Teacup: Prequel to Toast

By Valentino Mori

Twelve-year-old Teacup has never felt like she belonged anywhere—not in foster homes, not at school, and not imprisoned on the magical estate of the sorcerer Mr. Mason. Teacup, however, is not like Mr. Mason's other child prisoners—her fingernail clippings turn to copper, her hair makes people sick, and she can open magical portals. When Mr. Mason offers to make Teacup his apprentice, she accepts.

Life on Mr. Mason's estate is full of surprising wonders, from golden pigs who only eat the finest oatmeal to magical trays that can carry infinite weight. But there is great danger as well: Teacup and the rest of Mason's prisoners must compete every week in a murderous raffle that always ends in a child's death. Even though she's Mason's apprentice, Teacup is far from safe.

As Teacup learns more about sorcery, she realizes she has an important choice to make: Do her loyalties lie with the other children trapped by Mr. Mason, or with the deadly sorcerers who recognize her true potential? Can she turn her magic against Mr. Mason to save her friends, or will she become as wicked as him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Valentino Mori
• Release date: Jul 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005971670

Valentino Mori

I've been writing fantasy and science fiction novels since the age of eleven and I have no intention of stopping. My weaknesses are black teas, compelling podcasts, and the smell of caramelized onions.

Book preview

Chapter One - The Stranger

I was stabbing the cover of my social studies textbook with a ballpoint pen when I first saw the sorcerer.  I didn’t know he was a sorcerer at the time, or even what a sorcerer was, but one glimpse of him as he passed by the open classroom door told me something was off.  He was wearing a top hat, shiny boots, and a colorful scarf––not really normal person clothes.  I was intrigued.  After all, I’m not exactly normal myself.  I stood up and headed for the door.

Where do you think you’re going, young lady?

I smiled at my snippy teacher then jabbed a finger in the direction of my bladder. Urine emergency.

How many times have I told you to raise your hand and request the bathroom pass if you need to––

I slipped out of the classroom before the teacher could complete her lecture.  I’d probably just earned a detention, which was fine by me.  Every second I wasn't at my newest foster home was a good second for me.

Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I followed the fancy weirdo from a distance.  He was whistling cheerfully and swinging a cane.  Was he a parent?  A teacher? Or...something else?

Reaching the lockers, the stranger slowed his jaunty stroll. He had noticed a first grader sipping from the drinking fountain.  I knew that first grader––it was Ruth, who rode on the same school bus as me and constantly rummaged in her ear canals to show off her earwax to her friends.

I crouched down to retie a shoelace and watched the guy approach Ruth.  He started speaking to her, but I was too far away to hear his words.  Then the vice-principal emerged from a classroom and walked right past the stranger, as if the situation was totally normal.  Perhaps the fancy man and Ruth were related.  Perhaps this was none of my business.  I moved closer.

That’s a lovely name, the stranger was saying as he loomed over Ruth. My name is Mr. Mason.  Why don’t you come with me?

Come with you? murmured the girl. Where?

Mr. Mason chortled, his whole body wobbling with amusement. Why, to my little paradise.  Right this way, dear.

I didn’t like the sound of that.  I had bounced between enough foster homes to know when an adult was bad news, and Mason was definitely bad news.

Hey, I called.

Mr. Mason steered Ruth toward the custodian’s closet.  He glanced over his hefty shoulder in my direction, and a smirk curled across his pink cheeks.  He took some keys from his belt and unlocked the closet door.

Who the hell are you? I snapped, hurrying forward.

A math teacher poked her head out of a classroom door and glared at me. Use language like that again and you’ll answer to the principal, young lady.

That’s the issue? I demanded. Not the guy wearing boots and abducting a kid?

I don’t have time for your nonsense, retorted the math teacher as she closed the door.

Don’t bother, child, Mr. Mason said with a hearty chuckle. It’ll be easier if you just tell yourself you imagined me.  Ta ta.

He turned the door handle, and even though that door led to a windowless closet, bright sunlight poured through the door frame.  I suddenly smelled leather, mothballs, and roses.  Ruth twisted and tried to break free of Mason's grip.  The last doubts I had about Mason being her uncle with weird manners left me.

