The Stolen Child

By Ash Fitzsimmons

Who can you trust when your life is a lie?

Ten-year-old Roslyn Carver longs for something better than the childhood she’s spent largely underground. Though raised in the heart of the Arcanum and surrounded by the greatest wizards in the world, she dreams of a future elsewhere.

Still, Ros knows too well what dangers lurk beyond the Arcanum’s thick walls and strong wards. Only the grand magus is powerful enough to keep the murderous creatures of Faerie at bay—the creatures who left her an orphan and killed hundreds more before they were driven back to their realm. But every time she hops onto her bicycle, Ros fights the urge to ride as far as her legs can carry her, away from the stifling Arcanum and her distant, often disapproving grandparents. For now, however, her only respite comes with sleep: her visits to the kindly man in the stone-walled room, the recurring dreams that seem curiously real.

But Ros’s world is about to change. Old enough to begin her formal instruction in magic, she soon learns much more than the Arcanum had planned—secrets that call into doubt everything she’s ever known about her place in the world.

Ros isn’t an orphan at all. She’s a hostage.

And if she wants to escape the Arcanum, she’ll have to fight for her freedom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ash Fitzsimmons
• Release date: May 5, 2020
• ISBN: 9781949861204

Ash Fitzsimmons

Ash has always loved a good story. Her childhood bookshelves overflowed, and she refused to take notes in her copies of classroom novels because that felt like sacrilege. She wrote her first novel the summer after her freshman year of college and never looked back. (Granted, that novel was an unpublishable 270,000-word behemoth, but everyone has to start somewhere, right?)After obtaining degrees in English and creative writing and taking a stab at magazine work, Ash decided to put her skillset to different use and went to law school. She then moved home to Alabama, where she works as an attorney. These days, Ash can be found outside of Montgomery with her inordinately fluffy Siberian husky, who loves long walks, car rides, and whatever Ash happens to be eating.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

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There are some who might suggest that eavesdropping is a vice best avoided, a rude invasion into private conversations that the guilty party has no business overhearing. Obviously, these people have never lived in a bunker with thin interior walls.

Eavesdropping wasn’t something I chose to do—it was unavoidable unless I turned on my music full-blast, and since that was a quick way to end the evening getting a lecture from Grandpa about respect and my lack thereof, I stayed quiet and kept one ear tuned to the voices beyond my closed bedroom door.

Usually, the chatter was nothing of interest to me—Grandpa telling Grandma he’d be out late with Council business or Grandma reminding him that she’d left dinner in the fridge for us on her book club nights—but that Sunday evening, as I enjoyed my last weekend of summer vacation with the stack of comics anthologies I’d checked out of the school library at the end of the year and conveniently forgotten to return, I heard Grandma say my name and paid attention to the conversation coming from the den.

Seems like this would be good for Roslyn, Grandma said. Another little girl—

What does she have to do with anything? Grandpa interrupted, his voice rising in agitation. "This is nothing but a load of back-scratching bullshit. If they didn’t care about my opinion, no one’s going to give a damn about what she thinks."

At that point, I might have slid off my bed and crept to the door. Sure, the apartment walls were thin, but things were so much clearer when one put one’s ear to the crack.

From the tone of her voice, I could tell that Grandma was in full placation mode. Okay, Howard. This isn’t the end of the world. I’ll put an extra plate out at dinner, and that’ll be that. It’s just for the school year, right? Nine months, give or take. We can make this happen.

But Grandpa wasn’t having any of it. "There’re other magi with kids, so why’d they have to foist her on me? Better yet, why foist her off on a magus at all? I thought this job came with a few perks, you know?"

It does, dear. And look, this is a compliment. If I were going to entrust my child to someone half a world away, I’d want to make sure I’d found the most mature, responsible guardians available. The Council knows she’ll be in good hands here, she said, laying it on thick. Besides, the only other magi with children her age are Marcie Conrad and Allen Morse, and both of theirs are sons.

Billie Tamworth, Grandpa muttered.

