Chronicles of Whimsy: Birthright: The Chronicles of Whimsy, #1

By T. Edwin Perry

Compared to her friends, Whimsy Lafayette had never exactly been “normal,” but nothing in her life could have prepared her for the challenges that she was about to face. It was the first day of her senior year and her seventeenth birthday, so to mark the occasion, her father gave her two very special gifts: a crystal pendant bearing an eight-pointed star, the family heirloom that was all that remains of his own childhood, and the promise that he would finally reveal to her the secrets of his mysterious past. But before he has the chance to fulfill that promise, Whimsy finds herself transported to the magical world of Everwynn, a place filled with amazing surprises and terrible dangers. She is surrounded by the wondrous creatures of her father's bedtime stories: powerful Fae, cunning Wizards, manipulative Dragons and warring Elves, but she quickly discovers that this is no Fairy Tale, and the dangers confronting her are very real. Now, Whimsy must learn how to survive in this strange new world and discover how she is connected to it while struggling to find her way home.

The Epic Adventure Begins in BIRTHRIGHT, the First Installment in the Chronicles of Whimsy Trilogy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: T. Edwin Perry
• Release date: Feb 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781540153807

Book preview

Dedicated to the Three Loves of my Life.

You make me believe in Magic.

A Special Thanks to my Editors:

Kami Dodson-Perry

Joel Himmelfarb

Marleah Varian

& Nora Brownlee

You Make Me Look Good!

CHAPTER 1 – Everything Changes

The light was brighter than anything she had ever seen before, searing her eyes with a burning pain that defied description and exceeded anything that she had ever felt before. It was disorienting. She felt as if her head were spinning. She knew that she was falling backward, but she couldn’t stop herself. She reached out, but there was nothing around her to grab onto. She screamed, but there wasn’t a sound. She closed her eyes, but she couldn’t block out the light. And then it was over.

She crashed down onto what felt like a cobblestone pavement, which made no sense to her at all. It knocked the wind out of her, but she leaned her head forward to try not to hit it on the ground as well. It didn’t work. She felt the pain in the back of her head as it struck the stones, and felt the trickle of blood begin to moisten in her hair. She was still half-blind from the light. What was it? What had happened? She could see the shape of a large man standing over her, but who was it? She tried to speak, but she had no breath left in her lungs. She tried to inhale, but her body wasn’t responding. Everything in her wanted to cry, but she was still too stunned to respond.

She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her eyes, and then suddenly wished that she hadn’t, because as her vision cleared, she began to see the face of the man standing over her and realized that it was no man at all.

His face was made of stone, gray rock and chiseled features like a statue, but eyes that moved and were surely alive. He seemed angry, with a sour frown and bared teeth. It was that moment that she noticed the ringing in her ears, like a church bell clanging so loudly that nothing else could be heard. The stone-faced man’s mouth was moving. Was it speaking? She couldn’t make out the words. She felt granite hands grabbing her arms and pulling her up from the ground. What was going on? He shook her twice, his mouth still moving, but she still could not hear his questions.

She finally drew in a breath and asked the questions. Where am I? What’s happening? But it was too little, and it was too late, and in an instant she was falling again, but this time, there was no light. Again, she was screaming, but she couldn’t hear her own voice over the ringing in her ears. Her body turned as she fell, and suddenly she saw what was happening. She had been thrown from a high stone bridge, it must have been two thousand feet high, and the water of a strange ocean was rushing up to meet her. No, the ocean wasn’t rising...she was falling.

They say that when you are about to die, your whole life flashes before your eyes. That is how she knew that she was not going to die, because what flashed before her was not her whole life. It was only the day leading up to that moment.

It had started off like any other day, but it wasn’t any other day. No, this was a unique day. For starters, it was her birthday. Seventeen years down, and a lifetime to go. And though she wasn’t a little girl anymore, there was still something about her birthday that filled her with youthful joy. It was also the first day of her senior year. While her birthday had always come near the beginning of the school year, this was the first time that she could remember it being the first day of the school year as well. Not just before or just after, but the very first day. She took it as a good sign. This would be her year to shine.

Whimsy Lafayette had always loved school. It was one of the many things that seemed to make her unique amongst her friends. It wasn’t the camaraderie or socialization, but the actual act of going to school, of learning, of being taught. She was a natural student, a sponge for information. She had learned to read at a very young age, even before the first grade, and had been addicted to books ever since. There wasn’t a time that she could remember where she didn’t have a book in her bag to read, and it wasn’t just stories. She would read about history, or science, or math. She would learn skills from the pages that she could apply in her own life.

She went to the wardrobe closet that she had built with her own hands when she was 12, instructed by a book on carpentry that she had purchased from a thrift store for a dollar. She followed its instructions, built the box, the base, the shelves, and even the doors, all from pieces of lumber that were little more than firewood before she began. But instead of clothes or shoes or knickknacks, the closet that she built was full of books. Whimsy had become a collector of books, each one a prize of accomplishment. Most had come from the secondhand store beside the mall. After all, unlike many of her friends, she was on a budget. But there were a few hardcover books that she purchased from the bookstores or online, and she never wanted to part with a single one. Every book she had read found its place in her collection. She dreamed of the day when her collection would fill an entire room.

