahead. Jana quickened her pace, her heart pounding. In the dark


F a l l i n g K i n g d o m s

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hallway, lit only by wall-set torches that flickered their meager light on the stone walls, a guard had her sister by her throat.

Jana didn’t think. She acted.Thrusting out her hands, she summoned air magic. The guard

lost his grip and flew back from Sabina, slamming into the wall behind her hard enough to crush his bones. He crumpled to the ground in a heap.

Sharp pain sliced through Jana’s head, agonizing enough to make her whimper. She wiped at the warm, thick blood that now gushed from under her nose. Her hand trembled.

Sabina gingerly touched her injured throat. “Thank you, sister.”This fresh blood magic helped speed their steps and clear their

vision in the darkness of the unfamiliar, narrow stone hallways. But it wouldn’t last long.

“Where is she?” Sabina demanded.“Close.”“I’m trusting you.”“The child is here. I know she is.” They proceeded a few steps

more down the dark hallway.“Here.” Jana stopped outside an unlocked door. She pushed it open and the sisters moved toward the ornately

carved wooden cradle inside the room. They looked down at the baby, swaddled in a soft rabbit’s fur coverlet. Her skin was pale white with a healthy, rosy glow to her chubby cheeks.

Jana adored her instantly. The first smile she’d been capable of for days blossomed on her face. “Beautiful girl,” she whispered, reaching into the cradle to gently pick up the newborn.

“You’re certain it’s her.”“Yes.” More than anything else in her seventeen years of life,

Jana was positive of this. The child she held in her arms, this small,



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beautiful baby with sky-blue eyes and a fuzz of hair that would one day be black as a raven’s wing, was the one prophesied to pos-sess the magic necessary to find the Kindred—four objects that contained the source of all elementia, elemental magic. Earth and water, fire and air.

The child’s magic would be that of a sorceress, not a common witch like Jana and her sister. The first in a thousand years, since Eva herself had lived and breathed. There would be no need for blood or death to play any part in this child’s magic.

Jana had seen her birth in the stars. Finding this child was her destiny.

“Put my daughter down,” a voice snarled from the shadows. “Don’t hurt her.”

Jana spun around, clutching the infant to her chest. Her eyes fell on the dagger the woman pointed toward them. Its sharp edge glinted in the candlelight. Her heart sank. This was the moment she’d been dreading, had prayed wouldn’t come to pass.

Sabina’s eyes flashed. “Hurt her? That’s not what we plan to do at all. You don’t even know what she is, do you?”

The woman’s brows drew together with confusion, but fury hardened her gaze. “I’ll kill you before I allow you to leave this room with her.”

“No”—Sabina raised her hands—“you won’t.”The mother’s eyes grew wide and her mouth opened, gasping.

She couldn’t breathe—Sabina was blocking the flow of air to her lungs. Jana turned away, face screwed up in misery. It was over in a moment. The woman’s body fell to the ground, still twitching but lifeless, as the sisters sidestepped her and fled the room.

Jana gathered her loose cloak around the baby to hide her as they left the villa and ran into the forest. Sabina’s nose bled profusely



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now from using so much destructive magic. Blood dripped to the snow-covered ground.

“Too much,” Jana whispered as their steps finally slowed. “Too much death tonight. I hate it.”

“She wouldn’t have let us take her any other way. Let me see her.”Feeling oddly reluctant, Jana held the baby out. Sabina took her and studied the child’s face in the darkness.

Her gaze flicked to Jana and she gave her sister a wicked grin. “We did it.”

Jana felt a sudden rush of excitement, despite the difficulties they’d faced. “We did.”

“You were incredible. I wish I could have visions like you do.”“Only with great effort and sacrifice can I have them.”“It’s all a great effort and sacrifice.” Sabina’s voice twisted with

sudden disdain. “Too much of it. But for this child, one day magic will be so easy. I envy her.”

“We’ll raise her together. We’ll tutor her and be there for her and when the time comes for her to fulfill her destiny, we’ll stand by her side every step of the way.”

Sabina shook her head. “You won’t. I’ll take her from here.”Jana frowned. “What? Sabina, I thought we agreed to make all

decisions together.”“Not this one. I have other plans for the child.” Her expression

hardened. “And apologies, sister, but they don’t include you.”Staring into Sabina’s suddenly cold eyes, Jana at first didn’t feel

the sharp tip of the dagger sink into her chest. She gasped as the pain began to penetrate.

They’d shared every day, every dream . . . every secret.However, it would appear, not every secret. This was not some-

thing Jana would have ever thought to try to foresee.



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“Why would you betray me like this?” she managed. “You’re my sister.”

Sabina wiped away the blood that still trickled from her nose. “For love.”

When she yanked out the blade, Jana collapsed to her knees on the frozen ground.

Without a backward glance, Sabina swiftly walked away with the child and was soon swallowed by the dark forest.

Jana’s vision dimmed and her heart slowed. She watched as the hawk she’d seen earlier flew away . . . leaving her to die alone.


PAELSIAc h a p t e R 1

sixteen years later

“Alife without wine and beauty isn’t worth living. Don’t you agree, princess?” Aron slung his arm around Cleo’s shoul-

ders as the group of four walked along the dusty, rocky country path.

They’d been in port for less than two hours and he was already drunk, a fact not unduly startling when it came to Aron.

Cleo’s glance fell on their accompanying palace guard. His eyes flashed with displeasure at Aron’s proximity to the princess of Auranos. But the guard’s concern wasn’t necessary. Despite the fancy jeweled dagger Aron always wore on a sheath hanging from his belt, he was no more dangerous than a butterfly. A drunk but-terfly.

“I couldn’t agree more,” she said, lying only a little.“Are we almost there?” Mira asked. The beautiful girl with

long, dark, reddish hair and smooth, flawless skin was both Cleo’s friend and her older sister’s lady-in-waiting. When Emilia decided to stay home due to a sudden headache, she’d insisted that Mira



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accompany Cleo on this trip. Once the ship arrived in the harbor, a dozen of their friends chose to remain comfortably on board while Cleo and Mira joined Aron on his journey to a nearby village to find the “perfect” bottle of wine. The palace wine cellars were stocked with thousands of bottles of wine from both Auranos and Paelsia, but Aron had heard of a particular vineyard whose output was supposedly unparalleled. At his request, Cleo booked one of her father’s ships and invited many of their friends on the trip to Paelsia expressly in search of his ideal bottle.

“That would be a question for Aron. He’s the one leading this particular quest.” Cleo drew her fur-lined velvet cloak closer to block out the chill of the day. While the ground was clear, a few light snowflakes drifted across their rock-strewn path. Paelsia was farther north than Auranos, but the temperature here surprised her nonetheless. Auranos was warm and temperate, even in the bleakest winter months, with rolling green hills, sturdy olive trees, and acres upon acres of rich, temperate farmland. Paelsia, by con-trast, seemed dusty and gray as far as the eye could see.

“Almost there?” Aron repeated. “Almost there? Mira, my peach, all good things come to those who wait. Remember that.”

“My lord, I’m the most patient person I know. But my feet hurt.” She tempered the complaint with a smile.

“It’s a beautiful day and I’m lucky enough to be accompanied by two gorgeous girls. We must give thanks to the goddess for the splendor we’ve been greeted with here.”

Watching the guard, Cleo saw him briefly roll his eyes. When he noticed that she had seen him, he didn’t immediately look away as any other guard might. He held her gaze with a defiance that intrigued her. She realized she hadn’t seen—or, at least, noticed—this guard before today.



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“What’s your name?” she addressed him.“Theon Ranus, your highness.”“Well, Theon, do you have anything to add to our discussion

about how far we’ve walked this afternoon?”Aron chortled and swigged from his flask.“No, princess.”“I’m surprised, since you are the one who’ll be required to

carry the cases of wine back to the ship.”“It’s my duty and honor to serve you.” Cleo considered him for a moment. His hair was the color of

dark bronze, his skin tanned and unlined. He looked as if he could be one of her rich friends waiting on the ship rather than a uni-formed guard her father had insisted accompany them on this journey.

Aron must have been thinking the exact same thing. “You look young for a palace guard.” His words slurred together drunkenly as he regarded Theon with a squint. “You can’t be much older than I am.”

“I’m eighteen, my lord.”Aron snorted. “I stand corrected. You are much older than me.

Vastly.”“By one year,” Cleo reminded him.“A year can be a blissful eternity.” Aron grinned. “I plan to cling

to my youth and lack of responsibility for the year I have left.”Cleo ignored Aron, for the guard’s name now rang a bell in her

mind. She’d overheard her father as he exited one of his council meetings briefly discuss the Ranus family. Theon’s father had died only a week ago—thrown from a horse. His neck had broken in-stantly.

“My sympathies for the loss of your father,” she said with



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sincerity. “Simon Ranus was well respected as my father’s personal bodyguard.”

Theon nodded stiffly. “It was a job he did with great pride. And one I hope to have the honor to be considered for when King Corvin chooses his replacement.” Theon’s brows drew together as if he hadn’t expected her to know of his father’s death. An edge of grief slid behind his dark eyes. “Thank you for your kind words, your highness.”

Aron audibly snorted and Cleo shot him a withering look. “Was he a good father?” she asked.“The very best. He taught me everything I know from the

moment I could hold a sword.”She nodded sympathetically. “Then his knowledge will con-

tinue to live on through you.” Now that the young guard’s dark good looks had caught her

attention, she found it increasingly difficult to return her gaze to Aron, whose slight frame and pale skin spoke of a life spent indoors. Theon’s shoulders were broad, his arms and chest muscled, and he filled out the dark blue palace guard uniform better than she ever would have imagined possible.

Guiltily, she forced herself to return her attention to her friends. “Aron, you have another half hour before we head back to the ship. We’re keeping the others waiting.”

Auranians loved a good party, but they weren’t known for their endless patience. However, since they’d been brought to the Pael-sian docks by her father’s ship, they’d have to keep waiting until Cleo was ready to leave.

“The market we’re going to is up ahead,” Aron said, gesturing. Cleo and Mira looked and saw a cluster of wooden stalls and color-ful worn tents, perhaps another ten minutes’ walk. It was the first



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sign of people they had seen since they’d passed a ragged band of children clustered around a fire an hour ago. “You’ll soon see it was well worth the trip.”

Paelsian wine was said to be a drink worthy of the goddess. De-licious, smooth, without equal in any other land, its effects did not lead to illness or headaches the next day, no matter how much was consumed. Some said that there was strong earth magic at work in the Paelsian soil and in the grapes themselves to make them so perfect in a land that held so many other imperfections.

Cleo wasn’t planning to sample it. She didn’t drink wine any-more—hadn’t for many months. Before that, she’d consumed more than her share of Auranian wine, which didn’t taste much better than vinegar. But people—at least, Cleo—didn’t drink it for the taste; they drank it for the intoxicating results, the feeling of not a care in the world. Such a feeling, without an anchor to hold one close to shore, could lead one to drift into dangerous territory. And Cleo wasn’t in any hurry to sip anything stronger than water or peach juice in the foreseeable future.