Antony’s her nephew, Grandma reminded him. A scrape of wood against linoleum and the creak of a cabinet told me she’d risen to make Grandpa a drink. "So really, we are the best option. I’m sure she’ll be a good kid."

Give her a month with Roslyn, he grumbled.

Please, sweetie. The freezer door opened in a blast of air, ice clinked against glass, and a short pour followed—Grandpa’s usual nightcap, Jim Beam on the rocks. The Powells are nice people. Didi’s a teacher, and Justin—

"Is a friggin’ painter."

He does lovely work.

Grandpa snorted, and the ice cubes tinkled as he lifted his tumbler. His old man was head of Arc 2, and making pretty pictures is the best he can do for himself?

Not everyone’s cut out to be a magus, she said gently. It’s a stressful job, and most people can’t handle the pressure.

Heard he’s practically a witch.

That could have something to do with it, too, Grandma allowed. But if they’re sending their daughter here, she must have potential. Wouldn’t you want your daughter to have the finest magical education available?

"My daughter did, he barked, slamming his glass against the kitchen table. It’s bad enough we’re stuck with—"

Lower your voice, snapped Grandma.

Grandpa might have been a magus with a temper, but Grandma could hold her own on occasion, and he did as she said. We’ve already got one we were never supposed to have, he muttered. Now they’re just trying to punish me.

If Grandma was trying to shelter me from the knowledge that Grandpa didn’t want me around, she shouldn’t have bothered. I don’t know when I realized that my grandfather didn’t especially like me, but I must have been a little kid when I made that connection. He was right—they shouldn’t have been raising me. I should have been living with my mom and dad somewhere else in the silo, maybe with a brother or sister or two. Maybe a cat or a dog. Not a horse, I figured, no matter how much I begged—given Arc 1’s limitations, the Breyer models in my room were probably the closest I’d ever come to getting one of those—but in any case, I wouldn’t be living in my grandparents’ apartment, in my mom’s old bedroom, on the twin bed she’d used before I was born. But I couldn’t live with my parents and my theoretical siblings and pets because I had none, and so there I was, the noisy granddaughter who stayed underfoot because the rest of the kids in my class tended to look at me like I might have stealth leprosy.

"The Council isn’t punishing you, said Grandma. And it’s only for a few months. Remind me, what’s her name?"

Bianca.

"Right. So pretty. The refrigerator opened, and I assumed Grandma had gone for her usual glass of V8. I couldn’t stand the stuff, and neither could Grandpa, but Grandma was one of the Arcanum’s best nurses, and she insisted that it was healthier than pop. When is she getting here?"

Wednesday, I think, he said sullenly.

"Wednesday? Cutting it close, huh? Well, don’t you worry about a thing, she replied, pouring a glass of her juice. We can put her in the study. I’ll get it set up tomorrow—"

Hell, no. She can sleep in Roslyn’s room.

But you barely use the study, Grandma pointed out, and Roslyn’s bedroom would be pretty cramped if we squeezed both girls in there—

"I said no, Rachel."

There was silence for a brief moment, then the refrigerator open and shut again. Okay, whatever you want, said Grandma. I guess I could convert the bed to bunkbeds. It’s not going to be ideal, but if that’s our best option…

She’s not getting my office.

Grandma sighed. Fine. I’ll let Roslyn know tomorrow. But it really is a shame that they’re sending her over the day before school starts. Poor thing’s going to be so jetlagged. How far ahead is Arc 2, six hours?

Seven, said Grandpa, and pushed back from the table. Going to bed while I can still say I’m not living in a boarding house. You coming?

Thought I’d watch a little TV first, she replied. Sleep well, dear. I won’t be up too late.

I hurried across my room and was curled up on my bed, staring at one of my comics, when Grandpa gave a perfunctory rap and opened the door. Lights out at nine, he reminded me, giving the glowing red numbers of my bedside clock a pointed look, then shut the door again and grumbled down the hallway.

In the fifteen minutes of freedom I had left, I brushed my teeth, changed my shorts for cotton pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, then kissed my grandmother goodnight and slipped into bed. Alone in the dark, I stared at the ceiling and the familiar constellations of the glow-in-the-dark stars my mom had stuck to the plaster long ago.