Bite him! I shouted, hurrying forward. Kick him!  Claw his eyes out if you have to!

Before Ruth could do anything, Mason gave her a neat shove so that she stumbled through the door, he stepped through himself.  He pulled the door closed just before I reached it.

Swearing loudly, I yanked the door handle to no avail.  It wasn’t locked, exactly––I had plenty of experience trying to jiggle open locked doors––but some invisible force was holding the door closed.  As I pulled harder, the door handle first felt warm, then hot beneath my fingers.  It started to hurt, but I refused to let go.  I barely knew Ruth, but I couldn’t leave her with Mr. Mason.  Clenching my jaw and squeezing my eyes shut, I gave an almighty tug and pulled the door open an inch.

Despite the overwhelming power that was keeping the door closed, I wedged my tennis shoe through the gap and managed to squeeze through.  I barely made it onto the red velvet carpet when the door slammed shut, the force knocking me to the ground.

When I staggered back up, I was not in the custodian’s closet, but in the hallway of a fancy house.  Mason stood in front of me, clutching Ruth by her forearm and looking absolutely livid.

What the hell is going on? I asked, trying to make it sound intimidating, but I was suddenly very woozy.

That’s precisely what I wanted to ask you, Mason said.

Then he snapped his fingers and tasseled ropes emerged from thin air.  They wrapped around me and knocked me off balance.  I hit the carpet with a groan.

Chapter Two - Mason, Locke, & Apherly

Squeezing through a portal and getting tied up by magic rope was not the weirdest experience of my life––it was hardly in my top ten.

I once doused my foster mother’s cat in olive oil and turned it blue.  No idea how that had happened, and that lady got rid of me faster than you can say juvenile psychopath.  At the next place I lived, my foster brother tried force-feeding a bar of soap to my foster sister, but I grabbed the soap out of his hand and before he could hit me, the soap exploded into suds.  This might shock you, but I didn't stay long there either.  Then last year, I fell asleep on the metal slide during recess.  When a teacher woke me up, the slide had melted all around me into a twisted lump.

I didn't dwell on the strange happenings too much, but I did wonder sometimes if my weirdness was the reason my birth parents had gotten rid of me in the first place.  Had I freaked them out as a baby?  Or were they weirdos like me, but adult-sized?  Not that I'm one of those foster kids who spends every night thinking about my birth parents.  It's not like they were ever going to come rescue me.

I was on my own, and I knew it.

Well? Mr. Mason asked his two servants once I had been hoisted into his office and bound to a chair. Is she dangerous, Mr. Locke?

Hard to say, murmured Mr. Locke, his eyes bulging and his long fingers flexing.  I could see his spine through the fabric of his trenchcoat. Her scent is indeed human, and yet...

And yet she must have magical potential to pry open a portal, said the other servant.  Based on her long gray skirt and a white cotton blouse, you might mistake her for a librarian, at least until you got a good look at her face.  She had a triangular chin and large green eyes that were spaced unsettlingly far apart.

So you agree that she is dangerous, Ms. Apherly, said Mason, pacing back and forth behind his desk. She’s here to harm me!  Sent by the Fragment, no doubt.

I wasn’t really listening.  Not only was I groggy, but I was distracted by some of the freaky stuff in the room: floating crystals, a massive book of moving hieroglyphs, a glowing tea set inscribed with runes.  Wherever I was, it was not part of my school.

Let’s not be hasty, said Apherly, tilting my chin up with cold fingers. She is no assassin––she is likely unaware of her powers.

Unaware of her powers? hissed Locke. Absurd.

I detect untapped potential, said Apherly. If the Fragment sent her, wouldn’t he wait until she was more capable?

The Fragment is not infallible, said Mason. He makes many mistakes.

No one sent me, you sweaty ass, I snapped. You were kidnapping a kid in my school and I tried to help.

Oh, so you're a big hero? wheezed Mr. Locke. You expect us to believe that?

I expect you to spit teeth when I deliver a knuckle sandwich to your mouth, I said, struggling against my bonds.

Human scum, growled Mr. Locke, before turning to Mason. Master, allow me to kill her and dispose of her skeleton while you attend to other business.