Cleo watched Aron drain his flask. He never failed to drink both her share and his and made no apologies for anything he did while under its influence. Despite his shortcomings, many in the court considered him the lord her father would choose as her future husband. The thought made Cleo shudder, yet she still kept him close at hand. For Aron knew a secret about Cleo. Even though he hadn’t mentioned it in many months, she was certain he hadn’t forgotten. Nor would he ever.

The revelation of this secret could destroy her.Because of this, she tolerated him socially with a smile on her

lips. No one would ever guess that she loathed him.“Here we are,” Aron finally announced as they entered the gates



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of the village market. Beyond the stalls, off to the right, Cleo saw some small farmhouses and cottages in the near distance. Though far less prosperous-looking than the farms she’d seen in the Auranian countryside, she noted with surprise that the small clay struc-tures with their thatched roofs and little windows seemed neat and well kept, at odds with the impression she had of Paelsia. Paelsia was a land filled with poor peasants, ruled over not by a king, but a chieftain, who was rumored by some to be a power-ful sorcerer. Despite Paelsia’s proximity to Auranos, however, Cleo rarely gave her neighbors to the north much thought, other than an occasional vague interest in entertaining tales of the much more “savage” Paelsians.

Aron stopped in front of a stall draped in dark purple fabric that fell down to the dusty ground.

Mira sighed with relief. “Finally.” Cleo turned to her left only to be greeted by a pair of glittering

black eyes in a tanned, lined face. She took an instinctive step back and felt Theon standing firm and comfortingly close behind her. The man looked rough, even dangerous, much like the few others who’d crossed their path since they’d arrived in Paelsia. The wine seller’s front tooth was chipped but white in the bright sunlight. He wore simple clothes, made from linen and worn sheepskin, and a thick wool tunic for warmth. Feeling self-conscious, Cleo pulled her sable-lined cloak closer around her silk dress, pale blue and embroidered in gold.

Aron eyed the man with interest. “Are you Silas Agallon?” “I am.”“Good. This is your lucky day, Silas. I’ve been told that your

wine is the best in all of Paelsia.”“You were told right.”



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A lovely dark-haired girl emerged from the back of the stall. “My father is a gifted wine maker.”

“This is Felicia, my daughter.” Silas nodded at the girl. “A daugh-ter who should be getting ready for her wedding right now.”

She laughed. “And leave you to work all day lugging cases of wine? I’ve come to convince you to close shop early.”

“Perhaps.” The pleased glint in the wine seller’s dark eyes shifted to disdain as he took in Aron’s fine clothes. “And who might you be?”

“Both you and your lovely daughter have the great privilege to be acquainted with her royal highness Princess Cleiona Bellos of Auranos.” Aron nodded toward her and then Mira. “This is Lady Mira Cassian. And I am Aron Lagaris. My father is lord of Elder’s Pitch on the southern coast of Auranos.”

The wine seller’s daughter looked at Cleo, surprised, and low-ered her head with respect. “An honor, your highness.”

“Yes, quite an honor,” Silas agreed, and Cleo couldn’t detect sar-casm in his tone. “We rarely have royalty from either Auranos or Limeros visit our humble village. I can’t remember the last time. I’d be honored to give you a sample to try before we discuss your purchase, your highness.”

Cleo shook her head with a smile. “Aron’s the one interested in your wares. I simply accompanied him here.”

The wine seller looked disappointed, even a little hurt. “Even still, will you do me the great honor of tasting my wine—to toast my daughter’s wedding?”

How could she refuse such a request? She nodded, trying to hide her reluctance. “Of course. It would be my pleasure.”

The sooner she did, the sooner they could leave this market. While colorful and well populated, it smelled less than pleasant—



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as if there was a cesspit nearby with no fragrant herbs or flowers to cover its stench. Despite Felicia’s palpable excitement for her im-pending wedding, the poverty of this land and these people was distressing. Perhaps Cleo too should have stayed on the ship while Aron fetched the wine for their friends.

All she really knew about small, poor Paelsia was that it had one form of wealth that neither of the other two kingdoms flanking it could claim. Paelsian soil this close to the sea grew vineyards that put any other land’s to shame. Many said that earth magic was re-sponsible. She’d heard stories of grapevines stolen from the earth here that withered and died almost immediately once they crossed over the border.

“You’ll be my last customers,” Silas said. “Then I’ll do as my daughter asks and close up shop for the day to prepare for her wedding at dusk.”

“My congratulations to you both,” Aron said with disinterest as he scanned the bottles on display, his lips pursed. “Do you have suitable glasses for our tasting?”

“Of course.” Silas moved behind the cart and dug deep into a rickety wooden case. He pulled out three glasses that caught the sunlight and then uncorked a bottle of wine. Pale, amber- colored liquid trickled in the glasses, the first of which he handed to Cleo.

Theon was suddenly right next to Cleo, snatching the glass away from the wine seller before she touched it. Whatever dark look was on the guard’s face made Silas take a shaky step backward and exchange a glance with his daughter.

Cleo gasped, startled. “What are you doing?”“You would taste something a stranger offers you without any

second thoughts?” Theon asked sharply.



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“It’s not poisoned.”He peered down into the glass. “Do you know that for sure?” She looked at him impatiently. He thought someone might

poison her? For what purpose? The peace between the lands had lasted more than a century. There was no threat here. Having a palace guard accompany her at all on this trip was more to appease her overprotective father than out of any true necessity.

“Fine.” She flicked her hand at him. “Feel free to be my taster. I’ll be sure not to drink any if you fall over dead from it.”

“Oh, how ridiculous,” Aron drawled. He tipped his glass back and drained it without a second thought.

Cleo looked at him for a moment. “Well? Are you dying now?”He had his eyes shut, savoring. “Only from thirst.”Her attention returned to Theon and she smiled slightly mock-

ingly. “May I have my glass back now? Or do you think this wine seller took the time to poison each one individually?”

“Of course not. Please, enjoy.” He held the glass out for her to take it. Silas’s dark-eyed gaze was now filled more with embarrass-ment than annoyance at the drama her guard had caused.

Cleo tried to shield her immediate appraisal of the glass’s ques-tionable cleanliness. “I’m sure it’s delicious.”

The wine seller looked grateful. Theon moved back to stand to the right side of the cart, at ease but watchful. And she thought her father was overprotective.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aron tip his glass back and drain a second sampling the wine seller’s daughter had poured for him.

“Incredible. Absolutely incredible, just as I’d heard it was.”Mira took a more ladylike sip before her brows went up with

surprise. “It’s wonderful.”



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Fine. Her turn. Cleo took a tentative taste of the liquid. The moment it touched her tongue, she found herself dismayed. Not because it was rancid, but because it was delicious—sweet, smooth, incomparable to anything she’d ever tried before. It stirred a long-ing inside her for more. Her heart began to pound faster. A few more sips was enough to empty her glass entirely, and she glanced around at her friends. The world suddenly seemed to shimmer with golden halos of light around each of them, making them appear even more beautiful than they were to begin with. Aron became margin-ally less loathsome to her.

And Theon—despite his overbearing behavior—looked incred-ibly beautiful too.

This wine was dangerous; there was no doubt about it. It was worth any amount of money this wine seller might ask for it. And Cleo had to be careful to stay away from it as much as possible, now and in the future.

“Your wine is very good,” she said aloud, trying not to seem overly enthusiastic. She wanted to ask for another glass but swal-lowed back the words.

Silas beamed. “I’m so glad to hear that.”Felicia nodded. “Like I said, my father is a genius.”“Yes, I find your wine worthy of purchase,” Aron slurred. He’d

been drinking steadily during the trip here from the engraved golden flask he always kept with him. At this point, it was a sur-prise that he continued to stand upright without assistance. “I want four cases today and another dozen shipped to my villa.”

Silas’s eyes lit up. “That can certainly be arranged.”“I’ll give you fifteen Auranian centimos per case.”The tanned skin of the wine seller paled. “But it’s worth at least

forty per case. I’ve received as much as fifty before.”



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Aron’s lips thinned. “When? Five years ago? There are not enough buyers these days for you to make a living. Limeros hasn’t been such a good customer over the past few years, have they? Im-porting expensive wine is at the bottom of their priority list given their current economic straits. That leaves Auranos, because ev-eryone knows your goddess-forsaken countrymen don’t have two coins to rub together. Fifteen per case is my final offer. Considering I want sixteen cases—and perhaps more in the near future—I’d say that’s a good day’s work. Wouldn’t that be a nice gift of money to give your daughter on her wedding day? Felicia? Wouldn’t that be better than closing up shop early and getting nothing?”

Felicia bit her bottom lip, her brows drawing together. “It is better than nothing. I know the wedding is costing too much as it is. But . . . I don’t know. Father?”

Silas was about to say something but faltered. Cleo was only half watching, concentrating more on trying to resist the urge to sip from the glass that Silas had already refilled for her. Aron loved to barter. It was a hobby of his to get the best price possible, no matter what he was after.

“I mean no disrespect, of course,” Silas said, wringing his hands. “Would you be willing to come up to twenty-five centimos per case?”

“No, I would not.” Aron inspected his fingernails. “As good as your wine is, I know there are many other wine sellers at this busy market, as well as on our way back to the ship, who’d be more than happy to accept my offer. I can take my business to them if you’d prefer to lose this sale. Is that what you want?”

“No, I . . .” Silas swallowed, his forehead a furrow of wrinkles. “I do want to sell my wine. It’s the reason I’m here. But for fifteen centimos . . .”



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“I have a better idea. Why don’t we make it fourteen centimos per case?” A glint of wickedness appeared in Aron’s green eyes. “And you have to the count of ten to accept or my offer decreases by another centimo.”

Mira looked away from the debate, embarrassed. Cleo opened her mouth—then, remembering what Aron could do with her secret if she chose, closed it. He was determined to get this wine for the lowest price he could. And it wasn’t as if he couldn’t afford to pay any more, since Cleo knew he had more than enough money on him to buy many cases even at the top price.

“Fine,” Silas finally said through clenched teeth, although it seemed as if it deeply pained him. He flicked a glance at Felicia before returning his attention to Aron. “Fourteen per case for six-teen cases. I’ll give my daughter the wedding she deserves.”

“Excellent. As we Auranians have always assured you . . .” With a small smile of victory, Aron dug into his pocket to pull out a roll of notes, counting them off into the man’s outstretched palm. It was now more than obvious that the total sum was only a small percentage of what Aron had with him. By the look of outrage in Silas’s eyes, the insult wasn’t missed. “. . . Grapes,” Aron continued, “will never fail to feed your nation.”

Two figures approached the stall from Cleo’s left.“Felicia,” a deep voice asked. “What are you doing here?

Shouldn’t you be with your friends, getting all dressed up?”“Soon, Tomas,” she whispered. “We’re about to finish up here.”Cleo glanced to her left. Both boys who’d approached the stall

had dark hair, nearly black. Dark brows slashed over copper-brown eyes. They were tall and broad-shouldered and deeply tanned. Tomas, the older of the two, in his early twenties, studied his father and sister. “Is there something wrong?”