A roommate? From England?

Great. I’d be stuck sharing a room with a stranger for a whole year—someone exotic and interesting who’d undoubtedly think I was a weirdo like everyone else did. My room, small as it was, had always been my sanctuary from the teasing I got at school, and now I’d be bringing that home with me.

Bianca Powell, whose father was a painter. I bet she was artistic, too, and stylish, and witty, and she probably knew how to flirt. Not that I wanted to flirt with any of the boys around me—none of the rising fifth-grade class was exactly into that—but still, it would have been nice to have that knowledge in my back pocket for the day when I met someone intriguing. But Bianca, in my mind, was a savant. She probably summered on the Continent and spoke three languages and took polo lessons on a real pony. Heck, she was already living in a castle. I’d never visited Arc 2, but the pictures were impressive enough.

As for me, I was plain old Ros Carver, not quite ten, barely into a training bra, and possibly shunned due to fear that my bad luck would rub off. I’d never even left Montana, let alone the country. My grandparents weren’t cool and interesting—Grandpa was, on a good day, prickly, and Grandma kept making me take a jacket everywhere I went. Bianca would hate it here, and she’d probably hate me.

And so I traced the green-glowing Big Dipper on the ceiling until my eyes grew heavy and I could push thoughts of the new girl to the back of my mind long enough to get some sleep.

That night, I dreamed of my parents again.

While my grandparents kept a few photos of my mother around the apartment—in her high school graduation cap, in her magus’s chain—I’d never seen one of my parents together. Heck, I’d never seen a picture of my father, period. Once, when I’d grown old enough to realize what I was missing, I’d asked Grandma what he’d looked like. She’d hesitated, then said, There’s a lot of him in you, but nothing more. I’d pressed her, asking to see a picture, but she’d told me that they had none, and that she’d explain better when I was older.

It took me a few years to piece the snippets I’d overheard into a coherent whole. My father had been mundane—he and my mother had eloped, in fact, causing a minor scandal—and when a pack of faeries attacked, my mother had tried to defend them both. If she’d been alone, she probably would have escaped, but he was useless dead weight, and they’d died together. Grandpa still blamed him for her death, and so I supposed that he didn’t want to keep any photos of him around to remind him of the loss of his only child. And as I was, apparently, my father’s spitting image, I began to comprehend why Grandpa seldom looked happy to see me.

In any case, I didn’t have a clear image of my parents in my mind’s eye, but somehow, I knew who the people cobbled together in my dreams were supposed to be. They seldom varied from night to night—different clothes, different hair, but mostly unchanged—and since I had nothing else to go by, my dream pictures had to substitute for the real ones I’d never have.

That night, I saw them in the apartment, the one as big as mine but with vaulted ceilings and real windows. My dreams had taken me there so many times that I could have drawn the floorplan: a spacious den with a pair of cushy blue couches, brass floor lamps, and an oversized TV mounted above the fireplace; down a short hall, a bedroom almost filled with a white-painted suite with blue linens, all atop a thick beige rug; a bathroom twice the size of mine, white tile and brown floor mats and a real clawfoot tub; a kitchen with black appliances and a green backsplash, always a tad messy. Off the den, in its own little room, was a collection of black body armor and other gear, some hanging in a closet, some usually in a pile where it had last been shucked off. There were swords on the wall, hanging in scabbards to be grabbed instead of naked as decoration, and a wooden workbench with a rack for a couple of handguns, at least one of which looked homemade. This, I gathered, was my father’s domain. My mother’s was on the other side of the den, a modest study with a heavy mahogany desk, a pair of bookcases, and a side table with an electric kettle, mug, and box of instant coffee. The oddest thing, at least to me, were the portable generators scattered around the apartment, black boxes the size of a bread loaf into which everything was plugged. Wherever they’d lived, my parents hadn’t had built-in electricity. Still, I couldn’t fault them for their choice once I’d seen the view from the den, rolling green pasture that gave way to an orchard and distant mountains. Occasionally, I’d hear a sheep bleat. Sometimes, I’d also hear a rumbling from their downstairs neighbors like distant bass, but if it bothered my parents, they never showed it.