I don’t think that’s wise, sir, said Ms. Apherly. That would waste a glorious opportunity.

What opportunity? asked Mason, twisting the chain of his pocket-watch between his fingers.

You refuse to take on an apprentice from the Yonder, but––

What’s the Yonder? I interrupted.

Ms. Apherly ignored me. But this girl––whatever she is––was not born of the Yonder.  She's not working with the Fragment.  She does not understand her own magical powers––she needs guidance, and you need an apprentice, sir.

How do we know that she does not serve the Fragment? retorted Locke. She could be lying.  Children love lying.

Test her, then, said Apherly, picking up a golden teacup from the desk and placing it on my head.

Don’t waste that on her, Locke said. It will take seventy-seven Thursdays to recharge.  Just kill the girl.

Use the teacup, sir, Apherly advised Mason. You'll learn if you have an assassin on your hands, or your future apprentice. After all, no sorcerer is complete without an apprentice.

Mr. Mason said nothing as he studied me.  The teacup balancing on my head felt warm.  I was tempted to tilt my head and dislodge it, but I resisted the urge.  Finally, Mason spoke.

What was your intention in coming to Verdant Corner?

Before I could ask what the hell Verdant Corner was, the teacup on my head started humming, sending vibrations through my skull and making my mouth go slack.  My lips moved on their own accord, and although I tried to resist, I couldn't.

To protect Ruth, I murmured.

The teacup stopped humming.  My lips felt normal again.  Mason let out a long sigh and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

That's a relief, he admitted with a small laugh.

She might be an unwitting weapon, suggested Locke, his yellow eyes still narrowed. She might have been sent without her knowledge.

I wasn't sent here, you pickled jerkwad, I snapped. Now let me go or I'll bite your nose off.

She doesn't have the typical attitude of an aspiring apprentice, mused Mason.

Perhaps not, agreed Apherly. But she will become loyal, once she understands who she is.

I certainly hope so, said Mason. And if not––well, we can always kill her later. He turned to his other servant. Any final objections before I accept this apprentice, Mr. Locke?

Saliva trickled from the corner of Mr. Locke's mouth. Do as you wish, master.

I always do, laughed Mason.  His good humor was returning, now that the glowing teacup had forced me to speak honestly.  He clapped his hands and the tasseled ropes tying me together fell apart in a collection of candy wrappers.  The teacup tipped from my head and dropped into my hands.

If you'll excuse me, sir, growled Locke. I must return to the kitchens.

As he stalked toward the door, trench coat swishing, a brilliant idea occurred to me.

Hey, assbrain, think fast.

I hurled the teacup at the back of the caretaker's bald, speckled head.  He whirled around with frightening speed and caught the golden object before it shattered against his knobbly skull.

Do not test my patience, he said, placing the teacup delicately back on Mason's desk, or you will regret ever being born.

He left the office and slammed the door behind him.

Nice guy, I said.

Mason circled around to the far side of his desk and sat down in the armchair.  He drummed his fingers on the edge of the massive hieroglyph-encrusted book. For this apprenticeship to work, we will need ground rules.

Who says I want to be your apprentice? I said. I need to get back to class before I get another detention.  Let Ruth go and we’ll be off.

Ms. Apherly adjusted her small round spectacles. My dear, either you become Mr. Mason's apprentice, serving him while he teaches you the magical arts...or you will be killed.

What, you're going to kill a kid?  Really?

Apherly patted my wrist. We do it every week.

Every week?  What are you talking about?

You will understand all, in time, said Apherly.

Why would I be an apprentice to someone who kills kids?  What's wrong with you?

Do you not eat pigs and cows in the form of bacon and hamburgers?  It's no different.

Wait––you're eating children?

Not at the moment, said Apherly, patting her stomach. I'm on a diet––but in general, sorcerers are omnivorous, and will eat a variety of nutrients.

Eat my farts, how about that?

Don't think like a human––you need to think like a sorcerer's apprentice.  Can you do that, or do you want to die?

I looked at Mason, who was turning the page of his hieroglyphic book.  He met my eyes and nodded––he was totally serious about killing me.  I had no intention of helping these monsters, but I couldn't escape them in my current situation.  I had to play along, at least for now.