She reached into her bag and removed the book she had finished the day before and placed it on the shelf. It was a classic called Silas Marner, and she had worked her way through its pages in a little less than a week, even though she knew that it would be required reading during the school year. As she placed the book on the shelf, she recalled the tale of the lonely and angry old man, the little girl that he learned to love, her missing mother and his stolen gold. She smiled a little, closing the closet doors, and then turned to her desk. There was a new book to read on the corner, a collection of poetry from the past century. She had never been particularly fond of poetry, but she was willing to at least give it a try. She put the new book into her bag and checked herself one last time in the mirror.

Whimsy had been awake since before dawn, and had started getting ready for her day. She was showered and dressed before the first light, which was unusual for her, but she was determined to be on time for school, at least today. Tardiness, she was reminded constantly, was her one true flaw. For one reason or another, it always seemed as if she were running late, just slightly out of step with the schedule that she needed to follow to get to school on time. Now, even having gotten up extra early on this most unique of days, she found herself running behind. As she was brushing her long reddish-blonde hair, she had become distracted by her mother’s picture by the mirror on her dressing table.

Most girls her age had a love/hate relationship with their mothers, who were either too distant or too controlling for their teenaged daughters. She often fantasized about having that kind of relationship with her mother, but her mother had died when Whimsy was just a little girl, too young to even remember her voice. It was a car accident, a head on collision with a truck that had lost control, and everyone agreed that it was a miracle that Whimsy had not died as well. Her mother, April, had no such miracle. Now it was Whimsy and her father, Damon, in the small two-story house behind the Flower Store on Whittaker Road, with little more than a few pictures to remind her of her mother.

Time raced by as she drifted through her thoughts only to be reawakened by her father’s voice. Whimsy, hurry up. You’re going to be late...again! She looked at the clock. Nearly twenty minutes had gone by! Damn, she thought to herself: I’ve got to get moving. She grabbed her bag, a brown leather saddlebag that her father had given her the year before. It was the perfect accessory for her, and it held all of her essentials. Books, spirals, pens, paper: she had even made room for her wallet and keys. She slung the strap over her shoulder and headed down the stairs, taking a moment to tap the frame of the painting that hung in the center landing. Out of all of her mother's paintings that adorned the walls of their home, the large framed picture of a child reading a book while sitting under an oak tree had always been her favorite, and tapping the frame had become a tradition on her way out to school.

She was dressed in her school’s very conservative-looking uniform, a black & green plaid skirt that hung below her knees, a white blouse and a black blazer with the School’s crest emblazoned on its lapel. She wore white knee socks and black leather shoes with almost no heel on them. Anything more than a half inch heel was enough to earn detention, and if her skirt was higher than her knees, that was enough to earn her a suspension! She didn’t care: she still loved school. Thirty years earlier, the Arcadian was an all-boys school. Fifteen years ago, the girls were required to wear skirts. Now, at least, they had the option of wearing dress slacks in lieu of the skirt, but Whimsy liked the skirts. The knee socks, not so much.

Her father sat at the table in the small dining room at the base of the stairs. It was an odd thing, she had always thought, that they always ate at the dining room table. The kitchen was too small for a table of its own, but there were many people who only ever ate in the living room in front of the TV. Not in the Lafayette House, though. Whimsy and her father always ate at the dining room table, a formality insisted on by the Patriarch of the family. Damon was sitting there with a cup of coffee and an English muffin on the plate in front of him, and she had a glass of juice, a muffin and a small gift box at her place at the table. She looked at the clock, which had continued to tick during her moments of distraction. Surely she could spare a few more moments and still make it to school on time.

Morning, Dad, she chirped, swinging around and giving him a light peck on the top of his head. There wasn’t even a hint of impatience or sarcasm in her voice. Whimsy was her father’s little girl, even at seventeen, and she loved him with all her heart. It was easy, because he loved her back. There was an unspoken agreement between them. He was there for her whenever she needed him, but as she grew, he made a point of giving her enough space to become the woman she wanted to become while still providing her with the support and guidance that she so desperately needed. She, in turn, respected that he was her father, and that there were rules in place for her own protection. She made every effort to comply with those rules, though she did push the envelope now and then, and he made every effort to make sure that the rules gave her ample opportunity to spread her own wings and fly.

Morning, he replied, taking a sip of his coffee. You’re running late, so we’ll make this quick. He handed her a white envelope with her name written on it in a clearly feminine hand. This is from your Aunt Karen. She’ll be here this weekend, but she wanted me to make sure that you got this on your birthday. Whimsy was already opening the envelope as he spoke. Inside, there was a birthday card and a $50 bill. She figured that you’d probably need some new books by now. And this is from the Ladies at the Auxiliary for all your hard work last month. Another envelope, and another $50. Lafayette Flowers had a standing arrangement with the Ladies Auxiliary of the Plantation House, one of those community organizations that raised money for things like cancer research or building parks. She never really understood what the Plantation House was all about, but the Ladies Auxiliary met every other Saturday for lunch, and they always ordered their centerpieces and floral arrangements from Lafayette Flowers. Whimsy, as the only other Lafayette in the company, was designated for delivery and cleanup for these Ladies Only events. And finally, he said, the box is from me.

She picked up the small box and studied it for a moment. From a distance, it almost looked like one of those cheap paper boxes that you can pick up at the store, but it wasn’t. The box was hand-carved wood with intricate designs and a small metal clasp. She opened it and found a crystal charm, about the size of a quarter, with an etched design of an eight-pointed star inside of the stone. As she turned it in her hand, the star seemed to stay perfectly still, always pointing straight up and straight down, never turning with the stone. It was something that she had seen many times before, but this was the first time that she was seeing it someplace other than hanging around her father’s neck. She pulled the charm from the box, and it dangled from a thick gold chain. She looked up at him as he explained the gift.