When I saw them that time, they were sitting on one of the couches, leaning toward the TV and shouting words I wasn’t allowed to say. They had controllers in their hands, and I recognized an old Xbox on the coffee table in front of them. Twitching and jerking as they fought each other in their game, they gritted their teeth and glared at the screen until my mother threw her controller down and shouted, "Yes! Eat it!"

She was not, as far as I could tell, a gracious winner. My mother was about Grandma’s height but thinner, and dark-haired and brown-eyed like Grandpa. But while he was going gray, her hair was chestnut-brown, thick, and slightly wavy, and she wore it in a sloppy ponytail. She was sporting pajamas, I thought—a wrinkled Vanderbilt T-shirt and black lounge pants over fuzzy pink socks—and she danced around the room, pumping her fists in victory.

My father put his controller down and sighed—whether in defeat or at her end zone celebration, I couldn’t tell—then pushed himself off the couch and grabbed her around the waist. Given their size difference, it couldn’t have been hard for him. He was at least half a foot taller and considerably broader than she was, and his white T-shirt had been worn thin enough to show the muscles in his chest and arms. Like my mother, he was also brown-eyed, but his ponytail was shorter and sandy blond, and he completed the look with a neat mustache and trim beard. From her pictures, I knew that my mother and I didn’t share many facial features, and so my dream had transposed mine onto my father’s face, a theme and near variation.

He caught her and swung her around as she shrieked, his eyes twinkling in the TV’s glow. Her cries gave way to laughter, and when he released her, she spun about, pulled him close, and kissed him. Two out of three?

Trusting beginner’s luck? You really think that’s a good idea? he replied, and I smiled. For some reason, my dream always insisted that my father had a bit of a drawl.

She grinned back at him, and her eyebrows waggled in challenge. It’s not luck if you’re this good.

"Uh-huh, sure. You’re on."

He restarted the game, and the two of them hurried back to the couch and readied themselves for another round.

The world began to go gray around the edges, my cue that the dream was about to end, and I ran to the window before I lost the chance. Out there, beyond the smudged glass, was a broad expanse of star-sprinkled sky, and I stared at the night until my vision faded to black. Sure, I enjoyed the snapshots of my parents that my imagination cooked up, but I craved the view from their window.

The next day, waking to the smell of warm maple syrup, I followed my nose into the kitchen and found Grandma at work over the stove. Morning, sweetie, she said, giving the pan a practiced flip. Hand me those plates, will you?

I did so, then stepped away from the action. Grandma didn’t like it when I got too close to major appliances, and besides, she was a pro at assembling short stacks, one of the few meals she made that didn’t have a stealth vegetable added to the mix. True, she could have done it all from the comfort of the table and her waiting coffee if she’d just used her wand, but she swore that food tasted better when it wasn’t made with magic—and as Grandma was more than a decent pancake maker, I wasn’t inclined to argue with her.

When the stacks were doled out, she doctored them all with butter and syrup, and I took mine to the table. Is Grandpa coming? I asked, reaching for a napkin.

In a few minutes. She put his plate on a back burner turned on low, keeping it warm for him, then joined me. Getting a little work done this morning. Might want to keep it down, hmm? Or go play outside?

I doubted that she meant outside outside. To those of us who called the silo home, outside could just as easily refer to the common areas on the upper floors of the installation, where the old folks who weren’t burdened with the responsibilities of magushood played chess and religiously gathered around the TVs for afternoon soaps and gossip. The lighting was better up there—good enough to sustain a little indoor botanical garden, thanks to special lamps and a healthy dose of magic—but the air still carried the stale smell of the exchange system, and all of the super-bright lights in the world couldn’t make the rooms enticing.