Sure, I said. I can do that.

Apherly made a note on her clipboard and turned to Mason. Are you satisfied, sir?

Satisfied is a strong word, Ms. Apherly, said Mason, pulling a string of hieroglyphs and arcing them between his palms. But you’ve always been a highly competent secretary, so I will defer to your judgment.  Place her among the children for the time being as though she’s just another weekly arrival.

Why among the children, sir? asked Apherly, She already shows an unhealthy sympathy toward humans.

I’ve noticed, said Mr. Mason. However, that instinct must be destroyed, not suppressed.  Living among the condemned will help her realize that she is far more special than human children will ever be.  After ten weeks, we will promote her to her rightful place.

Apherly raised an eyebrow. What if she's claimed by the Raffle before she has her realization?

Mason shrugged. Then she was never apprentice material.

The sorcerer rose to his feet and approached me, hieroglyphs still bouncing between his fingers.  I frowned at the strange black symbols. What are those? I asked, uneasily.

Ground rules, said Mason. For your safety, and my own.

What sort of ground––

He pressed his large palm onto my forearm, and I gasped at the feeling of hieroglyphs wriggling into my skin.  I tried pulling away, but his grip was strong.

You will obey every order and instruction I give you.  You will avoid all contact with the Fragment of Anderson.  You will not reveal that you are my apprentice to the human children.  Breaking these tenets will cause both you and your friend Ruth to suffocate and die.  Tell me whether you understand.

I understand, I said.  I didn't know what the Fragment of Anderson was, but I wasn’t in the mood for details.

Mason released me, and three intricate black runes remained engraved on my skin. Take her away, Ms. Apherly.  Her private lessons will begin in due course.

Apherly bowed her head. As you wish, sir.  Come, dear, let's go.

I felt lightheaded.  What had I agreed to?  Had I made a huge mistake?  Did I even have a choice?  Mason's secretary guided me out of the office and along the carpeted upper landing of the house.

Don't worry, said Ms. Apherly. Everything that overwhelms you today will soon seem normal.

Uh huh, I said. Somehow I doubt it.

We reached the top of the stairs.  I leaned against the wall, catching my breath and staring at the marks on my arm.

Hark, Ms. Apherly, called a voice from below. We await you for the consignment of the fresh novice.

Coming, Goneril, replied Apherly. Just a moment.

Who's Goneril? I murmured.

Apherly didn’t answer my question.

I just had a wonderful idea, she said. The perfect way to avoid all suspicion of having two newcomers in one week.

What's that?

Very simple, said the secretary. You'll be taking a six-day nap in the Quiet Room.  Hold still.

A six-day nap?

She pressed a finger to her lips, then retrieved a tiny bell from her inner pocket and rang it.  The chime was devilishly sweet, and for the second time in less than an hour, I slumped to the carpet.

Chapter Three - Seventy Percent of the Dons

I awoke in a small, white room, gagging.  My throat felt like the innards of a vacuum cleaner and my head throbbed.  After wiping the crusted sleep from my eyes, I noticed the piece of paper pinned to my hoodie.  I tore it free to read it.

If anyone asks, you are an ordinary child who just arrived today.  Drink some water.

-Ms. A

As soon as I finished reading the note, it squirmed free of my fingers and became a swarm of bees.  I watched the insects buzz through the keyhole of the door, leaving me alone in the cell.  Slowly, I picked up the glass of water from the nearby wooden stool and guzzled it down.

There was no time to think about my predicament; as soon as the glass was empty, I heard footsteps approaching from outside the door.  I scrambled to my feet, but since my legs were still numb I immediately tumbled to the ground.  A key turned and two teenagers stood in the doorway.

Good afternoon and welcome to Verdant Corner, beamed the thin teenager with a yellow bandana tied around his neck. I look forward to getting to know you, newbie.

He glanced at his companion and nudged her with his bony elbow.  She had a mohawk, wore heavy eyeshadow, and the music blaring out of her headphones was loud enough for me to hear from ten feet away.

Hey, Walkman, the boy hissed at her. Wanna introduce yourself?

What?

Do you want to introduce yourself?