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“Wrong?” Silas said through gritted teeth. “Of course not. I’m conducting a transaction, that’s all.”

“You’re lying. You’re upset right now. I can tell.”“I’m not.”The other boy cast a dark glare at Aron and then at Cleo and

Mira. “Are these people trying to cheat you, Father?”“Jonas,” Silas said tiredly, “this isn’t your business.”“This is my business, Father. How much did this boy”—Jonas’s

gaze swept the length of Aron with undisguised distaste—“agree to pay you?”

“Fourteen a case,” Aron offered casually. “A fair price that your father was more than happy to accept.”

“Fourteen?” Jonas sputtered. “You dare insult him like that?”Tomas grabbed the back of Jonas’s shirt and pulled him back-

ward. “Calm down.”Jonas’s dark eyes flashed. “When our father’s being taken advan-

tage of by some ridiculous silk-wearing bastard, I take offense.”“Bastard?” Aron’s voice had turned to ice. “Who are you calling

a bastard, peasant?”Tomas turned slowly, anger brimming in his gaze. “My brother

was calling you a bastard. Bastard.”And this, Cleo thought with a sinking feeling, was the absolute

worst thing someone could ever call Aron. It wasn’t common knowl-edge, but he was a bastard. Born of a pretty blond maid his father once took a liking to. Since Sebastien Lagaris’s wife was barren, she had taken the baby on as her own from the moment he was born. The maid, Aron’s real mother, had died soon after under mysterious circumstances that no one had dared to question either then or now. But there was still talk. And this talk was what had met Aron’s ears when he was old enough to understand what it all meant.



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“Princess?” Theon asked, as if looking for her command to inter-vene. She put her hand on his arm to stop him. This didn’t need to become more of a scene than it already was.

“Let’s go, Aron.” She exchanged a worried look with Mira, who nervously set down her second glass of wine.

Aron’s attention didn’t leave Tomas. “How dare you insult me?”“You should obey your little girlfriend and leave,” Tomas advised.

“The sooner the better.”“And as soon as your father fetches the cases of wine for me, I’d

be more than happy to do just that.”“Forget the wine. Walk away and consider yourself lucky that

I didn’t make a bigger deal of your insult toward my father. He is trusting and willing to undersell himself. I am not.”

Aron bristled, his previous calm now thrust aside by offense and inebriation, making him much braver than he should have been when faced with two tall, muscular Paelsians. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

“Do we care?” Jonas and his brother exchanged a glance.“I am Aron Lagaris, son of Sebastien Lagaris, lord of Elder’s

Pitch. I stand here in your market accompanied by none other than Princess Cleiona Bellos of Auranos. Show respect to us both.”

“This is ridiculous, Aron.” Cleo hissed a small breath from be-tween her teeth. She did wish that he wouldn’t put on such airs. Mira slipped her arm through Cleo’s and squeezed her hand. Let’s go, she seemed to be signaling.

“Oh, your highness.” Sarcasm dripped from Jonas’s words as he mock-bowed. “Both of your highnesses. It is a true honor to be in your shining presence.”

“I could have you beheaded for such disrespect,” Aron slurred. “Both of you and your father. Your sister too.”



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“Leave my sister out of this,” Tomas growled. “Let me guess, if it’s her wedding day, I’ll assume she’s already

with child? I’ve heard Paelsian girls don’t wait for marriage before they spread their legs to anyone with enough coin to pay.” Aron glanced at Felicia, who looked mortified and indignant. “I have some money. Perhaps you might give me a half hour of your attentions before dusk.”

“Aron!” Cleo snapped, appalled.That she was totally ignored by him was no surprise. Jonas

turned his furious gaze on her—so hot she felt singed by it. Tomas, who seemed the marginally less hotheaded of the two

brothers, turned the darkest, most venomous glare she’d ever seen in her life on Aron. “I could kill you for saying such a thing about my sister.”

Aron gave him a thin smile. “Try it.”Cleo finally cast a look over her shoulder at a frustrated-looking

Theon, whom she’d basically commanded not to intervene. It was clear to her now that she had no control over this situation. All she wanted to do was go back to the ship and leave all this unpleasant-ness far behind. But it was too late for that now.

Powered by the insult toward his sister, Tomas flew at Aron with fists clenched. Mira gasped and put her hands over her eyes. There was no doubt Tomas would easily win a fight between the two and beat the thinner Aron into a bloody pulp. But Aron had a weapon—the fashionable jeweled dagger he wore at his hip.

It was now in his grip. Tomas didn’t see the knife. When he drew closer and grabbed

hold of Aron’s shirt, Aron thrust his blade into Tomas’s throat. The boy’s hands shot up to his neck as the blood began to gush, his eyes wide with shock and pain. A moment later, he fell to his knees



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and then fully hit the ground. His hands clawed at his throat, the dagger still deeply embedded there. Blood swiftly formed a crim-son puddle around the boy’s head.

It had all happened so fast.Cleo clamped her hand against her mouth to keep from scream-

ing. Another did scream—Felicia let out a piercing wail of horror that turned Cleo’s blood ice cold. And suddenly the rest of the market collectively took notice of what had happened.

Shouts sliced through the market. There was a sudden rush of bodies all around her, pushing and shoving. She shrieked. Theon clamped his arm around Cleo’s waist and roughly yanked her back-ward. Jonas had started for her and Aron, grief and fury etched onto his face. Theon pushed Mira in front of him and pulled Cleo under his arm, Aron close behind. They fled the market while Jo-nas’s enraged words pursued them.

“You’re dead! I’ll kill you for this! Both of you!” “He deserved it,” Aron growled. “He was going to try to kill me.

I was defending myself.”“Keep going, your lordship,” grunted Theon, sounding dis-

gusted. They pushed their way through the crowd, making their stumbling way onto the road back to the ship.

Tomas would never live to see his sister get married. Felicia witnessed her brother’s murder on her wedding day. The wine Cleo had drunk churned and soured in her stomach. She yanked away from Theon’s grip and threw up on the path.

She could have had Theon stop this before it got so far out of control. But she hadn’t.

No one seemed to be following them, and after a while it be-came clear that the Paelsians were letting them leave. They slowed to a fast stride. Cleo kept her head down, holding on to Mira for



23

support. The foursome walked through the dusty landscape in ab-solute silence.

Cleo thought she’d never get the image of the boy’s pain-filled eyes out of her mind.


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Looking back, none of this would have happened if I’d brought

lip gloss the night of the Homecoming Dance.

Bee Franklin was the first person to notice that my lips were

all naked and indecent. We were standing outside of our school,

Grove Academy. It was late October, and the night was surpris-

ingly cool; in Pine Grove, Alabama, where I live, it’s not unheard

of to have a hot Halloween. But that night felt like fall, complete

with that nice smoky smell in the air. I was super relieved that it

was cold, because my jacket was wool, and there was nothing

more tragic than a girl sweating in wool. I was wearing the jacket

over a knee-length pink sheath dress. If I was going to be crowned

Homecoming Queen tonight—and that seemed like a lock—I

was going to do it looking as classy as possible in my demure

pink dress and pearls.

“Are you nervous?” Bee asked as I rubbed my hands up and

down my arms. Like me, Bee was in pink, but her dress was

closer to magenta and the bodice was covered in tiny sequins

that winked and shivered in the parking lot lights. Or maybe

that was just Bee. Unlike me, she hadn’t worn a jacket.

9780399256936_RebelBelle_TX_p1-346_bluesCXS.indd 1 10/21/13 4:08 PM

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Our dates, Brandon and Ryan, were off searching for a park-

ing place. They had been annoyed that Bee and I had insisted

on not showing up until the thirty minutes before the crowning,

but there was no way I was going to risk getting punch spilled on

me or my makeup sliding off my face (not to mention the sweat-

iness! See above, re: wool jacket) before I had that sparkly tiara

on my head. I planned on looking fierce in the yearbook pictures.

“Of course I’m not nervous,” I told Bee. And it was true, I

wasn’t. Okay, maybe I was a little bit anxious . . .

Bee gave an exaggerated eye roll. “Seriously? Harper Jane

Price, you have not been able to successfully lie to me since the

Second-Grade Barbie Incident. Admit that you’re freaking out.”

She held up one hand, pinching her thumb and forefinger to-

gether. “Maybe a leeeeeetle bit?”

Laughing, I caught her hand and pulled it down. “Not even a

‘leeeeeetle bit.’ It’s just Homecoming.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to get all queenly tonight. I think that

warrants some nerves. Or are you saving them for Cotillion?”

Just the word sent all the nerves Bee could have wanted jitter-

ing through my system, but before I could admit that, her dark

eyes suddenly went wide. “Omigod! Harper! Your lips!”

“What?” I asked, raising a hand to them.

“They’re nekkid,” she said. “You are totally gloss-less!”

“Who’s ‘nekkid’?”

I looked up to see the boys walking toward us. The orange

lights played up the red in Ryan’s hair, and he was grinning, his

hands in his pockets. I felt that same little flutter in my stomach

that I’d been feeling since the first day I saw Ryan Bradshaw, way


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back in the third grade. It had taken me six years from that day

to make him my boyfriend, but looking at him now, I had to

admit, it had been worth the wait.

“My lips,” I said. “I must’ve wiped off all my gloss at the

restaurant.”

“Well, damn,” he said, throwing his arm around my shoul-

ders. “I’d hoped for something a little more exciting. Of course,

no lip gloss means I can safely do this.”

He lowered his head and kissed me, albeit pretty chastely.

PDA is vile, and Ryan, being my Perfect Boyfriend, knows how I

feel about it.

“Hope you girls are happy,” Brandon said when we broke

apart. He had both of his arms wrapped around Bee from be-

hind, his hands clasped right under her . . . um, abundant assets.

Bee was so tall that Brandon’s chin barely cleared her shoulder.

“We had to park way down the effing road.”

Okay, I should probably mention right here that Brandon used

the real word, but this is my story, so I’m cleaning it up a little.

Besides, if I honestly quoted Brandon, this thing would look like

a Cops transcript.

“Don’t say that word!” I snapped.

Brandon rolled his eyes. “What the hell, Harper, are you, like,

the language police?”

I pressed my lips together. “I just think that the F-word should

be saved for dire occasions. And having to park a hundred yards

from the gym is not a dire occasion.”

“So sorry, Your Highness,” Brandon said, scowling as Bee el-

bowed him in the ribs.


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“Easy, dude,” Ryan said, shooting Brandon a warning look.

Ignoring Brandon, I turned to Bee. “Do you have any lip gloss?

I completely spaced on bringing any.”

“My girl forgot makeup?” Ryan asked, quirking an eyebrow.

“Man, you are stressed about this Queen thing.”

“No, I’m not,” I said immediately, even though, hello, I clearly

was. But I didn’t like when people used the “S-word” around me.

After all, a big part of my reputation at the Grove was my ability

to handle anything and everything.