The better option by far was to get to the surface and take a walk, even if there was nowhere in particular to go. At least there was fresh air and real light above ground, and a greatly reduced chance that I’d have to make awkward small talk with any of my classmates about how excited we were to be starting back to school in a few days. If the few conversations I’d had with them in the canteen over the summer were any indication, they’d been counting down the days until the end of August since at least last January.

It wasn’t because fifth grade was particularly exciting—at Wright’s Mill Elementary, one cinderblock classroom was about as thrilling as another. But this year marked the beginning of our formal magical education, the night classes we’d all take until we were eighteen. We wouldn’t be starting with magus-led classes, of course, but the older kids reported that the introductory teachers were good, too. That was a perk, but honestly, most wizards my age didn’t give much thought to the quality of our instruction. Far more exciting was the fact that for the first time, we’d be given wands and actually allowed to do things with them. Well, yes, we’d have to suffer through our share of history and theory and wand-safety lectures, but we’d also be casting, and that promised to be great fun…assuming that no one ended up maimed, which wasn’t entirely out of the cards for the first-year night class.

While I was as anxious as anyone to begin my training, I didn’t relish the thought of spending even more time with my classmates every day. Most of them were fine, if politely standoffish, but a few of them knew how to get under my skin, and they did so at every opportunity. Silas, Lyle, and Antony were buttheads, but since two of them were magi’s sons and the third was a nephew, none of us pushed back too hard.

As a practical matter, it wasn’t smart to antagonize a magus. Some of them could be reasonable—no one could forget the time in second grade when Allie Karloff’s mother had marched her to our classroom, practically dragging her by the ear, and made her publicly apologize to Nora Oglethorpe for pantsing her on the playground—but others seemed to relish their ability to exist above the law. If you could study their kids, you could easily tell which magus went which way. Allie was nice enough those days, but the trio in my class were jerks whenever they could get away with it, and we knew better than to complain.

I’d tried once, but only once. Around the time that Allie put poor Nora’s underwear on display, Silas had taken my lunch bag from my cubby and switched it with his, which was empty but for a cup of applesauce. Since we both carried paper bags, the teacher couldn’t prove that he’d stolen my lunch, and so I went home that afternoon, waited for Grandpa, and told him exactly what had happened. Expecting at least sympathy and hoping for an angry magus willing to talk to Silas’s parents, I instead received a shrug, a lecture on taking care of my belongings, and a warning not to pick on the boys.

Grandpa wouldn’t help me. Grandpa never helped me. Consequently, I was apprehensive at the idea of being stuck in a classroom at night with my armed classmates, though I tried not to let on. I knew I wouldn’t get any support from Grandpa, and when I went to Grandma with my problems, she always gave me a patronizing smile and encouraged me to make friends.

While I ate my breakfast that morning, I tried not to think about what the end of the week would bring, instead planning my imminent trip to the surface. I’d almost decided to go down the road and try to pet the calves in the Arcanum’s pasture when Grandma interrupted my thoughts. Roslyn, honey, I’ve got some news.

I had a feeling I knew where this was going, but I played dumb. About what?

Well…there’s a little girl named Bianca who’s going to come live with us for the school year. She’s from Glastonbury.

I frowned, trying to pretend I was hearing this information for the first time. "Glastonbury?"

Night classes here are better, Grandma explained. And the Council thought that this would be the perfect place for her to live. Now, I know this’ll take some adjustment, she pressed on, as if anticipating an objection from me, but Grandpa and I think it’d be best if she stayed with you in your room. I bet she’ll be lonely at first. How about it? Think you could help her out? Maybe show her around school?

Uh…okay. Sure, I mumbled through a mouthful of pancakes. When’s she coming?

Wednesday. Grandma made a face. Better have a backpack ready for her, too, huh?

Ready for whom? Grandpa asked, rounding the corner into the kitchen. He’d only partially dressed for work, and his good pants and bedroom slippers made an odd combination.

For Bianca, dear, said Grandma. Yours is on the stove. Use an oven mitt.

He grunted and carefully maneuvered his plate to the table, then dropped into his seat with a huff and reached for the coffee carafe. Kid can take care of her own notebooks. At least her mother’s a wizard, isn’t she?