She grimaced, hit pause on her cassette player, and pulled down her headphones. Hey, she said. I'm Walkman, the Don of Obsidian.  This guy is Tarot, the Don of Topaz––don't let him read your future––it's bad luck.

That's not fair, said Tarot, indignantly. You can't blame me for telling everyone they're going to die.

I can, and I will.

Tarot rolled his eyes and turned back to me. They call me Tarot because I can use tarot cards to see into the future and into your soul.

His predictions are always wrong, said Walkman.

Tarot winked at me. She's just salty because I predicted someone's going to betray her in the next six weeks.

Uh, I said, unsure where to begin with all my questions.  They both wore white polo shirts and black shorts in addition to their bandanas.  Tarot's was yellow and Walkman's was black.

Come on, said Walkman. We shouldn't keep the other Dons waiting.

Who are you, exactly?

Tarot and Walkman exchanged a look. We're like you––prisoners of Mr. Mason, said Walkman. Now, hurry up.

With a wobbly effort, I followed them out into a tidy basement and past a row of washing machines. You don't look like prisoners, I said.

Because we're wearing shorts? asked Walkman. Mason's got a dress code for us––just because we're wearing shorts doesn't mean we’re free and happy.

That wasn't what I was trying to say, but I gave up.  My head still felt fuzzy.

Did you really throw Mason's Truthful Teacup at Mr. Locke? asked Tarot.

Uh––

If you don't remember, that's fine, said Walkman, swapping the cassette in her player with one from her pocket. Apherly says memory gets a little squishy when you’re knocked out with sound magic.  Either way, attacking Mr. Locke with a magical relic is badass.

Badass perhaps, said Tarot, but it put a dent in your fortune.  And at Verdant Corner, luck is more valuable than diamonds.

We emerged into the main hallway, the same hallway I had found myself in after following Mason through the magical door the week before.  The door was now open, displaying a series of hats and overcoats, not a school corridor.  I clearly wasn’t going to be getting back home through there.

This way, newbie, said Walkman, giving me a gentle shove into the living room.

Five teenagers reclined on the couches, armchairs, and coffee table, all wearing white shirts, black shorts, and colorful bandanas.  The only other person was Ms. Apherly, seated at a desk in the corner and writing a letter.  She glanced over without much interest and resumed writing.  Then the teenager with the red bandana sat forward in her armchair and cleared her throat.

Perch thyself and lend me thine ears, she said. My name is Goneril, and I am the Don of Garnet.  As thou mayest have gathered from Walkman and Tarot, nicknames are standard for the captives of Verdant Corner.  Whatever name thou broughtest here interests me not––thou shalt find a new one soon enough.

I had never heard someone actually use thou before, and it was easily the weirdest thing I had experienced so far––so weird I was afraid to ask why she was talking like that.

What's a Don? I asked instead.

A vein twitched in Goneril's forehead––she was not the question-loving type. At Verdant Corner, thou shalt inhabit a dormitory known as a Dungeon.  Each Dungeon is monarched by a Don, who administers order and whom thou must obey superbly.

You make us sound like tyrants, said one girl, from behind a thick volume of medieval philosophy. Obedience by itself is not a virtue, Goneril––I've mentioned this before.

We are not discussing moral theories right now, Hildegard, said Goneril, eyes narrowing but not looking away from me. Stiffen thine earlobes, novice, and pay attention: at Verdant Corner, there are ten Dungeons.  Correspondingly, there are ten Dons.

I only see seven of you, I pointed out.

Of the ten Dungeons, three are for girls, three are for boys, and four are mixed, said Goneril. The Girl Dungeons are Garnet, Citrine, and Turquoise.  The Boy Dungeons are Quartz, Jade, and Marble.  The Mixéd Dungeons are Obsidian, Lapis Lazuli, Topaz, and Slate.  The Dons here are from the Girl and Mixéd Dungeons, because thou canst only be assigned to those Dungeons.  Is that clear?

Nope, I said. I pretty much blanked out while you were talking.

No matter, said Goneril through a clenched jaw. Thou shalt either comprehend in time or die before thine ignorance becomes a long-term problem.

Uh––cool.