Ryan raised his hands in apology. “Okay, okay, sorry. But, I

mean, this is obviously pretty important to you, or you wouldn’t

have spent over a grand on that outfit.” He smiled again, shaking

his head so his hair fell over his eyes. “I really hope your tastes

get cheaper if we get married.”

“I hear that, man,” Brandon said, lifting his hand to high-five

Ryan. “Chicks gonna break us.”

Bee rolled her eyes again, but I didn’t know whether it was

at the guys or the fact that my outfit was over a thousand dol-

lars (yes, I know that’s a completely ridiculous amount for a

seventeen-year-old girl to spend on a Homecoming dress, but,

hey, I can wear it, like, a million times provided I don’t gain five

pounds. Or at least that was how I rationalized it to my mom.)

“Here.” Bee thrust a tube into my hand.

I held it up to read the name on the bottom. “ ‘Salmon

Fantasy’?”

“That’s close to the shade you wear.” Bee’s long blond hair was

woven into a fishtail braid, and she tossed it over her shoulder as

she handed me the lip gloss.


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“I wear ‘Coral Shimmer.’ That is very different.”

Bee made a face that said, “I am only tolerating you because

we’ve been best friends since we were five,” but I kept going,

drawing myself up to my full height with mock imperiousness,

“And Salmon Fantasy has to be the grossest beauty product name

ever. Who has fantasies about salmon?”

“People who screw fish,” Brandon offered, completely crack-

ing himself up. Ryan didn’t laugh, but I saw the corners of his

mouth twitching.

“So witty, Bran,” I muttered, and this time, when Bee rolled

her eyes, I had no doubt that it was at the guys.

“Look,” she said to me, “it’s either Salmon Fantasy or naked

lips. Your choice.”

I sighed and clutched the tube of lip gloss. “Okay,” I said, “but

I’m gonna have to find a bathroom.” If it had been my Coral

Shimmer, I could have put it on without a mirror, but there was

no way I was slapping on a new shade sight unseen. Ryan pulled

open the gym door, and I ducked under his arm to walk into the

gym. As soon as I did, I could hear the opening riff of “Sweet

Home Alabama.” It’s not a dance until someone plays that song.

The gym looked great, and my chest tightened with pride. I

know everyone, even Ryan, thinks I’m crazy to do all the stuff

I do at school, but I honestly love the place. I love its redbrick

buildings, and the chapel bells that ring to signal class changes.

I love that both my parents went here, and their parents before

them. So yeah, maybe I do stretch myself a little thin, but it’s

completely worth it. The Grove is a happy place to go to school,

and I liked to think my good example was the reason for that.


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And it meant that when people thought of the name “Price” at

Grove Academy, they’d think of all the good things I’d done for

the school, and not . . . other stuff.

Instead, I focused on the decorations. I’m SGA president—the

first-ever junior to be elected to the position, I should add—so

Homecoming activities are technically my responsibility. But

tonight, I’d delegated all of the decorating to my protégée, soph-

omore class president, Lucy McCarroll. My only contribution

had been to ban crepe streamers and balloon arches. Can you say

tacky?

Lucy had done a great job. The walls were covered in a silky,

shimmery purple material and there were colored lights pulsat-

ing with the music. Looking over at the punch table, I saw that

she’d even brought in a little fountain with several bistro tables

clustered around it.

I scanned the crowd until I saw Lucy, and when I caught her

eye, I gave her the thumbs-up, and mouthed, “Nice!”

“Harper!” I heard someone cry. I turned around to see

Amanda and Abigail Foster headed my way. They were identi-

cal twins, but relatively easy to tell apart since Amanda always

wore her long brown hair up, and Abigail wore hers down. To-

night, both were wearing green dresses with spaghetti straps,

but Amanda’s was hunter green while Abigail’s was closer to

seafoam.

The twins were on the cheerleading squad with me and Bee,

and Abi and I worked together on SGA. Right behind them was

Mary Beth Riley, wobbling on her high heels. Next to me, Bee


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blew out a long breath before muttering, “Maybe no one will

notice if she wears tennis shoes under her dress.”

Despite Bee’s low tone, Mary Beth heard her. “I’m working on

it,” she said, glaring at Bee. “I’ll get better by Cotillion.”

Since “Riley” came right after “Price” alphabetically, Mary

Beth would be following me down the giant staircase at Magno-

lia House, the mansion where Cotillion was held every year. So

far, we’d only had two practices, but Mary Beth had tripped and

nearly fallen directly on top of me both times.

Which was why I’d suggested she start wearing the heels

every day.

“Speaking of that,” Amanda said, laying a hand on my arm.

Even under her makeup, I could see the constellation of freckles

arcing across her nose. That was another way to tell the twins

apart; Abi’s nose was freckle free. “We got an e-mail from Miss

Saylor right before we left for the dance. She wants to schedule

another practice Monday afternoon.”

I bit back a sigh. I had a Future Business Leaders of America

meeting Monday after school, so that would have to be moved.

Maybe Tuesday? No, Tuesday was cheerleading practice, and

Wednesday was SGA. Still, when Saylor Stark told you there

was going to be an extra Cotillion practice, you went. All the

other stuff could wait.

“I’m so sick of practice,” Mary Beth groaned, tipping her head

back. As she did, her dark red hair fell back from her ears, reveal-

ing silver hoops that were way too big. Ugh. “It’s Cotillion. We

wear a white dress. We walk down some stairs, we drink some


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punch and dance with our dads. And then we all pat ourselves

on the back and pretend we did it just to raise money for char-

ity, and that it’s not stupid and old-fashioned and totally self-

indulgent.”

“Mary Beth!” Amanda gasped, while Abigail glanced around

like Miss Saylor was going to swoop out of the rafters. Bee’s huge

eyes went even bigger, and her mouth opened and closed several

times, but no sounds came out.

“It is not!” I heard someone practically shriek. Then I realized

it was me. I took a deep breath through my nose and did my best

to make my voice calm as I continued. “I just mean . . . Mary

Beth, Cotillion is a lot more than wearing a white dress and danc-

ing with your dad. It’s tradition. It’s when we make the transition

from girls to women. It’s . . . important.”

Mary Beth chewed her lip and studied me for a moment.

“Okay, maybe.” Then she shrugged and gave a tiny smile. “But

we’ll see how you feel when I’m ‘transitioning’ into a heap at the

bottom of those stairs.”

“You’ll do fine,” I told her, hoping I sounded more convinced

than I felt. I’d spent months preparing for my Homecoming cor-

onation, but Cotillion? I’d been getting ready for that since I was

four years old and Mom had shown me and my older sister,

Leigh-Anne, her Cotillion dress. I still remembered the smooth

feel of the silk under my hands. It had been her grandmother’s

dress, Mom had told us, and one day, Leigh-Anne and I would

wear it, too.

Two years ago, Leigh-Anne had, but for my Cotillion, I’d be

wearing a dress Mom and I had bought last summer in Mobile.


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“Babe!” I heard Ryan call from behind me.

As I turned to smile at him, I heard one of the girls sigh.

Probably Mary Beth. And I had to admit, striding toward us, his

auburn hair flopping over his forehead, shoulders back, hands

in his pockets, Ryan was completely sigh-worthy. I held my

hand out to him as he approached, and he slipped it easily into

his own.

“Ladies,” Ryan said, nodding at Amanda, Abigail, and Mary

Beth. “Let me guess. Y’all are . . . plotting world domination?”

Mary Beth giggled, which had the unfortunate effect of mak-

ing her wobble even more. Abigail had to grab her elbow to keep

her from falling over.

“No,” Amanda told him, deadly serious. “We’re talking about

Cotillion.”

“Ah, world domination, Cotillion. Same difference,” Ryan re-

plied with an easy grin, and this time, all three girls giggled, even

Amanda.

Turning his attention to me, Ryan raised his eyebrows. “So

are we just going to stand around and listen to this band butcher

Lynyrd Skynyrd or are we going to dance?”

“Yeah,” Brandon said, coming up next to Ryan and grabbing

Bee around the waist. “Let’s go turn this mother out.”

He pulled her out onto the dance floor, where he immediately

flopped on his belly and started doing the worm. I watched Bee

dance awkwardly around him and wondered for the millionth

time why she wasted her time with that goofball.

My own much less goofy boyfriend took my hand and started

pulling me toward Bee and Brandon, but I pulled it back and held


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up the lip gloss. “I’ll be right back!” I shouted over the music, and

he nodded before heading for the refreshment table.

I glanced over my shoulder as I walked into the gym lobby

and was treated to the sight of Brandon and one of the other

basketball players doing that weird fish-catching dance move.

With each other.

Since we’d gotten there so late, most everyone who was com-

ing to the dance was already inside the gym, but there were a few

stragglers coming in the main gym lobby doors. Two teachers,

Mrs. Delacroix and Mr. Schmidt, were also in the lobby, undoubt-

edly doing “purse and pocket checks.” Grove Academy was really

strict about that sort of thing now. Two years ago, a few kids

smuggled in a little bottle of liquor at prom and, later that night,

got into a car accident. My sister—

I cut that thought off. Not tonight.

It was strange to be in the school at night. The only light in

the lobby came from a display case full of “participation” tro-

phies with Ryan’s name on them. The Grove was excellent in

academics, but famously crappy at sports, even against other tiny

schools. I know that sounds like sacrilege in the South, but just

like any other expensive private school, Grove Academy was way

more invested in SAT scores than any scoreboard. We left the

football championships to the giant public school across town,

Lee High.

I’ve been up at school at night a few times, and it’s always

creepy. I guess it’s the quiet. I’m used to the halls being deafen-

ing, so the sound of my heels clicking on the linoleum seemed


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freakishly loud. In fact, they almost echoed, making me feel like

there was someone behind me.

I hurried out of the lobby and turned the corner into the

En glish hall, so I didn’t see the guy in front of me until it was

too late.

“Oh!” I exclaimed as we bumped shoulders. “Sorry!”

Then I realized who I’d bumped into, and immediately regret-

ted my apologetic tone. If I’d known it was David Stark, I would

have tried to hit him harder, or maybe stepped on his foot with

the spiky heel of my new shoes for good measure.

I did my best to smile at him, though, even as I realized my

stomach was jumping all over the place. He must have scared me

more than I’d thought.

David scowled at me over the rims of his ridiculous hipster

glasses—the kind with the thick black rims. I hate those. I mean,

it’s the twenty-first century. There are fashionable options for

eyewear.

“Watch where you’re going,” he said. Then his lips twisted in

a smirk. “Or could you not see through all that mascara?”

I would’ve loved nothing more than to tell him to kiss my ass,

but one of the responsibilities of being a student leader at the

Grove is being polite to everyone, even if they are a douchebag

who wrote not one, but three incredibly unflattering articles in

the school paper about what a terrible job you’re doing as SGA

president.

And you especially needed to be polite to said douchebag when

he happened to be the nephew of Saylor Stark, president of the


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Pine Grove Junior League; head of the Pine Grove Betterment

Society; chairwoman of the Grove Academy School Board; and,

most importantly, organizer of Pine Grove’s Annual Cotillion.