I don’t know if Grandma noticed that I was watching when she rolled her eyes, but I wasn’t about to do anything but slide Grandpa the sugar bowl and keep eating.

There are certain advantages to being adept at magic, including the ability to avoid transoceanic flights. Not all wizards were talented enough to make gates—or, as I came to think of them after a sci-fi binge, short-lived wormholes—but any magus worth his salt could whip one up in a hurry. If a rank-and-file wizard needed to go between Arcanum installations, all he had to do was find someone around who was familiar enough with the target to cast a gate open, and he’d be set…most of the time.

Getting into Arc 1 took considerably more work and advance notice. While all seven of the installations had protective and camouflaging spells around them, the silo had heightened security—which made sense, considering that the grand magus, the Inner Council, and all of the Archives were in Montana. A huge, complex ward system surrounded the silo, going out as far as the decoy trailer park that hid our front door, which served both to subtly discourage mundane explorers and to prevent anyone from making a gate straight into the bunker. No one—not even a faerie, Grandma had explained one night when I’d refused to sleep for worrying—could get in by gate. There was an exception built in for the grand magus, naturally, but unless he deigned to make the gate himself, the rest of us had to settle for landing on the road outside the trailer park and taking a walk.

A ten-year-old didn’t warrant the VIP treatment, and so Grandma and I stood by the row of battered mailboxes and waited just after lunch on the day before school resumed. Grandpa couldn’t make it—a magus’s time was precious, after all—but the medical unit had released Grandma for a few hours so that someone could take responsibility for the incoming child.

The sun was bright that day, but the temperature had stayed in the high seventies with low humidity, perfect T-shirt and shorts weather. Still, Grandma fretted as usual, and as a concession, I’d tied a windbreaker around my waist. The look was hardly flattering, but what did it matter? Whatever I wore, I’d still be boring Ros with the too-big brown eyes and limp blonde ponytail and virtually nonexistent tan—no competition at all for the fabulous, glamorous Bianca. After that day, once she’d moved her perfect wardrobe into the empty half of my closet and cluttered the medicine cabinet with her fancy makeup, she’d probably never speak to me again, and that would be fine. Live and let live might not have been the bravest way to go through life, but it usually worked for me.

A second set of spells created a fluid illusion at the edge of the trailer park, hiding from mundane view any sudden large-scale magical constructions within a few yards of the wards, and so Grandma barely flinched when a farm truck rumbled up the road just as the lightning flash of an opening gate split the air in front of us. In two seconds, the hole had widened and solidified, and then…

Well, someone stepped through.

The girl who dragged a suitcase through the gate looked nothing like my mental conception of Bianca Powell, Globetrotting Supermodel. I thought she might have been a head taller than me, but at least a few inches of that was her hair, a springy mass of orange-red corkscrew curls that bounced with every step she took. She had watery green eyes beneath black cat-eye frames, but her mouth formed a perfect pink Cupid’s bow on her porcelain face. Otherwise, the girl was practically a skeleton, too-skinny arms and legs held together by khakis and an oversized purple blouse that threatened to turn into a sail and carry her away on the wind.

She glanced back as the gate closed, then seemed to square her shoulders and rolled her suitcase through the grass to meet us. Good afternoon, she said, thrusting her hand toward Grandma. I’m Bianca Powell. Are you Mrs. Carver?

Grandma blinked—probably, like me, trying to take in the singular hue of Bianca’s hair—then turned the handshake into an awkward hug. So nice to meet you, dear, she managed, and broke away to look at me. This is our granddaughter, Roslyn. You two will be in the same class.

Bianca extended her hand to me in turn, and I saw the trepidation behind her ridiculous glasses. Hi, there, I said, and smiled as I clasped her lightly sweaty hand. Ros.

Bee, she offered, and we released each other. She dug into the satchel slung across her chest and produced a barely battered box of chocolates, which she presented to Grandma. From my parents. They can’t thank you enough—

Oh, you’re most welcome, said Grandma, cutting off her overly formal explanation, then pointed to the trailer park. Come on, let’s go downstairs. I bet you’d like to get moved in, wouldn’t you? Roslyn, honey, take her suitcase.