Goneril glowered at me. Let us commence with the introductions.  Hildegard over there is the Don of Citrine.

Hildegard gave me a wink and closed her massive book.

Next is Jotun, Don of Turquoise.

Jotun grunted.  She was a real eighteen-wheeler of a girl, bulky and blunt.  Later I'd learn that Jotun means Troll in Norse Mythology, and if you had the odor and personality that Jotun had, you might as well roll with it.

Goneril went on. Thou hast already met Tarot, Don of Topaz, and Walkman, Don of Obsidian.

They both gave me a nod, although Walkman had her headphones back on and was probably just keeping the beat to her heavy metal.

Then there's Scopa, Don of Lapis Lazuli.

Scopa didn't look up from the Gameboy Color in her hands.  Her fingers were moving at incredible speed across the buttons, and her tongue protruded from her mouth at an angle. Cheers, she said, not bothering to look at me.

And finally, 1793, Don of Slate.

1793 was rotating a large pair of scissors between her fingers.  Where Jotun was blunt, 1793 was sharp, with a nose that could puncture a balloon. You are a violent specimen, yes?

She spoke with a French accent.

You mean because I threw a teacup?

Violence intrigues me, said 1793, silkily. I hope to make use of your combative tendencies in the future.

Um, sure, I said.

Goneril cleared her throat.  The other Dons––Hildegard, Jotun, Tarot, Walkman, Scopa, and 1793––sat up straighter, putting away their devices and distractions. We shall dispense with speechifying and proceed with our duty: assigning the novice to her future Dungeon anon.

How about I choose which Dungeon to join? I asked.  Based on first impressions, there were at least a few to avoid.

Thou mistakest thine situation with one in which thou hast freedom, said Goneril. Thou must obey the dictates of chance, as determined by the Rafflejorum.

Gesundheit, I said.

Goneril scowled. I discern thy remaining lifespan will be concise and compendious––thou art too flippant to accrue Badges.  Ms. Apherly, the Rafflejorum, if you please.

Ms. Apherly walked over with a porcelain bowl in her hands.  It was painted with a pattern of dice, vines, and birds, the sort of dish that I imagined rich people might keep pears in.

Dungeon Tokens, everyone, said Ms. Apherly, crisply.

What are Dungeon Tokens? I asked.

Just sit still and stifle thyself, said Goneril.  She put one red token––about the size of a poker chip––into the porcelain dish.  Walkman, 1793, and Tarot put in one as well, the color of their tokens matching the color of their bandanas.  Then Jotun and Hildegard each put in two tokens: Jotun’s were light blue and Hildegard’s were bright orange.  Only Scopa didn't put any tokens into the bowl.  She stayed where she was, studying me as though I were a mildly interesting science fair project.

Ms. Apherly placed the Rafflejorum on the coffee table, then raised her hands.

Rafflejorum, dance for me, she commanded.

Immediately, a whistling wind rose from the porcelain dish, propelling the eight tokens into the air to swirl around in a mini-tornado.  The tokens should have been flung away, but they stayed suspended in the air above the Rafflejorum, moving around each other like planets orbiting a non-existent star.  Then Ms. Apherly snapped her fingers, the wind stopped blowing from the bowl, and seven tokens fell back into the receptacle.  One remained suspended in the air––orange, like a slice of peach.

Congratulations, said Hildegard, standing up and walking over. Welcome to Citrine Dungeon.

That concludes the assignment, said Goneril. I adjourn the meeting.

Six Dons departed.  Walkman gave me a thumbs up before she left the room.  Ms. Apherly approached me and pressed a poker chip into my palm.  It had a number printed on its white surface.

You will be number 39, she informed me, walking to the door.

Is that good or bad?

Your Don will explain, said Ms. Apherly. Good day.

Then it was just Hildegard and me.  She was tall, with wavy dark hair and Arabic letters tattooed on her wrist.  I'd later learn that she was sixteen years old, but at the time I thought she was older––her grim expression plus her mascara made her seem like an adult.  I didn't wear makeup myself––not since one of my foster-mothers had spent an hour every morning putting it on my face and calling me her little China doll––but Hildegard looked good.