As you know, I don’t have much left from my childhood, but that was the last gift that I ever got from my father. The stone is rare, but not valuable, except to me...and now, I hope, to you.

Her eyes began to tear up a little, and she wiped her eyes with her hand, hoping that her light makeup didn’t smear as a result. She knew how much the charm meant to him. From the time she was a little girl, she was enamored with it. He never really spoke about his childhood, of the Grandfather she had never met, or the life that he had left behind. She didn’t even really understand why he had left. It was one of those great mysteries that she assumed he would explain in time, but he never had. At least, not yet.

She set the box down and reached back to clip the clasp of the chain behind her neck. Damon stood up and took the chain from her, clasping it securely himself. The stone dangled gently just below her collarbones, perfectly centered in the slight plunge of her neckline. She lightly ran her fingertips across the stone face. It was smooth, and cool to the touch, almost like ice. She turned around and he kissed her lightly on the forehead. Do you like it?

I love it, Dad, she answered. I always have. I just...

I know. He cut her off, knowing where she was going with it. He knew how much she wanted him to explain it all, but he had always been vague. I’ll tell you what: tonight, after work, I’ll tell you all about it.

Really? she questioned. Everything?

Everything you want to know and more. You’re old enough to hear it now.

For the first time in her young life, Whimsy wanted desperately to just call in sick to school and stay home with her father, but that wasn’t going to happen, and she knew it. He had to get to work in the nursery, and her job was to get to school to get her education. She turned her eyes to the clock on the wall, and suddenly realized that it was still ticking away. She’d been standing there for almost ten minutes, and she still had one more stop before she could go to school. Crap. She blurted out. I’ve got to...

Don’t forget your bag, he said, holding out the satchel that she had put down beside the chair. She snatched it from his hand and turned for the door. Love you, he said calmly.

Love you, too, she chirped back as she bolted for the door. Then she spun back, grabbed the muffin, and ran out, slamming the door behind her out of sheer momentum. She ran down the front steps, skipping two of them and then turned sharply down the gravel path to the parking lot next to the store. Living behind the little flower shop seemed completely normal to her. After all, she had always lived there. The shop was up front, facing right up to Elm Drive. Lafayette Floral Designs had been as much her home as the two-story house behind it that they called home, and next to the house was the glass-enclosed greenhouse, where her father grew what he sold. All that separated the shop and the house was a 6-foot wooden fence with a gate and a small sign that clearly read, Keep Out. The trade off, of course, was that her car sat in the small parking lot for the shop, another thing that was completely normal to her.

Her car was nothing to brag about, except for the fact that it was hers, a gift for her sixteenth birthday to go along with the Driver’s License that she earned the same day. It was an old Oldsmobile, square and boxy, terrible on gas and a faded gray in color. The seats were that kind of warn plastic-leather that burned your skin in the summer, and froze your butt in the winter. It had been a used car when her father bought it, and he drove it for ten years before handing her the keys. Even though it was still technically in his name, the car was hers, and it was her responsibility. She kept it gassed up, washed, and even changed the oil herself. She had taken a summer auto mechanics course at the local high school the summer before she got the license so that she understood its inner workings even better than her father, and from the day that he gave her the keys, she had made it her duty to keep the car running smoothly. She had to. The old Land Barge had over two hundred thousand miles on it, and she was determined to see it reach three.

She was a good driver: never reckless, never dangerous, always in control. She understood the definition of a Speed Limit, and she had never once gotten a ticket. Sarah Ramsey, on the other hand, was the opposite of Whimsy Lafayette, and it was picking up Sarah that was going to be the final stop before finally reaching school. She drove down Elm and then turned at the big gates to Arcadia Palms, a big luxury community for the well-to-do of the suburban town of Fulton. The houses were all large and customized designs with long driveways and huge yards, and over the past few years, Whimsy had become a fixture there. Sarah, after all, was her best friend, and she was always in need of a ride. The guard at the gate simply waved her through on the Owner’s side of the gate, while hassling the guy in the delivery truck on the Visitor’s side.

She pulled up in front of the three-story mansion at the end of the cul-de-sac and honked, something that Mr. Ramsey frowned upon. A lady, he had told her, comes to the door and rings the bell. While she usually made every attempt to act ladylike for Sarah’s parents, this was one of those times when time was of the essence, and courtesy, as much as she hated it, had to go on the back burner. She sat there for a few moments, and then honked again.

On the third round of honking, Sarah bounded out the front door, designer bag in hand, and opened the heavy door to Whimsy’s car. What’s the fuss, Gus? she asked playfully. Sarah had a big toothy smile and her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing slacks, but Whimsy would hardly call them dress slacks. The rebellious teenager had actually taken the time to add small silver skulls to the zipper and pockets, and the tieback in her hair included two crystal skulls as accents, which were hardly noticeable unless you were specifically looking for them. Her shoes were scuffed, and her makeup was just light enough not to earn her a detention for a dress code violation, but dark enough that it still qualified as Gothic. That was just Sarah’s thing. Whimsy didn’t care for it personally, but it was important to Sarah.

Get in the car, you dork! she chided. We’re going to be late...again! As soon as Sarah’s feet were in the car, she hit the gas. The door wasn’t even shut yet, but it slammed shut with the forward momentum of the car.