So I forced myself to smile even bigger at David. “Nope, just

in a hurry,” I said. “Are you, uh . . . are you here for the dance?”

He snorted. “Um, no. I’d rather slam my testicles in a locker

door. I have some work to do for the paper.”

I tried to keep my expression blank, but I have one of those

faces that shows every single thing that goes through my mind.

Apparently this time was no exception, because David laughed.

“Don’t worry, Pres, nothing about you this time.”

If ever there were a time to confront David about the mean

things he’s written about me, this was it. Of course, those articles

hadn’t exactly mentioned me by name. I seriously doubt Mrs.

Laurent, the newspaper advisor, would let him slam me directly.

But they’d basically said that the “current administration” is

more concerned with dances and parades than the real issues

facing the Grove’s students, and that under the “current admin-

istration,” the SGA has gotten all cliquey, leaving out the major-

ity of the student body.

To which I say, um, hello? Not my fault if people don’t attempt

to get involved in their own school. And as for the “real issues”

facing the Grove’s students? The kids who go here all come from

super nice households that can afford to send their kids here.

We’re not exactly plagued with social problems, you know?

Which you’d think David would get. He’d lived in Pine Grove

practically his whole life, and not only that, he lived with his

Aunt Saylor in one of the nicest houses in town.


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Or maybe David’s issues had nothing to do with “social injus-

tice” at the Grove and everything to do with the fact that he and

I had loathed each other since kindergarten. Heck, even before

that. Mom says he’s the only baby I ever bit in daycare.

But before I could reply, the music stopped in the gym.

I checked my watch and saw that it was a quarter till ten.

Crap.

David gave another one of those mean laughs. “Go ahead,

Harper,” he said, sliding his messenger bag from one hip to the

other. I know. A messenger bag. And those glasses. And he was

wearing a stupid argyle sweater and Converse high-tops. Practi-

cally every other boy at the Grove lived in khakis and button-

downs. I wasn’t sure David Stark owned any pants other than

jeans that were too small.

“Only a few more minutes until your coronation,” he said,

running a hand through his sandy blond hair, making it stand up

even more than usual. “I’m sure you’d hate to miss everyone’s

felicitations.”

David had beaten me in the final round of our sixth-grade spell-

ing bee with that word and now, all these years later, he still tried

to drop it into conversation whenever he could. Counting to ten

in my head, I reminded myself of what Mom always said when-

ever I complained about David Stark: “His parents died when he

was just a little bitty thing. Saylor’s done her best with him, but

still, something like that is bound to make anyone act ugly.”

Since he was a tragic orphan, I made myself say “Have a nice

night” through clenched teeth as I turned to head to the nearest

bathroom.


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He just shrugged and started walking backward down the

hall, toward the computer lab. “You might wanna put some lip-

stick on,” he called after me.

“Yeah, thanks,” I muttered, but he was already gone.

God, what a jerk, I thought, pushing the bathroom door open.

If my shoes had sounded loud in the gym lobby, it was nothing

compared to how they sounded in the bathroom. Like the dress,

they were a little ridiculous, more for their height than their cost.

I’m 5'4", but I was tottering around 5'8" on those bad boys.

Looking in the mirror, I saw why Bee had been so horrified by

my naked lips. My skin is pale, so without lip gloss, my lips had

kind of disappeared into my face. But other than that, I looked

good. Great, even. The makeup lady at Dillard’s had done a fabu-

lous job of playing up my big green eyes, easily my best feature,

and my dark hair was pulled back from my face, tumbling down

my back in soft waves and setting off my high cheekbones.

Yeah, I know it’s vain. But being pretty is currency, not just at

the Grove, but in life. Sure, I wasn’t staggeringly beautiful like

my sister, Leigh-Anne, had been, but—

No. Not going there.

I unscrewed the tube of Salmon Fantasy, shuddered again at

the name, and started applying. It wasn’t as pretty as my Coral

Shimmer, but it would do.

I had just slathered on the second coat when the bathroom

door flew open, banging against the tile wall so loudly that I

jumped.

And scrawled a line of Salmon Fantasy from the corner of my

mouth nearly to my ear.


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“Oh, dammit!” I cried, stamping my foot. “Brandon, what—”

I don’t know why I thought it must be Brandon. Probably be-

cause it seemed like the sort of moron thing he’d do, trying to

scare me.

But it wasn’t Brandon. It was Mr. Hall, one of the school

janitors.

He stood in the doorway for a second, staring at me like he

didn’t know who—or what—I was.

“Oh my God, Mr. Hall,” I said, pressing a hand to my chest.

“You scared me to death!”

He just stared at me with this wild look in his eyes before

turning around and slamming the bathroom door shut.

And then I heard a sound that made my stomach drop.

It was the loud click of a dead bolt being thrown.

Mr. Hall, the tubby janitor, had just locked us in the bath-

room.


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Chapter 2

Okay. Okay, I can handle this, I thought, even as panic started

clawing through my chest.

“Mr. Hall,” I started, my voice high and shaky.

He just waved his hand at me and pressed his ear to the door.

I don’t know what he heard, but whatever it was made him turn

and sag against the wall.

And that’s when I noticed the blood dripping on his shoes.

“Mr. Hall!” I cried, running toward him. My heels slid on the

slick tile floor, so I kicked them off. I got to Mr. Hall just as he

slumped to the ground.

His face was pale, and it looked all weird and waxy, like he was

a dummy instead of a person. I could see beads of sweat on his

forehead and under his nose. His breath was coming out in short

gasps, and there was a dark red stain spreading across his expan-

sive belly. There was no doubt in my mind that he was dying.

I knelt down next to him, my blood rushing loudly in my ears.

“It’s gonna be okay, Mr. Hall, I’ll go get someone, everything is

gonna be fine.”


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But just as I reached for the dead bolt, he reached out and

grabbed my ankle, pulling me down so hard that I landed on my

butt with a shriek.

Mr. Hall was shaking his head frantically.

“Don’t,” he gurgled. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep

breath through his nose, like he was trying to calm down. “Don’t,”

he said again, and this time, his voice was a little stronger. “Don’t

open that door, okay. Just . . . just help me get to my feet.”

I looked down at him. Mr. Hall was pretty substantial, and I

didn’t think there was any way I was lifting him off that floor.

But somehow, by slipping my arms under his and bracing myself

against the wall, I got him up and propped against the door of

one of the bathroom stalls.

Once he was up, I said, “Look, Mr. Hall, I really think I should

get help. I don’t even have a cell phone with me, and you”—I

looked down at the sticky red circle on his stomach—“you look

really hurt, and I think we should call 911, and—”

But he wasn’t listening to me. Instead, he opened his shirt.

I braced myself for a wound on his stomach, but I wasn’t pre-

pared to see what looked like a bloodstained pillow.

With a grunt, Mr. Hall tugged at something on his back, and

the pillow slid from his stomach to land soundlessly on the floor.

Now I could see the gash, and it was just as bad as I’d thought

it would be, but my brain was still reeling from the whole “Mr.

Hall isn’t fat, he just wears a fake belly” thing. Why would Mr.

Hall pretend to be fat? Was it a disguise? Why would a janitor

need a disguise?


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But before I could ask him any of this, Mr. Hall groaned and

slid to the floor again, his eyes fluttering closed.

I sank with him, my arm still behind his back. “Mr. Hall!” I

cried. When he didn’t respond, I reached out with my free hand

and slapped his cheek with enough force to make his head rock

to the side. He opened his eyes, but it was like he couldn’t see me.

“Mr. Hall, what is going on?” I asked, the acoustics of the

bathroom turning my question into an echoing shriek.

I was shaking, and suddenly realized how cold I was. I remem-

bered from Anatomy and Physiology that this was what going

into shock felt like, and I had to fight against the blackness that

was creeping over my eyes. I couldn’t faint. I wouldn’t faint.

Mr. Hall turned his head and looked at me, then really looked

at me. Blood was still pulsing out of the gash that curved from

under his khaki slacks around to his navel, but not as much now.

Most of it seemed to be in a big puddle under him.

“What . . . what’s . . . your name?” he asked in a series of soft

gasps.

“Harper,” I answered, tears pooling in my eyes, and bile rush-

ing up my throat. “Harper Price.”

He nodded and smiled a little. I’d never really looked at Mr.

Hall before. He was younger than I’d thought he was, and his

eyes were dark brown. They were beautiful, actually.

“Harper Price. You . . . run this place. Kids talk. Protect . . .”

Mr. Hall trailed off and his eyes closed. I slapped him again,

and his eyes sprang open. He smiled that weird little smile

again.

“You’re a tough one,” he murmured.


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“Mr. Hall, please,” I said, shifting to get my arm free. “What

happened to you? Why can’t we open the door?”

“Look after him, okay?” he said, his eyes looking glazed again.

“Make sure he’s . . . he’s safe.”

“Who?” I asked, but I wasn’t even sure he was actually talking

to me. I’ve heard that when people are dying, their brains fire off

all sorts of weird things. He could have been talking to his mom,

or his wife, if he had one.

Suddenly there was a loud rattle at the door. I gave a thin

scream, and Mr. Hall grabbed at the stall door like he was trying

to pull himself up.

“He’s coming,” Mr. Hall gasped.

“Who?” I yelled. I felt like I had stepped into a nightmare. Five

minutes ago my main concern had been whether Salmon Fan-

tasy would clash with my pink dress. Now I was cradling a dying

man on the bathroom floor while some crazy person pounded

on the door.

Mr. Hall managed to get himself into a sitting position, and

for one second, I thought we might actually be okay. Like, maybe

the wound that had soaked through that pillow wasn’t so bad. Or

maybe this whole thing was an elaborate prank.

But Mr. Hall wasn’t going to be okay. There was a white line

all around his lips, which were starting to look blue, and his

breaths were getting shallower and shorter.

He swung his head to look at me, and there was such sadness

in his eyes that the tears finally spilled over my cheeks. “I’m so

sorry for this, Harper,” he said, his voice the strongest it had

sounded since he’d run into the bathroom.


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I thought he meant he was sorry for dying and leaving me at

the mercy of whatever was on the other side of that door.

But then he took a really deep breath, lurched forward,

grabbed my face, and covered my lips with his.

My hands reached up to pry his fingers from my cheeks, but

for a guy who had barely been able to talk a few seconds ago, his

grip was surprisingly strong. And it hurt.

I was making these muffled shrieks because I was afraid to

open my mouth to scream.

Then I felt something cold—so cold that it brought even more

tears to my eyes—flow into my mouth and down my throat, and

I went very still.

He wasn’t trying to kiss me; it was like he was blowing some-

thing into me, this icy air that made my lungs sting like jogging

in January.

Tears were streaming down my face, and I let go of his hands,

my arms falling to my sides. By now, my chest was burning like

I’d been underwater for too long, and that gray fog was hovering

around the edge of my vision again. As the gray spread, I thought

of my sister, Leigh-Anne, and how hard it was going to be on my

parents if I died, too.

