“My head feels heavier. Like it’s full.”
I stood and crossed to the bed, rubbing Omori’s shoulder as I passed her. I took hold of Malia’s hand. It was limp, cold. Her fingers tightened slightly around mine.
“What happens to Malia now?” I asked.
“She’ll sleep for a long time,” Narata said. “Her body has a lot of healing to do. It might be days before she wakes up properly.”
“I’ll be here when she does.” I looked up at Omori. “Thank you. I know it can’t have been an easy decision to come.”
“I caught a glimpse of some of those memories as they came through my head,” Omori said. “I can’t believe that she was forced to carry them. It must have been horrible. I want to help. I want to help more people like her.”
“Really?” I said. “You want to train up? To be a vessel?”
“If I get to help people like Malia, then yes. I do.”
I looked at Narata. “What do we do now?”
“We bide our time,” Narata said. “We wait for our chance.”
“Our chance for what?” Omori asked.
I grabbed her hands. “We’re going to get away, back to Okaporo. We’re going home.”
Omori frowned. “I don’t really remember Okaporo.”
“But it’s home. Even if you don’t feel like it is now. It’s our roots. Our ancestors—”
Narata placed her hand over mine and Omori’s. “Let’s just take one day at a time. All this is very new to everyone. Just slow down, Kioto.”
“I just...” I trailed off, looking back and forth between the two of them. I felt like I was about to burst. It seemed like everything I wanted was so close, but was still being held just out of reach.
The door opened and Dai stepped into the room.
“We’re ready when you are,” he said to Narata. He looked at Malia asleep on the bed. “What are we doing with her?”
“She’s coming with us,” I said.
Dai frowned and looked at Narata. She nodded once.
“Whatever,” he said. “Downstairs in ten, ok? We’ve got vessels to find.”
Omori looked at me and smiled tightly. I squeezed her hand.
I had my sister, right here, and I was no longer alone. I had more of my home, more of anything, than I’d had in years.
Once upon a time, rogues had taken everything from me, and now I’d managed to get a part of it back. I wasn’t about to let them take it away again. I closed my eyes and the sound of the ocean filled my ears.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The original concept for The Smudger was crafted during many a long car journey, and, more pleasantly, during some coffee and very naughty cake in an incredibly quaint little cafe in Worcester. But it wasn’t done by me alone. My wonderful alpha reader and soundboard, my ever patient husband, Paul. I couldn’t have done it without you.
And it would be amiss of me not to mention our two beautiful boys who slept through those many long car journeys. You two make me laugh every single day. You’ve tested my wisdom, my patience, and my ability to build train tracks (which I seem to have quite a talent for). You may never know how hard it is to write a book while a toddler tries to pull themselves onto your lap, or how quickly the Mario Kart theme tune can pull you out of a fictional world, but I wouldn’t change a thing. I love you both in your weird wonderfulness.
My parents who continue to have faith in me. You taught me to dream, to believe in everything, and you let me read books at the dinner table. And Dad, while the scifi classics you used to read us as bedtime stories were probably a bit inappropriate, you introduced me to speculative fiction and the fantastical worlds I could travel to.
I need to thank the eagle eyes and honest words of Pat Salvant, Bonnie Bishop, Nigel Perels, Kay Smillie, Anne Mullane, Riddhi Padwal, and Alina Hart. With dusters in hand, you buffed and polished this book to what it is now. Thank you all.
My cover artist, Olivia, who proved endless patience in the face of my indecision.
My peers and fellow writers who have encouraged me, pushed me on, supported and advised me. Writing can easily become such a solitary, lonely job, and having someone who understands dealing with unruly characters, discovering gaping plot holes just before bedtime, or the pain and torture of formatting (don’t get me started) is so important. It lets me know I’m not alone. And that I’m not completely crazy. Not completely.
And of course, thank you to my wonderful readers. You’re the reason I show up every day. Well, that and the coffee.
ABOUT ANGELINE TREVENA
Angeline Trevena was born and bred in a rural corner of Devon, but now lives among the breweries and canals of central England with her husband, their two sons, and a rather neurotic cat. She is a horror and fantasy writer, poet, and journalist.
In 2003 she graduated from Edge Hill University, Lancashire, with a BA Hons Degree in Drama and Writing. During this time she decided that her future lay in writing words rather than performing them.
Some years ago she worked at an antique auction house and religiously checked every wardrobe that came in to see if Narnia was in the back of it. She's still not given up looking for it.
Find out more at www.angelinetrevena.co.uk
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