Sheesh! Let a girl get situated, why don’t you? Sarah buckled her seat belt and then leaned over to turn on the radio. Anything good on this morning?

Just talk and commercials, like usual. She drove through the gate as quickly as it would open and then turned back onto the road.

You really need to get one of those radios with the hook-up for your iPod already, Sarah joked.

Yeah, well, I’ll put it on my shopping list.

Uh huh. Sarah said back sarcastically, reaching into her bag. Well, you can scratch it off. Happy Birthday! She pulled the small box out of the bag and it was exactly what she said it was: a new radio for the car, complete with docking station. For most girls, this would be the kind of gift that she would have to take down to the store and have them install for her, but Whimsy was very selective about who worked on her car, and this was going to be a job that she would do herself.

Oh my god! Thanks, Sarah.

You’re welcome. Now, just get us to school on time and in one piece, and we’ll be just fine.

One piece? No problem. On time? The lights were flashing at the train tracks ahead. It was like clockwork, really. One minute behind on their schedule was enough to put them five minutes behind because of the train, one of those long cargo jobs that just never seem to end. The arms were coming down as they pulled up and came to a stop. I don’t think that’s going to happen.

Picking Sarah up for school wasn’t really that much of a chore. Her community was on the way to the Arcadian Academy anyway, so, for the past three years, it had just become part of her daily routine. During the first two, her father had taken on the responsibility. The girls had expected their morning commutes would change when they both turned sixteen. Whimsy had received her car, and Sarah had received her own, as well: a brand new, fresh from the factory BMW. Within a week, Sarah had managed to drive it into a drainage ditch by the side of Elm. It really wasn’t much of a surprise. She had gotten the lowest passing score possible on her driving test, and had gone through three driving instructors in the six months prior to the test. One of them even threatened to sue for Post Traumatic Stress! Still, her father paid for a replacement car, this time a used Lexus. Two weeks later, it was smashed against the guardrail on the highway ramp. She said she was swerving to avoid a cat, or a dog, or maybe a raccoon, but it didn’t really matter: the Lexus didn’t know the difference. That was the last straw. John Ramsey put his foot down, and Sarah had been catching a ride with Whimsy ever since.

Sarah’s parents were far more successful financially than Whimsy’s father, but that didn’t really faze the girls or influence their friendship in the slightest. The fact that Sarah’s father made more money in a month than Damon Lafayette earned in three wasn’t an issue. The fact that Sarah’s parents paid full tuition and fees for Sarah while Whimsy attended the school on a scholarship program that Sarah’s parents contributed to wasn’t an issue, either. At least, it wasn’t an issue for them. Their friendship was the kind of thing that stories are written about. They were two sides of the same coin. Whimsy’s strength in academics helped Sarah get through her courses. Sarah’s strength in the social politics of teenage life helped Whimsy get through the day. Whimsy had explained it like this: their relationship was symbiotic...then she took the time to explain what the word symbiotic meant to Sarah, who just smiled and giggled in that Okay, well, I didn’t really care anyway sort of way.

They parked the car at the end of the student parking lot and ran as fast as they could for the student entrance. They had just made it through the door when the bell rang. Ms. Lafayette! she heard in a thunderous and disapproving voice. Ms. Ramsey, the voice added, in a far less commanding sort of way. I trust that you are aware that classes begin promptly with that second bell?

Yes, Mr. Cartwright, the girls answered in unison, standing perfectly straight.

Then why aren’t you in class? he asked, knowing the answer, but wanting to really drive the point home. He wasn’t a tall man. In fact, he was about as average as a person could be. Average height, average build, average complexion: in fact, the only thing not average about Mr. Cartwright was his hairline, which was decidedly below average.

It’s my fault, Whimsy answered. It’s my birthday, and I was running late, and I had to pick up Sarah...

Excuses will not be tolerated, Ms. Lafayette, he cut her off. First Day or not, Birthday or not, you will be on time. Is that understood?

Yes, Mr. Cartwright, she answered softly.

Ms. Ramsey, please go to your class, and be sure to thank your father for his recent donation to the school’s beautification fund.

Yes, sir. Sarah answered, shuffling away. Whimsy began to follow, but was cut off.

Not so quickly, Ms. Lafayette. Mr. Cartwright glanced to watch Sarah turn the corner of the polished hallway and then proceeded with his criticism. I hope that I do not have to remind you that, as a scholarship student here at the Arcadian, you are held to a much higher standard than those students who attend as a result of their Parents’ own generous support. Your grades, your conduct and even your timeliness influence your continued attendance at this prestigious institution.

No, sir, I understand that, but...

And you have a history of being, shall we say, a poor manager of your time. You lack discipline. I recall eighteen occasions that you were tardy in the last semester alone, and here you are, the first day of the new year, and already up to your old habits.

I promise, sir, it won’t happen again... she was almost begging to bring this to an end.

Don’t make promises that you won’t keep, Ms. Lafayette. This is your one and only warning. On time, every time, or expect to find yourself facing expulsion.

Yes, sir, she answered. It wasn’t an empty threat, and she knew it. Of all of the people who disapproved of the scholarship program in general, Mr. Cartwright was on the top of the list. In his view, anyone attending the Arcadian should have something to offer it in return. Scholarship students posed a big problem for him: they took, but never gave, and rarely gave anything back to the school after graduation. In Cartwright’s eyes, the Arcadian wasn’t just a school: it was also a business, and he expected to make a profit from it.

Good. Now, detention, this afternoon. He ripped a slip from the clipboard in his hand and shoved it into her hand.