Afew minutes after she shepherded us down fifteen floors to our apartment, Grandma pecked my cheek and returned to work, leaving us alone to sort ourselves out. Since Bee looked as stiff as a mannequin, I tried to be a good hostess and gave her the grand tour, which took all of two minutes.

And this, I said in conclusion, throwing open the last door, "is my—uh, our room. Um…the left side of the closet is all yours, and I’ve cleaned out half the dresser…"

She stood on the threshold, taking in the new pine bunkbeds that dominated the room, then slowly eased her suitcase across the carpet. Ehm…this is, ehm…

Small? I suggested. Kind of cramped? Sorry.

No, it’s nice. Ehm…

Remembering my manners, I said, You can have whichever bed you want, doesn’t matter to me.

Bee gave the ladder a quick glance, then mumbled, Bottom, I guess.

Given my partiality to the ceiling stars, I counted that as a point in Bee’s favor. Want something to drink? I asked as she hoisted her suitcase onto the comforter. Juice? Pop?

I’m fine.

At a loss for what I should be doing, I climbed onto my bunk and stared down at Bee’s curls as she began to unpack and hang her clothing. To my surprise, she’d folded her things up still on their hangers, and so she made quick work of it. While she stuffed her socks into a drawer, I asked, Excited about school?

She paused, then shut the drawer and looked up at me. Not particularly. You?

I don’t know. We’ll get real lockers this year, I said, trying to inject cheer into my voice. Oh, and if you want to plug your computer in, there’s room for it on the desk. Power strip’s on the floor.

Quietly, she unpacked her tablet and cord, then fitted the plug with an adaptor and started charging her computer. Beside it, she deposited a black flashlight and a small leather purse, then scrambled under the desk for another moment as she plugged in her phone. I’d cracked open my comics again when I heard her clear her throat. Ehm…would you mind if I put this out?

I looked over the side of the bed and saw that she was holding a framed photograph of her and two people, a man with neatly combed red hair and a beaming woman with a head of blonde curls. They had to be her parents, I surmised, and suppressed a twinge of jealousy. Sure, wherever you like, I said, and returned to my reading.

Thirty seconds later, Bee made a sound like a hitching sniff, and I glanced down in time to see her pull off her glasses and rub at her eyes. Hey, are you okay? I asked, putting my book aside.

When she saw me, Bee’s face reddened, and then she plopped onto her bunk and started to cry in earnest.

Crud, I muttered—this was not how I’d envisioned the afternoon going, and if my grandparents walked in, I assumed they’d blame me. Look, it’s all right, I told Bee as I scrambled down the ladder. I know it’s tight in here, but I’ll stay out of your stuff, and—

She gasped, trying to bring her sobs under control, then wiped her eyes on her sleeves and squinted myopically as I sat beside her. I want to go home, she managed, though her voice wavered. Mum and Dad said this was best, but I…I want…

I hugged her, and she clung to me as I patted her back. It’s okay, I get it, I said, trying to keep her curls out of my mouth. I don’t really want to be here, either. But I promise I don’t snore too badly, if that helps.

Bee pulled back and looked at me quizzically, then laughed before her eyes filled again.

Come on, I said, pulling her to her feet, wash your face. We’re going out.

Where? she mumbled between sniffles, letting me escort her to the bathroom. I saw a map, there’s nothing around.

I nudged her toward the sink and pulled a washcloth from the closet. All the best places aren’t on maps. Here, stop crying, and I’ll show you.

CHAPTER 2

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Despite holding a cold cloth to her face for a solid five minutes, Bee was still blotchy and sniffly when I led her back out the main entrance, but at least the tears had stopped. It’s just Mum and Dad and me, she explained, standing aside as I closed the hatch in the trailer’s false floor. "We’re close, you know? They’re really great, and…and they said I could ring them whenever, but it’s so much earlier here, and I miss them already, and—"

This way, I interrupted, opening the outer door. "And you could always bring your phone to