I don’t know if it was that thought, or the fact that being

found dead in the bathroom underneath a janitor was not how I

wanted people at the Grove to remember me, but suddenly I felt

this surge of strength. The gray disappeared as adrenaline shot

through my system, and I wrapped my fingers around Mr. Hall’s

wrists and yanked with everything I had.


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21

And just like that, he was off me.

I took a deep breath. Never had I felt so happy to breathe in

slightly stinky bathroom air.

For a long time, I just sat there against the stall door, shaking

and gasping. I could still hear whatever was on the other side rat-

tling, but it seemed far away for some reason, like it wasn’t even

connected to me.

I guess it only took about thirty seconds for me to catch my

breath, but it felt like forever. I looked down at Mr. Hall. Lying

on his back, his eyes staring at nothing, it was pretty clear that he

was dead.

Just as I was taking that in, the rattling at the door stopped.

The burn in my chest had faded to a tingle, and there was this

jumping feeling inside my stomach, like I’d swallowed a whole

bunch of Pop Rocks. My arms and legs felt heavy, and my head

was all spinny.

Slowly, I stood up, careful to keep my feet out of the puddle of

blood that continued to spread under Mr. Hall. I glanced down at

my legs and saw that my panty hose were surprisingly run-free,

despite everything that had just happened.

What had just happened?

I forced myself to look at Mr. Hall again. The gash in his stom-

ach was horrible, and big, and sure, it looked like a wound from

some sort of medieval sword or something, but that was impos-

sible, right? He probably just hurt himself on some scary janitor

equipment. I mean, the floor waxer didn’t look like it could slice

somebody open, but it’s not like I’d ever inspected it for danger.


1S

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22

The more I thought about it, the more comforting the idea

seemed. It was certainly better than thinking there was a sword-

wielding maniac on the other side of the door.

It had just been a rogue piece of machinery. A blade or a belt

or something had snapped and cut Mr. Hall open, and that had

been the rattling at the door. He hadn’t had time to unplug it, and

it was probably spinning down the hall right now. I’d get out of

here, and I’d go find a teacher and tell him or her, and everything

would be fine.

I looked at myself in the mirror. My skin was almost as white

as Mr. Hall’s, making the Salmon Fantasy look cheap and too

bright.

“It’s going to be fine,” I told my reflection. “Everything is fine.”

I walked to the door, and as I did, I had to step over that weird

pillow thing Mr. Hall had strapped to his body.

Oh, right. That.

Why did Mr. Hall have a fake belly? My brain felt like it was

in a blender as I tried to think up a plausible explanation, hope-

fully one that would tie in with my possessed machinery idea.

Okay, Mr. Hall was younger than I’d thought. And cuter. Why

would he be wearing a disguise? Was he in the witness protection

program? A deadbeat dad hiding out from paying child support?

And there was something else. Something weird about him.

I looked back at his body, bracing myself against throwing up

or fainting, but I didn’t feel anything except that tingle in my

chest.

It was something about his face, something that had just felt

odd when he’d . . . kissed me? Blown on me? Whatever.


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I crept back to him, still careful about the blood, then I reached

down and touched his beard. My dad and granddad both have

beards, and neither of theirs felt like this one.

Sliding my finger around the edge of his beard, just under his

left ear, I saw why.

It was a fake. It was a pretty good one, and it was glued on

super tight, but it was still a fake.

Then I glanced up at his balding head and saw a fine stubble

covering the bare half-moon of his scalp.

So Mr. Hall hadn’t been fat, or bearded, or balding.

“Oh, this is some bullshit,” I whispered. That’s when I knew I

was seriously freaked out. I never curse out loud, not even in

private. It’s just not ladylike.

There was no theory I could come up with to explain any of

that, no matter how CSI: Pine Grove I was trying to be. No, the

best thing to do was to get the heck out of the bathroom and find

a teacher, or a cop, or an exorcist. I’d take anyone at this point.

I hurried to the door before realizing I’d left Bee’s lip gloss in

the sink. My brain was still scrambled, and despite the dead body

at my feet, all I could think was that Bee loved that ugly stuff, and

I had to grab it before it was, like, confiscated for evidence or

something. So I ran back to the sink.

It’s funny to think about now, because even though that lip

gloss had gotten me into this whole mess, that same lip gloss

totally saved my life. If I hadn’t gone back for it, I would have

been at the door when it exploded into two pieces and slammed

into the row of stalls with the force of a small bomb.

And if that hadn’t flattened me like a pancake, I still would


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24

have been directly in the path of the man who came running in

with a long, curved blade—a scimitar, I was pretty sure I remem-

bered from World History II with Dr. DuPont—held out in front

of him.

So thanks to Bee’s lip gloss, I was standing frozen by the sink

when the sword-wielding maniac came in and my life stopped

making even the littlest bit of sense.

In all the dust from the door flying off, it took the man a min-

ute to realize I was there. He had his back to me as he knelt by

Mr. Hall’s body. I watched, still as a statue, as he reached into Mr.

Hall’s pockets, but I guess he didn’t find what he was looking

for because he stood up really fast and muttered the F-word. I

couldn’t hold it against him, though. This did seem like a dire

situation.

Then he turned around, and I’m sure the look of total confu-

sion on his face was reflected on mine.

“Harper?”

“Dr. DuPont?”

I didn’t get much time to wonder why my history teacher had

just killed a janitor, even though I had this whole joke forming

about how Dr. DuPont must really hate when his trash cans aren’t

emptied—you know, to make him see me as a person and not

just a potential shish kabob. I learned that in the self-defense class

Mom and I went to at the church last spring.

But that joke dried right up in my mouth, because Dr. DuPont

crossed the bathroom in two strides, and put his sword against

my neck.


1

C H A P T E R 1

The piece of paper could have been anything.

The spotlight behind me flashed acid green, then pink, then went

dark. The pink still burned into my retinas, lending a rosy glow to

the folded page clenched in my fist.

I stared at it for a few seconds, then reopened it.

The six-inch square had just dropped out of Jack Bishop’s bag.

Jack Bishop, the new guy, who had transferred to Lakehaven

High at the beginning of this week. Who had shown up here at

lighting tech rehearsal, even though he was the last person I’d expect

to be a theater kid.

He’d glanced at his phone and hurried down from the catwalk,

and was now making his way across the stage below, his footsteps

echoing through the theater. His white T-shirt went orange with the

next floodlight, then blue, a bright spot in the dark.

I made sure no one was watching, then smoothed the paper flat

again.

It was a photo. A photo of a girl with long dark hair and match-

ing dark eyes focused just out of the frame.

The girl was me.

Copyright © 2015 by Margret Hall. Not for sale.

2

C H A P T E R 2

I watched Jack until he disappeared.

On the other end of the catwalk, Lara Sanchez, the lighting di-

rector for the spring play and the person who forced me to come

today, leaned over all the new theater techs to demonstrate how an-

other light operated. It made the whole structure shudder.

I clutched at the wire mesh with white-knuckled fingers and

glanced at the photo again. In it, my lips were slightly parted, my

head turned, like I was talking to someone. He must have gotten it

online. Lara posted a ton of pictures. For Jack Bishop to go to the

trouble of searching one out meant . . . Well, there weren’t many

reasons a guy would be carrying your picture around.

I suddenly realized how stagnant the air up here was. Hot. Stuffy.

I was doing better than I thought I would, but I wouldn’t say no to

an excuse to get down.

I scrambled to my feet. “Sorry,” I whispered to Lara as I stepped

over legs and backpacks. “Excuse me.” I didn’t stop until I was on

solid ground. I brushed off my jeans, shoved the picture into my

messenger bag, then pushed open the heavy theater door.

B Hall looked especially drab after the neon stage, but Jack,


3

halfway to the gym and looking at his phone, might as well have

had a spotlight on him.

Since he’d started at Lakehaven on Monday, Jack had been in-

vited onto the yearbook committee and half the school’s sports

teams, and into EmmaBeth Porter’s pants, and those were just the

offers I’d overheard.

Meanwhile, I’d spent the whole week fighting the flutter in my

stomach that started when he sat next to me in sociology class. And

got worse when he smiled at me in calculus. And then he’d showed

up at lighting, which meant I’d been staring at the tattoo on his

forearm for the last half hour instead of paying attention.

I wasn’t just fascinated with his forearms, though, or his deep

gray eyes, or the dimple in his right cheek. He was ridiculously at-

tractive—not pretty, but good-looking in a chiseled way, his jawline

an angle rather than a curve, not a strand of espresso-colored hair

out of place—and to a lot of people, that would be enough.

To me, though, there was more. Jack was the new kid, like I was.

Like me, he said no to all the invitations. I never saw him talking to

anyone for more than a couple of minutes. But he seemed so confi-

dent about it. It was like he actually . . . didn’t care.

I pretended I didn’t care. About friends. About boys. About having

a life. Sometimes I thought I’d actually gotten the hang of it, but

then I’d find myself sneaking out of lighting rehearsal because there

was a traitorous part of me that wanted to know if this guy I’d been

watching for the past week had been watching me, too.

Jack made an abrupt right out the exit to the courtyard.

I should have stopped following him. What was I planning to

do, anyway? But when I got to where he’d turned, I heard a voice

echoing back into the hall through the plink of raindrops. “Why

would he be coming here?”


4

I stopped short, confused. Carefully, I peered through the

propped-open doors. Maybe it was somebody else.

It wasn’t. All I could see was his left arm, but it was Jack. His

compass tattoo was facing me, north pointing to the ground.

“Have you got any idea when?” he said, and I tried to make sense

of it. Unless my ears weren’t working, Jack Bishop was speaking with

a British accent.

He glanced behind him, and I shrank flat against the lockers.

“No, I haven’t seen him yet. Aren’t there more important things

to worry about?” He paused. “What would the Dauphins want with

her?”

Her? My hand flew to the front pocket of my bag, where I’d

tucked the photo.

“Sir?” Jack’s voice changed from agitated to confused. “Certainly,”

he said. “Level one priority. I understand.”

I shook my head. Of course he wasn’t talking about me. But what

was he talking about?

“I’ll do it by tonight, then,” Jack said after a pause. “Yes, sir.”

He must have hung up the phone, because he cursed under

his breath, and his footsteps squelched away on the rain-soaked

sidewalk.

I sagged against the lockers. The last few words of the conversa-

tion played out in my head. Level one priority. Sir.

An old teacher of his, maybe. A strict British grandfather. It was

none of my business, but the uncertainty in Jack’s usually calm voice

had unsettled me as much as the accent had.

I tucked a strand of dark hair behind my ears and took out the

picture again, studying my face in the dull fluorescent light.

Wait.


5

I looked closer. This photo was taken in the front yard at my

house. I recognized the spiky pine tree.

I didn’t remember Lara taking pictures there, and I never posted

photos online.

And if that was the case, where had Jack gotten it?