But I thought this was a warning...

It is a warning. Report to detention after your last class. Now go. He waved his hand like a king brushing away an annoying fly. She turned and headed down the hall. As soon as she turned the corner, she saw her friend standing before her doing her sternest Cartwright impression, her face contorted into the sour grimace of the man who wished he could be king.

Don’t make promises that you won’t keep, Ms. Lafayette, she mocked of the headmaster in a whisper.

Gee, Sarah, I wish my daddy could give the school a new garden so that I could get out of detention, too, Whimsy teased.

Garden my ass! Sarah whispered back. With as much money as my dad pays this school, they should name an auditorium after him and give me straight A’s for life!

They chuckled as they calmly strolled down the hallway to their first class. After all, they were already late, so there was no reason to rush.

The rest of the morning went the way most first days of school go. Each teacher would introduce themselves, what they would be teaching, and go into a long and drawn-out explanation of why their class was the most important class their students would attend. Each promised to be firm, but fair, and that attendance was mandatory. Whimsy understood why Dr. Solis was upset with her. After all, it was first period Biology that Whimsy had been late for. After that, it was Dr. Degenarro for American History, Ms. Whitman for Art History, and finally Dr. MacLucas for Advanced Literature. Each of these subjects were a breeze for Whimsy, and she was excited by each of them, but when the bell rang out at the end of fourth period, it was time for the thing that she liked the least about school: LUNCH!

As Seniors, Whimsy & Sarah were allowed to eat lunch in the Grotto, a large open courtyard on the edge of the campus, but the only thing that was really different than the previous years was the location. There were still too many cliques, and they all stuck together. The girls bought their lunches and carried them out to the Grotto, picking a table near the fence, and away from the hustle and bustle of the center tables.

She couldn’t help looking around and noticing all of the small groups. There were, of course, the cheerleaders. Pretty, petite, spoiled little rich girls who were more interested in make-up and gossip than school. Ironically, the Arcadian didn’t actually have a cheerleading squad, but if they did, these were the girls who would be on it. Sarah had been a part of that group their first year, until her Gothic phase kicked into gear, but the first time she dyed her hair purple and showed up to school with black lipstick was also the last time that her existence was even acknowledged by the Pink Police.

Then there were the Executives, the Future Business Leaders of the Arcadian. They wore neckties and carried briefcases even when they didn’t have to be in their school uniforms. To their credit, they were focused, and Whimsy had no doubt that they would someday rule the world...or at least their own little parts of it. She noticed Simon Freedman sitting at the edge of the group listening absently to Christine Lydle go on & on about the state of the economy and how they needed to look beyond political parties. He glanced over at Whimsy and smiled. Two years ago, he had been more interested in skateboards than board meetings, and there was still a part of him that remembered those days, but his father had finally put his foot down in their sophomore year, so he shifted gears from playing video games and building ramps to playing the market and building portfolios. To his credit, he was even good at it. His Fantasy Investments did so well during his Junior Year that his father had actually invested some money and made a profit on his son’s recommendations. Simon was one of the few of the Upper Crust students who even paid attention to Whimsy, but he was still more interested in Sarah.

Whimsy and her friends were most often referred to as The Ships, as in Scholarships. The fact that Sarah Ramsey and some of the others were paying full price for their quality education didn’t really matter. Most of their group was, in fact, there on scholarships. They worked hard, did well, and some were even contenders to be Salutatorian, including Celia Ramos, who had the highest GPA in their grade level, and Ryan Jackson, who had won his scholarship by building a working robot for his eighth grade science fair from recycled soda cans. Whimsy wasn’t a slouch in the GPA department herself, but even with her high grades, she was never going to have as shot, and she was okay with that. Of course, no matter how hard any of them worked, they had no chance to achieve the crowning Valedictorian prize. The Arcadian had a very complex formula for determining who would win that particular honor, and GPA was only a fraction of that formula. In the end, it usually went to a student with a high Grade Point Average whose family also gave the most money to the school’s scholarship or beautification programs. For the Ships, the highest achievable honor would always be second place.

Sarah had been talking to Celia about their music appreciation class when Whimsy’s attention moved to someplace beyond the fence. Through the chain link and across the field, near the edge of the wetlands preserve, stood the shape of a man looking back at her. She probably wouldn’t even have noticed him had it not been for the glinting of light off of something next to him. She couldn’t make out many details of the man, but he appeared to be older, with a long white beard and dark clothes. She turned and jabbed Sarah in the shoulder saying, Hey, do you see that? She turned back and pointed out to the Preserve.

Yes, Whimsy: trees. Very good, she said sarcastically, like she was talking to a dog.

No, not the trees. That... She looked again, and the man was gone. There was a guy out there, watching us, with binoculars or something.

Where? she responded, this time actually looking.

Over there, she said again, pointing, but he’s gone now.

Ooh, maybe he’s just hiding, Sarah said. Maybe it’s some perv, you know, getting his rocks off looking at the schoolgirls. There was a fire in her eyes that just burned with mischief. I’ve got an idea! She jumped out of her seat, ran to the fence, and started rubbing her butt against the chain link. Oh, it feels so good, she teased, making Whimsy and the others start to laugh. That’s when Mr. Cartwright cleared his throat and they realized that they were not alone.

And exactly what is going on here? he asked, not really wanting an answer, but clearly wanting to interrupt something that he was sure would go too far.

Whimsy saw some perv by the Preserve. Sarah chimed. I was just...