I have a simple demand for all members of Citrine, Hildegard said. Strive to be a good person, even when doing good is hard.  Can you manage that?

I wasn’t sure how to answer that. Why do they call you Hildegard?

She smiled. Ever heard of the philosopher Hildegard of Bingen?

Uh...no?

That's fine, said Hildegard. Neither has anyone else.  Come on, let's get some fresh plums.

Excuse me?

I prefer explaining the evils of Verdant Corner in the orchard––makes the experience slightly more pleasant.

Uh––okay.

I followed Hildegard to the door, where she paused. Did you really fling Mason's Truthful Teacup at Mr. Locke's head?

Who told you that?

Ms. Apherly mentioned it, said Hildegard. According to her, that's why they locked you in the Pillbox until you calmed down.

Yeah, I said. I guess that's what happened.

Hildegard cracked her knuckles. Then let's save some time.  Your name here at Verdant Corner will be Teacup, in honor of your poor judgment and your good throwing arm.

I frowned. Any chance I can pick something cooler?

Cool is overrated, Teacup, said Hildegard. Come on, let's find those plums.

Chapter Four - The Whole Death Lottery Business

We emerged from the house into a garden bursting with roses and poppies.  The afternoon was warm: good weather for T-shirts and shorts––not so much for gray hoodies and jeans.  I was sweating in seconds.

Hildegard led the way between the flowerbeds to a stone brick path.  We passed a paddock of goats, following the fence toward a cluster of fruit trees.  Everywhere I looked I saw kids pushing wheelbarrows, shoveling manure, or carrying baskets of apples.

Let me guess, I said. Mr. Mason forces kids to work for him.

Yes, said Hildegard. But that's far from the worst thing he does.  This way.

The orchard smelled like July.  Ripe peaches and juicy apricots hung from the branches, half-hidden by the leaves.  Kids were at work here too, whistling and clambering up tree trunks to pick the best fruit.

Ahoy, Hildegard, called a boy above us who was straining to reach a nectarine. Is that the newbie?

Afternoon, Raviolo, said Hildegard. This is Teacup, newest member of Citrine.

Raviolo slid down the tree, his checkered bandana flapping.  He shook my hand vigorously and offered me an apricot from his pocket.  He was my age, and either tall for fifth grade or short for seventh.

A pleasure to meet ya, he said. I'm from Marble Dungeon––the dungeon for true heroes and badass rebels.  We’re very cool.

There was spaghetti sauce on Raviolo's bandana––many things were confusing to me at that moment, but what Raviolo had eaten for lunch was not a mystery.

Do you mind taking a ten-minute break so I can give Teacup the talk? asked Hildegard.

Raviolo gave a big thumbs up. I was just thinking about getting some lemonade.  See you at the Raffle, Teacup.

The Raffle?

Hildegard can explain, she's your Don.  Later!

Once we were alone, Hildegard gestured at a nearby wooden bench.  I sat down while she clambered into the tree to pick some plums.

I'll start with why Mr. Mason kidnapped you, said Hildegard, half-hidden by the leaves. Every Sunday, one child is killed at Verdant Corner, so he kidnaps a new child every week so that he never runs out.

Oh, I said. How many kids are there here?

Fifty, said Hildegard.

Fifty?

Mason does not want to risk running out of children to sacrifice––or else he likes having humans do his chores.  Point is, you're here to be killed: maybe this Sunday, maybe a Sunday twenty weeks from now, maybe a Sunday in five years.  Make no mistake, we are all doomed.

She swung around a branch to reach a cluster of plums Raviolo had not managed to pick.

You sound pretty calm about all of us getting murdered, I said.

Hildegard shrugged. Kids here have different ways of coping with certain doom.  Members of Citrine cope by studying ethics.

I was sure I had misheard that. Studying...ethics?

Yes.  Our goal is not to survive Verdant Corner, but to act virtuously until we die.

Who cares about virtues if you’re going to die?  Why don’t you just escape?

It's not that easy, said Hildegard. You can’t escape a sorcerer by walking off his estate.  If escaping worked, we would all be gone by now––it'd take some serious magic, and we're not allowed to have serious magic here.

"You’re allowed to have unserious magic