6

C H A P T E R 3

Avery June West!” I jumped. I’d spent too much time thinking

about the picture, and now I was about to be late for next period. I

turned to find Lara bouncing down the hall toward my locker, her

blue-tipped hair swinging. “Dude, thanks for running out on me.

What is your problem?”

For some reason, I didn’t want to tell her about Jack. “I told you I

don’t really like heights,” I said instead.

I spun my lock, jiggled the handle, and smacked the corner of the

door with my palm. It sprang open. Being the new kid in the middle

of the year means you get a lot of leftovers. Lockers are no exception.

“And we agreed lighting would be good for that, remember?”

Lara pulled a pack of Twizzlers from her backpack and offered it to

me. I shook my head. “And then you get to hang out with me. If you

did set design, you’d have to deal with Amber Leland the rest of the

year, and gross.”

I grabbed my Ancient Civilizations book. “I’m not going to ditch

you for set design.”

On the way to Ancient Civ, Lara told me about how Amie

Simpson had been suspended for smoking cigarettes with the


7

janitor, and how her date had no one to go to prom with now, and

their dinner reservation was blown.

“You should just come,” she said, pointing a long red Twizzler

rope at the prom committee table. “I know you said you weren’t go-

ing, but you could be Amie’s replacement.”

I looked at the prom poster. The theme was A Night in Holly-

wood. “I don’t think so, but thanks.”

I didn’t do school dances. Just like clubs—and especially like very

cute, very intriguing boys—they weren’t part of The Plan. I was de-

termined to stick to The Plan here in Lakehaven.

“Your loss,” Lara said. “The Olive Garden has unlimited

breadsticks.”

I tuned out when Molly Mattison came running up to ask if she

could borrow Lara’s favorite feather earrings.

Was the whole idea of The Plan cynical of me? Sure. Kind of

pathetic? Definitely. But I’d realized I needed to stop caring years

ago, in a moving truck between Portland and St. Louis. The Plan

worked, just like it was working this time. Lara was nice, but we’d

never be all that close. I’d done lighting today to get both her and my

mom off my back, but I’d specifically chosen the activity so I had an

excuse to fail. Thank you, fear of heights.

The thing is, being lonely is like walking in the cold without a

coat. It’s uncomfortable, but eventually you go numb. Once you get

used to not being lonely, though, the shock of going back is like hav-

ing your down comforter yanked off at six o’clock on a Minnesota

December morning.

Lara stopped talking and narrowed her eyes.

“What?” I started to say, but then I saw. Jack was walking toward

us down the hall. There was no way he’d followed me to my house

and taken a picture when I wasn’t looking. Lara must have taken it.


8

“He is a ridiculous human being,” Lara said.

Unlike every other girl in the school, she had no interest in Jack.

She thought he was a snob. “Too J.Crew,” she said, and she wasn’t

entirely wrong. He strutted down the hall with his hands in his

pockets, wearing a tailored button-down with rolled-up sleeves, like

he’d just stepped out of a photo shoot.

“Yeah,” I said. “Ridiculous.” I twisted the gold chain of my locket

between my fingers and shot one last glance over my shoulder as the

bell rang and we hurried into Ancient Civ. A few seconds later, Jack

paused in the doorway. His eyes met mine before he took his seat,

and I traced lines on my notebook.

Jack was in this class, calc, and sociology with me. We’d been

paired up for a project on “Families in America” the past couple of

days in sociology, which meant he now knew everything there was

to know about my life, from the constant moving for my mom’s job

to my dad leaving us when I was little. I was still surprised I’d told

him as much as I had. He wasn’t nearly as forthcoming. I thought he

would have at least mentioned posh British relatives who gave him

enigmatic assignments over the phone.

“Miss West? Avery?”

I jumped, and my pen slipped off my desk with a clatter. I hadn’t

even realized that class started.

“Can you answer the question for us?” Mrs. Lindley asked.

“Um . . .” I glanced at Lara. She pointed to her notes, but I

couldn’t read her pink scrawls. On my own notebook, where I should

have been taking notes, was a rough sketch of Jack’s compass tattoo.

I quickly covered it with my elbow.

“The Diadochi, Miss West, from the reading assigned last night.

Can you tell us the role they played in the life of Alexander the Great?”

I’d done the reading. I always did the reading. I might not be


9

good at people, but I was good at school. Right now, though, I was

drawing a complete blank.

“Alexander the Great conquered a lot of the ancient world. Um,

from Greece all the way to India,” I said, stalling as I flipped pages,

hoping the words would jump out at me.

Mrs. Lindley’s lips pursed like she’d bitten into something sour.

“The Diadochi were Alexander’s successors,” a deep voice said,

from three rows away. I turned. Jack was staring right at me. His

voice was back to normal, with no trace of the British accent.

Mrs. Lindley quirked an eyebrow in my direction.

“Alexander didn’t have a blood heir, so he left his kingdom to his

twelve generals,” Jack continued. Mrs. Lindley sighed and turned

her attention to him.

“Thank you, Mr. Bishop, for demonstrating what happens when

we do our homework. This time, I’ll forget that you didn’t raise your

hand. Can you tell us what year Alexander the Great died?”

When Jack had answered all her questions, he glanced back my

way.

I turned quickly back to my notes. I wished he hadn’t done that.

The last thing I needed was another reason to like him. I ripped out

the drawing of his tattoo, crumpled it, and shoved it into my bag.

After class, I waited while Lara put her books away. I made a

point to not look at Jack, but when I heard footsteps heading toward

us as the rest of the class filed out, I knew exactly who it was.

Jack’s dark hair had gone a bit wavy from the humidity, and he

had his canvas messenger bag slug casually over one shoulder. I fid-

dled with the lace at the hem of my tank top.

“Hey! You left me high and dry at lighting, too,” Lara said, poking

her index finger in the middle of Jack’s chest. “Rude. Both of you are

rude.”


10

“I’m sorry about that.” Jack’s voice was low and rough around

the edges, like it was scraping over gravel. “I had to take a call. My

grandfather’s sick.”

Oh. The tension I didn’t realize had been building in my chest

relaxed. I resisted the urge to ask where in England his grandfather

lived—then reminded myself once more that I shouldn’t care. Not

about Jack’s personal life, and not about the fact that even when he

was talking to Lara, he was looking at me.

Lara wrinkled her nose in a way that could mean either I’m sorry

or eww, old people. “That sucks,” she said. She turned back to me

as I slung my bag over my shoulder. And then she turned back to

Jack when he didn’t leave. And to me again. She gave me the most

unsubtle eyebrow raise ever. “Oh. Okay. I just remembered I gotta

go. Do . . . things. Ave, come over after school if you want, even if

you aren’t coming to prom. We’re doing our nails.”

I could have killed her, but I just pulled my hair out from under

the strap of my bag and smiled through clenched teeth.

“I think you lost this.” Jack handed me my pen as Lara walked

away. “It rolled under my desk.”

“Thanks.”

He walked beside me out of class, slowing his long strides to

match mine. He was probably just a little taller than average, but I

still had to crane my neck to look up at him. He glanced at me out

of the corner of his eye at the same time.

“And thanks for earlier,” I said quickly, “but I did do the reading.

I would have remembered the answer eventually.”

“Oh.” The space between his brows knitted together. Jack’s brows

were heavy and dark, and were as expressive as the rest of him was

stoic. “I’m sorry. I thought—”


11

“No, it’s okay.” I went through the motions of opening my locker

again. “I’m just saying I didn’t actually need to be rescued. But I ap-

preciate it.”

He gave me a tiny smile, and it was like sun shining through

armor. I busied myself putting my books in my bag.

“Actually, Avery,” Jack said. “I need to talk to you.”

My calculus book fell the rest of the way into my bag with a

thump.

“Can we go somewhere—” His phone buzzed. He let out a frus-

trated breath. “One second.”

While he checked a text, I zipped my bag shut. I didn’t care what

he had to say, I told myself. I didn’t. I didn’t. My black ankle boots

squeaked on the damp tile, and the hall echoed with last-minute

prom plans and the finality of lockers slamming one last time before

the weekend.

Maybe he was going to ask about homework. Or maybe he’d

say something horribly arrogant, Lara could be proven right, and I

could, truly forget about him.

I hazarded a glance up, and Jack’s brows quirked down danger-

ously as he typed a text. It was the same look he’d had on his face

when he’d left lighting earlier.

“Is your grandfather okay?” I asked.

“My—” His eyes narrowed for second, then he nodded. “He’ll

be fine. But, I was . . . um. Tonight.” He shifted, running a hand

through his hair. “Lara mentioned you’re not going to prom?”

I clenched my fist around the strap of my bag.

“I don’t really go to school dances,” I said. My voice was an octave

higher than usual.

“Oh.” Jack and I were mirror images of each other, both with bags


12

slung over a shoulder, two islands in a swirling river of people. “I get

it,” he said. “You move all the time. If it’s not going to last, is it even

worth the effort, right?”

I looked up sharply. There was no way perfectly put-together Jack

Bishop could understand The Plan.

“It’s just that—I was wondering—” Jack rubbed the compass tat-

too on his forearm with his opposite thumb, like a nervous habit.

Then he looked up at me from under his lashes, his gray eyes un-

bearably hopeful, and I melted into a puddle on the dirty hallway

floor. “I wanted to see if you’d like to go. With me.”

The rest of the school year flew by in fast-forward. We’d go to

prom. Maybe kiss good night. Sit next to each other in class, walk

hand in hand down the hall. Have someone who got what it was like

to be new when everyone else had known each other since they were

in diapers. And eventually, as much as I tried not to, I’d let him in.

I fast-forwarded more. It might be a month, it might be a year,

but inevitably, we’d move, and this time I wouldn’t be the only one

losing somebody.

I closed my eyes. It’d be better for him to ask someone else to

prom—a cheerleader, or a choir member, or anybody who wasn’t as

screwed up as I was. And better for me to forget he existed.

When my eyes fluttered open, I couldn’t look at him. “Thanks,” I

said to his feet. “But I don’t think so.” I turned and stalked off before

he could see the carefully patched-up hole in my heart tearing wide

open.


13

C H A P T E R 4

I was so lost in my thoughts, I almost blew through the one red

light in Lakehaven on the drive home from school. I slammed on

the brakes and came to a stop in front of Frannie’s Frozen Yogurt as

pedestrians poured into the crosswalk.

I let my head flop back against the headrest. It was fine. I’d be

fine.

Saying no was the right thing to do, even though nobody had

ever asked me to a dance before. Even though it was Jack Bishop

asking me. But it was fine.

I rested my forehead against the steering wheel. I wished the

light would hurry up and turn so I could get home and this day

could be over.

The crosswalk finally cleared, but as I sat up with a sigh and eased

my foot onto the gas, one more person stepped out.

I stomped on the brake again, but the guy kept walking, like he

didn’t care that I’d almost hit him. He was tall, with straight dirty-

blond hair a few weeks past a haircut, and so slim I would have called

him skinny if not for the tightly muscled arms peeking out from

under his T-shirt. He wasn’t from here—that much I was sure of.