Don’t finish that sentence, Ms. Ramsey. Mr. Cartwright had no sense of humor, much in the same way that Sarah Ramsey had no sense of shame. During their Junior Year, Sarah had chased one of the Pink Police out of the girls’ locker room in her underwear for making fun of Whimsy’s bathing suit. Sarah got suspended for three days and wasn’t allowed to change in the locker room for a month. She was hot headed, and lacked discipline, but she was always a good friend. Just finish your lunches.

As Cartwright began walking away, Sarah sat back down and took a big bite out of her sandwich, making a chomping sound like something out of a cartoon. The others laughed and carried on with their jokes, but Whimsy looked out across the field again. Whatever she had seen was gone, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched.

The last three classes of the day went a lot like the first three, and by the end of the day, Whimsy was looking forward to going home. Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to be possible. At least not yet. Before she could leave, she had to spend an hour in detention. She met up with Sarah in the hallway as they walked to their lockers.

I’ve got to go do detention. Want to come with me? she asked, knowing full well that even if she wanted to, she couldn’t have gone in.

Actually, I was thinking about running out to the mall with Celia. Come meet us there after, OK? The mall: as clichéd as girls hanging out at the mall might seem, it really was the best thing to do after school, which was a strange thing to say when you live less than an hour away from a dozen theme parks, but, as Sarah had often said, you can only ride the same roller coaster so many times before it just isn’t fun anymore. The Copeland Mall was a local place, built in a big square with an air-conditioned interior. During the summer, it was one of the few places to go where the heat wouldn’t kill you. During the winter, it was one of the few places to go where you weren’t constantly stumbling over tourists. With her father’s birthday promise, all Whimsy really wanted to do was to go home, but she knew her father would be working until at least six, and she would still have a few hours to kill, so she agreed.

She walked out of the main school building into the open hallway that led to the gym, glancing out once again toward the Preserve. She wondered if the man she had seen was real, or was it just an illusion. Trees, after all, could look like people from a distance, if you looked at them just right, so maybe her eyes were just playing tricks on her, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there had actually been someone watching them. No, not them: her.

She opened the door to the small room at the end of the gym and went in to sit for the hour. Detention, she had decided during her sophomore year, really wasn’t such a bad thing. An hour of silence that she could use to do homework, or read a book, or even to write wasn’t really much of a punishment. Of course, too many detentions would earn her a far less pleasant punishment, like painting the curbs or cleaning blackboards or even picking up trash in the Grotto, but detention wasn’t so bad. She signed the Detention Sheet at the front of the room, went back and sat down at one of the desks near the back of the room. As the clock ticked, she realized that she was alone, and was going to remain that way. Mr. Cartwright didn’t even make a point of stopping in, which meant that the cameras were on instead.

After the rash of school shootings a few years earlier, the headmaster took it upon himself to have video surveillance cameras installed throughout the school. He could access those cameras from his office, including the cameras in each of the classrooms. The detention hall was no different, so even though there was no teacher there to watch Whimsy serve her detention, she knew that she was being watched. This, ironically, didn’t bother her, even though she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched in the Grotto. She opened her book and started reading Chapter One of her American History textbook.

As she read, she absently reached up and started stroking the crystal charm that was her birthday present. The smooth, rounded edges of the pendant felt nice against her fingers, simultaneously cold and warm to the touch. As she read about the early settlers, she heard a quiet buzzing noise, and looked up. The camera had moved, and was now pointed directly at her. She couldn’t help but think what her wild-eyed friend Sarah might do in a position like this. Would she start flipping the bird at the camera, or blow kisses at it? She smiled as she quietly laughed to herself, imagining her best friend doing both of these things at once, and tried to return her attention to the book. Then she had that feeling again...the one from the Grotto. She looked directly at the camera for a moment, and then at the clock. Where time had seemed to be flying by that morning, it now seemed to have slowed to a crawl. She looked back at the camera with a chill running up her spine.

Time slipped by slowly until finally her hour was up. She collected her things, got up, and walked to the door, taking a moment to glare at the camera before turning the knob. She had gone from feeling uneasy to actually feeling angry. Angry at the idea of being watched, but even angrier at herself for feeling afraid. It was just a camera, after all, and she was at school. It was a safe place. Why was she so scared?

She opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. There were a few clouds in the sky, soft and billowy, which blocked some of the heat from the afternoon sun. There was a breeze, cool and moist, and it suddenly felt like rain. It wasn’t really all that uncommon for Florida. Sun showers popped up all the time, but this felt different. She looked up and watched as the blue sky turned gray, and the soft billowy clouds turned dark with rain. This, she quickly decided, was unusual. You could usually see a storm coming from miles away. This was different. This was developing right overhead.

Once again, she looked out beyond the fence. Was he there, she wondered? Was he watching? She was trying to shake the perverse obsession that she had about the mysterious figure that she was absolutely certain that she had seen beyond the fence at lunch when she saw another glint of light out by the woods. The wind was beginning to blow as she stepped out towards the fence. It was almost a compulsion. What am I doing, she wondered to herself? Why am I so drawn out to look? What am I hoping to see?

As she approached the fence, she saw him again, this time more clearly. He was standing in the field between the Preserve and the fence holding something in his hand. It was shining, like one of those high-powered spotlights, and she could swear she heard something in the wind, like a deep monotone voice reciting a poem or a song with no tune. The light seemed to be getting brighter, even as the wind blew harder, and the first drops of rain began to fall.

Something inside her drove her to begin running. Maybe it was just the desire not to get soaked by the falling rain, but there was also fear. There was something about the man in the field that frightened her. She ran back to the doors to the school, but found them locked. She was locked out? How was that possible? Cartwright knew that she was in detention. He’d been watching her through the camera! She glanced back at the field, and there he was. Now, though, he was standing just outside the fence, and the rain was falling even harder.

She started running again, around the side of the main building. If she ran in a straight line, cutting through the Grotto, it was only a few hundred yards to the edge of the student parking lot. That was the smartest choice, she thought, but the rain was making the grass slick, and she could feel her feet slipping out from under her. It was times like these that she hated the leather shoes of her uniform. No, she needed to stick to the paved walkway. She continued looking around, hoping to see someone else still on the campus, but there were no lights on in any of the windows, and no one around outside. No one, that is, except for the eerie man in the field beyond the fence. That thought made her turn and look again, but he wasn’t in the field beyond the fence anymore. Now he was inside the fence.

She checked every door that she passed, but they were all locked. She reached the path to the Grotto and knew that she had no choice. She had to make a break for it. The wind was blowing harder, and the rain was falling in heavy drops, and a crash of thunder shook the windows on the old brick building. And she could still hear that deep voice chanting poetically in the wind, even though she couldn’t understand what it was saying. She set her mind and turned to the path. Holding her bag under her arm close to her body, she kicked as hard as she could and started racing down the path. A few hundred yards, that’s all it was. She’d be winded, but she could do it. Get to the car, get in and get out.

She was halfway through the Grotto when she turned her head to the left. He was already there, standing between her and the fence, close to the table where she had sat with the other Ships at lunch. How could he have gotten there so quickly? That didn’t make sense. That, and the fact that he was wearing a cloak with the hood pulled up over his head, obstructing his face. Now she could see his mouth moving under the beard, and she knew that the voice she heard in the wind was his. How was that possible? And the thing that was glowing in his hand was a cane. No, not a cane: a walking stick, and whatever was creating the bright light was on top of it. She didn’t let that stop her. She dug deeper, and kept running. She made it to the hedges at the edge of the Grotto before she glanced back. She didn’t see him, but she did see the black clouds swirling downward from the sky above as a funnel cloud began to form.

There was nothing left between her and the car except for about a hundred yards of asphalt and parking chocks. Between the fear and the running, she was almost out of breath, and now that she was clear of the grass, there was nothing left to make her slip, but that’s exactly what happened. Almost as soon as her feet hit the pavement, she landed hard on her knees and hands, scraping her palms. She looked up, and there he was, just a few yards away. She let out a scream and pushed herself up. This was not a movie. She wasn’t going to just sit there and cry about it. She wasn’t a victim: she never had been and she never would be. All she had to do was get to the car.

Her knees hurt, and she was sure there was blood seeping through the white socks by now, but she wouldn’t stop running. She was still clutching the bag, but had started reaching in for her keys. After all, what good was getting to the car if she couldn’t get it unlocked and get in before the creepy guy with the beard got there. She’d seen enough horror movies to know how that turned out. She hooked her fingers through the key ring and gripped it for all she was worth. In the best case scenario, she’d get the doors unlocked. In the worst case scenario, metal keys work like claws when you hit someone with them, and she was not above taking this guys eyes with her if it meant being able to get away.

She reached the car. There was a part of her that almost wanted to celebrate, but reaching the door was only part of the job. She scrambled for the right key, slipped it into the lock, and turned. The heavy plastic peg in the door popped up, but as she reached for the handle to open the door, a heavy hand slammed down on the door, holding it shut. She looked up, and he was right on top of her, and she did exactly what every victim in a horror movie does: she screamed and dropped her keys.

It was hard for her not to make observations about the man that had her so frightened. The first things that caught her attention were his eyes. They were like ice, a steel blue so pale that they were almost white. Next was his heavy beard. From a distance, she expected it to look matted and dirty, like dreadlocks, but it was actually more like a girl’s long flowing hair, well brushed and cared for. It flowed down beyond his chest, almost to his waist, and blew in the breeze. The final thing she noticed before he spoke was that his face seemed thin and gaunt beneath the beard, like he had been starving himself. The wind was still swirling around them, strong, as if they were in the heart of a tornado, but it had become eerily silent, as if the entire world had faded away.

He glanced down beneath her chin at the pendant, and smiled. The Eight-Pointed Star, he said in a deep, gravelly voice, with a slight lisp on the S. You are the one, he said flatly, reaching out with his left hand, and you will submit!

It’s amazing the things that you do as a reflex. Mothers will reflexively reach out to the passenger seat when they press hard on the brakes, as if through sheer strength of will alone they can keep a child or friend from crashing through the windshield. A man will puff out his chest and act like they could conquer the world alone if someone threatens them, even if they have never been in a fight. What happened next was as much a reflex as anything else. Maybe it was the fact that he had mentioned the pendant, but she reached up and grabbed the stone in the palm of her hand and screamed out a single word: No!

And that was the moment that everything changed, with a flash of light that was brighter than anything she had ever seen before, searing her eyes with a burning pain that defied description and exceeded anything that she had ever felt before. It was disorienting. She felt as if her head were spinning. She knew that she was falling backward, but she couldn’t stop herself. She reached out, but there was nothing around her to grab onto. She screamed, but there wasn’t a sound. She closed her eyes, but she couldn’t block out the light. And then it was over.