14

His gray skinny jeans tucked into half-tied boots, and the bag slung

across his chest—that was hard for a guy to pull off unironically

unless he was a big-city hipster, and Lakehaven didn’t have any of

those. And even though I might not know everyone’s names yet, I

knew every face at school. I was sure I’d recognize one that looked

like this.

The guy’s eyes swept from side to side, unhurried. They lit on

three freshmen coming out of the frozen yogurt place, on a group

of cheerleaders holding dry-cleaning bags, on a girl on a bike—and

then, on me.

He stopped.

He stood there, right in the middle of the street, a smile stretched

across his face. It wasn’t a friendly smile. It was a smile like a lion

about to pounce on prey, like blood, and hunger, and it tingled low

in my stomach and made me push the lock button.

The car behind me honked.

The guy adjusted his bag and strolled the rest of the way across

the street, turning to watch me drive away.

When I got home, I pushed the front door closed and snapped the

deadbolt shut. The sound echoed in the quiet house.

I wished I had gone to Lara’s. She had three sisters, and her aunt

and uncle and cousins lived next door. Between the shrieks and gig-

gles of the little kids and the adults in the kitchen drinking wine and

teasing us about school and boys and college, her house exploded

with life.

“Mom?” I called. The only answer was the washing machine’s

irregular clunk and a low murmur of voices from the TV.

I tossed my bag on the kitchen table and shrugged out of my

denim jacket. The story that had broken the night before was still


15

on the news: a car bomb in Dubai had killed nine people, including

a Saudi prince.

I clicked the TV off. The news was depressing. My mom was

obsessed, which seemed like a waste of time since we couldn’t do

anything to change what happened.

I wandered the kitchen, opening cabinets, the fridge, and finally

pulling pistachio ice cream and frozen Thin Mints from the freezer.

The guy in the crosswalk could have been another transfer stu-

dent, but he looked older than that. Maybe he was somebody’s out-

of-town cousin. Or prom date.

I set my ice cream on the table and flipped through the pile of

mail. I dropped it all when I got to a postcard. Istanbul—a picture of

a mosque with soaring turrets. That was new.

I flipped it over and smiled at the familiar precise cursive.

Avery,

Hope this f inds you and your mother well. Istanbul is

beautiful. You’d love all the color in the markets, the textiles,

the lights on the river. Remember the gyro stand you liked near

Copley Square in Boston? There’s one on every street corner here.

The whole city smells delicious.

Charlie says hello.

Much love,

Emerson Fitzpatrick

Mr. Emerson had been our next-door neighbor in Boston when

I was eight. It was right after our first move, and the longest we’d

stayed in one place since. Mr. Emerson was all gray hair and round

glasses, with a big booming laugh and a bowl of jelly beans—the

classic grandpa I never had.


16

I’d always thought life would be easier if we had some family.

Brothers and sisters as built-in friends, or cousins to write e-mails

to, or an aunt to spend summers with—somebody besides my mom

and me. Mr. Emerson wasn’t actually related to us, but he was the

closest thing we had.

I ran a finger over the Turkish postcard stamp and read the mes-

sage again. Charlie was Mr. Emerson’s grandson, and I swear, Mr.

Emerson had been trying to set us up since I was a kid. I’d never seen

so much as a picture of Charlie Emerson, but every time he wrote,

Mr. Emerson told me about his adventures, and said he talked to

Charlie about me.

I flipped the postcard over and looked at the picture. The Hagia

Sophia. I remembered Mr. Emerson teaching me about it when I

was little. About how it was actually pronounced “Aya,” and its name

meant “Holy Wisdom.”

I was glad he got to travel now that he was retired from teaching.

And I was glad he still cared enough to send postcards. He was the

only person over twelve moves who had stayed in touch for more

than a couple months.

The laundry room door squeaked open and my mom poked her

head out, a frown on her face. “Hi, Junebug. Have you seen my green

pen? I swear, I was just holding it.”

I pointed to the top of her head, where the pen stuck out of a messy

bun. She felt around, sighed, and pulled it out, letting smooth blond

waves fall around her shoulders. “You’d think I’d learn, wouldn’t you?”

“You’d think.” I dipped a cookie in my ice cream and took a bite.

My mom wasn’t actually the flighty, flustered type. It was more like

keeping our lives together crowded out unimportant stuff like keep-

ing track of writing implements. “Oh, you were out of fizzy water,” I

said. “I got you a case. On the counter.”


17

My mom came over and kissed me on top of my head. “What

would I do without you, daughter?”

“Be thirsty and unable to take notes,” I replied. I hugged her hard

around the waist.

“Hey,” she said, a note of concern creeping into her voice when I

didn’t let go immediately. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. I hadn’t realized just how much I needed a hug.

“Fine.”

I let go, but she slid down and nudged me to the side so she

could sit on half my chair. She glanced at Mr. Emerson’s postcard

but didn’t pick it up, and I wondered if she thought that was what

was bothering me. Not that she’d ever ask about it directly. We used

to talk about the moves, about how lonely I was, but it got to where

it made it worse. Now we talked about everything else, but with

undertones so clear, they may as well have been subtitles.

“Was play rehearsal okay?” She looped her arm through mine. I

push you into these things so maybe we can both feel better, the subtitles

said.

I put my head on her shoulder. “It was as bad as I told you it

would be. Maybe worse.” I know you didn’t actually think I’d stick it

out.

“Sweetie, everyone has a hard time with new things.” My mom

pushed back the hair that had fallen in my face. “Is something spe-

cific bothering you?”

“Um, yes. Falling.” I shivered, thinking of the swaying catwalk.

“Falling to my death.” That one was actually kind of true.

“Oh, Junebug.” She sat up and took my face between her hands

like she used to when I was little.

Everyone said we looked alike. We had the same thick hair, with

just a little wave—though hers was blond—same small frame, same


18

little, round nose. But my eyes were wider, darker—especially with

my brown contacts—and my very dark eyes in my very pale face

made me look young. Her eyes belonged to someone older than the

rest of her, especially with the deep worry lines between them.

“I know you’re afraid of falling, but sometimes, you’ve got to let

go.” And I’m not just talking about your fear of heights, the subtitle read.

I know, and I don’t want to talk about it, I sighed.

My mom got up. “Tea?”

I nodded. She filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove.

The burner clicked a few times and burst to life.

She took two tea bags from the cabinet and rubbed her forehead

with a sigh that echoed in the quiet room.

I stopped scraping the bottom of my ice cream bowl. “Everything

okay?”

“Did you see the mysterious new boy again today?” she asked.

“Jack, right?”

I winced. She wasn’t the only one who could change the subject.

“Mr. Emerson’s in Istanbul. Cool, right?”

The two mugs my mom was holding clattered to the counter.

“Yes,” she said, straightening them. “I saw the postcard. Sounds like

a fascinating city.”

“Mom. What’s going on?” There was obviously something both-

ering her, and it wasn’t the postcard.

“Nothing.” Her fake smile was back. “It’s been a long day. And . . .

well, Junebug . . .” She looked longingly at the teakettle, like it might

save her, then sighed heavily and sat across from me at the table. “We

need to talk.”

I knew what she was going to say before she pulled the manila

envelope out of her laptop bag.

“A new mandate,” I said flatly. I should have known.


19

I remembered the first time I’d heard the word. My mom was a

military contractor—not in the military, like she didn’t wear a uni-

form or anything—but she worked for them, doing administrative

stuff in cities all over the country. Sometimes she had to scout a

location for new offices and the job lasted a few months, and some-

times it would be more of a desk job she’d do from home, and we’d

stay longer.

That day, I was nine years old, and we lived in Arizona. I’d cut

my hand. When I came inside for a Band-Aid, my mom was on the

phone.

“It’s not that I want to leave. I hate doing that to her,” she was

saying, and I stopped to listen. “Of course because of the mandate.

Why else?”

When she heard the door slam behind me, she hung up the

phone.

“What’s a mandate?” I’d asked, and she’d reached in her purse

and pulled out a large envelope, exactly like the one she was holding

right now. It was her new set of orders, sending us to a new town,

a new life. The word mandate had hung over our heads ever since.

I should have been relieved to see the envelope now. I was coming

dangerously close to liking Lakehaven.

The teakettle sputtered, then whistled, and my mom poured wa-

ter into two mugs. She set the one with the Eiffel Tower on it in

front of me and I wrapped my hands around it, even though it was

too hot. “Where?”

“Maine. Our new house will be right by the water, and the sum-

mers are supposed to be beautiful!” she said, too brightly.

I dunked the tea bag. “When?”

My mom leaned on the counter. “I reserved the moving truck for

Sunday.”


20

“Sunday?” I let the bag fall, and tea splashed over the side of the

mug. Two days? “Mom! I’m not eight years old anymore. There are

things I can’t leave that fast. Like . . . getting the records for my AP

classes transferred. There’s no way a new school will let me into AP

at the end of the year without paperwork. And checking the weather

in Maine so I can put the right stuff in the right boxes. And—” I

couldn’t stop thinking about that picture in my bag. Jack. “There are

things.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. Next time I’ll try to give you more warn-

ing, but right now it is what it is.”

I pushed my mug across the table. If we were leaving in two days,

maybe seeing Jack wouldn’t be violating The Plan. One night wasn’t

getting involved; it was just letting myself live a tiny bit. “I think I’ll

go to prom tonight, then.”

“No!”

I looked up sharply. The only time my mom ever raised her voice

was when she burned dinner. Now she was frozen at the counter,

eyes wide like I’d suggested skydiving.

“I have to go out of town for a couple of days, starting tonight,”

she said quickly. “I’d rather you stayed home.”

She sometimes had to take care of things at the home office be-

fore the moves, but she never acted this weird about it. “A month ago

you were forcing me to go dress shopping,” I said.

She picked up a sponge and swiped at the counter. “And you

didn’t get one, because you said you didn’t want to go, remember?”

A month ago, I wasn’t about to move. A month ago, Jack didn’t

live here. “I have that old lace dress. The purple one. I’ll wear that.”

My mom pursed her lips. “I don’t want to worry about you while

I’m gone. There’ll be drunk teenagers on the road. And what if you

lock yourself out?”


21

“I have literally never locked myself out in my life.” I ran both

hands through my hair. “And prom’s at school. I can walk there in

twenty minutes if you don’t want me to drive.”

She tossed the sponge into the sink. “Avery June West, promise

me you’ll stay in tonight.”

I must have looked alarmed, because she took a deep breath and

let it out slowly. “Pack. Relax. You can go to prom in Maine!” My

mom only spoke in exclamation points when there wasn’t actually

anything to be excited about. “You’ll be a senior then. Senior prom’s

more fun anyway!”

I gathered up my stuff, ignoring her pleading eyes. “Fine.”

“Avery, I’m sorry—”

“No, seriously, it’s fine,” I said through gritted teeth. This was

why I never let myself care. It always got ruined, one way or another.

I stalked to my bedroom without another word.


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Penguin Teen On Tour: Spring 2015

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