She crashed down onto what felt like a cobblestone pavement, which made no sense to her at all. It knocked the wind out of her, but she leaned her head forward to try not to hit it on the ground as well. It didn’t work. She felt the pain in the back of her head as it struck the stones, and felt the trickle of blood begin to moisten in her hair. She was still half-blind from the light. What was it? What had happened? She saw the shape a large man standing over her. Who was it? She tried to speak, but she had no breath left in her lungs. She tried to inhale, but her body wasn’t responding. Everything in her wanted to cry, but she was still too stunned to respond.

She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her eyes, and then suddenly wished that she hadn’t, because as her vision cleared, she began to see the face of the man standing over her and realized that it was no man at all.

His face was made of stone, gray rock and chiseled features like a statue, but eyes that moved and were surely alive. He seemed angry, with a sour frown and bared teeth. It was that moment that she noticed the ringing in her ears, like a church bell clanging so loudly that nothing else could be heard. The stone-faced man’s mouth was moving. Was it speaking? She couldn’t make out the words. She felt granite hands grabbing her arms and pulling her up from the ground. What was going on? He shook her twice, his mouth still moving, but she still could not hear his questions.

She finally drew in a breath and asked the questions. Where am I? What’s happening? But it was too little, and it was too late, and in an instant she was falling again, but this time, there was no light. Again, she was screaming, but she couldn’t hear her own voice over the ringing in her ears. Her body turned as she fell, and suddenly she saw what was happening. She had been thrown from a high stone bridge, it must have been two thousand feet high, and the water of a strange ocean was rushing up to meet her. No, the ocean wasn’t rising...she was falling.

CHAPTER 2 – Welcome to Everwynn

Terminal velocity, the point at which a falling object is affected equally by both the pull of gravity and resistance of the air, is approximately 122 miles per hour, or approximately 179 feet per second, and it takes about 5 seconds to reach that speed. Until then the body continues to speed up, initially falling at about half that speed, and increasing incrementally until it can fall no faster. From a height of two thousand feet, that meant that Whimsy would have a little over 11 seconds to try to catch her breath before she died. It’s odd the things that a person will suddenly remember reading when facing death, but it was in these eleven seconds that Whimsy found the strength to save herself.

Her mind was racing far faster than she had ever thought possible as she calculated risk and opportunity. If she hit the water head first, she thought, the impact against the water would kill her instantly. It would be like slamming into a rock. A belly flop would be the same result. A greater surface area would distribute the impact, sure, but it would permanently knock the wind out of her. Even if she could somehow reach the surface again, she’d suffocate and drown, or die from the internal injuries. No, if she had any hope of surviving, she had to get her feet beneath her, which, ironically, would actually make her fall faster! She spread her arms and kicked her feet downward. It seemed like the best chance.

The salty water filled her mouth as she broke its surface, and it was incredibly cold. As soon as she felt the impact, she started to kick, so she was only under the water for a few seconds, but she could feel her body going into shock, the tingle in her legs and feet that sent shivers up her back. Or maybe it was just the temperature of the water. Either way, she knew that she didn’t have much time to figure out what to do next. If the shock didn’t kill her, the icy water would.

She was kicking as hard as she could, and spreading her arms in wide controlled sweeping motions to help her tread in place. She looked one way, turned and looked another, but it was hard to see beyond the next rolling wave. It didn’t help that her jacket and bag were weighing her down, or that her leather shoes kept her feet from spreading and getting the most traction possible in the cold salty water. Each rise and fall of the rolling seas bobbed her downward into the surf, and a little more salt found its way into her mouth and eyes, which burned and blurred as she searched for hope. She couldn’t tell for sure where the shore was, or how to reach it, and as she searched for a horizon, she missed as the twin dorsal fins broke the water behind her momentarily, and then sank silently back into the depths.

She looked up toward the sky and caught a glimpse of the bridge thousands of feet above her spanning the two cliffs. OK, she thought, now if I just follow the bridge I’ll see the shore. The closest shore was to her right, so she kicked and looked as the next rolling wave lifted her up. At its crest, she came to the horrifying truth: there was no shore. The cliffs jutted straight into the sky from the sea, like tremendous stone monoliths bent on her destruction. The cold and shock were suddenly accompanied by a new sensation: desperation.

It was at that point that she heard a voice calling out: This way! It seemed distant, but urgent, and she struggled now to find the source of the voice. It was hard to see where the voice was coming from. The waves were rising and falling in just the right way that they seemed to obscure anything beyond the next wave, and over the open water, it was hard to tell from just what direction the voice was calling. If you want to live, she heard again, this time a little louder, swim this way! It was a man’s voice, not deep or gravelly, but strong, and growing stronger. She wasn’t imagining it. It was definitely coming from somewhere. She spun around. Where?

Over here! she heard again, this time closer. This time, she could tell where it was coming from. It was behind her. She spun again and that’s when she saw the mast.  The sail was down, but it was definitely the mast of a sailboat. She kicked as hard as she could. Swim faster, child. These water’s are not safe. Great. As if everything leading to this point had been safe, she thought. She kicked as hard as she could. From her point of view, the water was like ink, too dark to see through, but his claim that the waters weren’t safe made her wonder what exactly was in the water. As she continued to kick, feeling as if it was taking forever to reach the boat, she decided that she really didn’t want to know. She just kept kicking and pulling as hard as she could. She was sure that she was still swimming in the right direction, but the mast was blocked again by the rolling waves, and her body was