by Emily Asad
“You’ll forget him. You just need more time.”
“It’s not only that. You want someone who will be your princess and play all your games. I want someone who likes what I already do and doesn’t push me to be someone else. We’re always arguing about something or another.”
“I shall let you win from now on.”
“It was all too fast.”
“We can try to slow it down. Don’t injure me so, Zenia. Grant me a second chance!” His face screws up and he turns his back to me so I won’t see him crying. I can still hear the breath catching in his throat, though.
I’m not sure he loved me, or if he’s sad because his game is done. The fact that I doubt his motives, even here at the end, tells me I’m making the right decision. Still, he’s miserable because of me. I’d hug him if it weren’t totally inappropriate.
“I’m sorry, Nate. I can’t do this anymore.” I hug my arms to my chest, a sort of barrier between us.
“Don’t expect me to help with your stupid little house anymore. And no more dance lessons.” Then he whirls around to face me. “Forgive me. I take it back. I shan’t give up on you. I shall find another way to prove my worthiness and win your heart.”
“Nate…”
He kneels in front of me like his knight from the Accolade painting. “I pledge myself to you now and forever. Nothing you do can change that. Let my word be my bond.”
Bonded.
Artemics bond to each other for life.
My ring flares.
I stare down at my hands in dread, expecting them to turn to wood. “Did you just… share your curse with me?”
“What?” Sudden understanding flashes in his eyes. He stands, alarmed. “I… I…”
I have to see if I’m stuck here. I squeeze my eyes and think myself big out to the perimeter. I nearly laugh in hysterical relief when I pass through the dome, unharmed.
Unbonded.
The old grandfather clock sounds its midnight tune. My ring begins to pulse out clouds of furious sparkles.
Phoebe. I forgot all about Phoebe. And now Halloween’s over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT:
CAUGHT
When I open her door, she’s throwing toys up in the air and shrieking like someone’s sawing off her toe. “Phoebe, I’m sorry,” I say. “Please calm down.”
She glares at me and continues to make a mess. I don’t know how she does it, but her shouts grow even louder. She hurls a stuffed rabbit at me, shouting, “You promised! You said you’d take me trick-or-treating. You’re a big fat liar.”
“I never promised,” I say, dodging toys. “I said I’d try. Stop that awful noise so we can talk reasonably.”
Phoebe draws a deep breath, preparing to scream again.
“I said I was sorry, okay? We can still go trick-or-treating. I saved you a treat bag. Want me to go get it?”
“I bet you poisoned it. I know all about you. You’re a charity case. You only get to stay here because my father feels bad for you. I’ll have you fired. Then where will you live? You’ll be homeless!”
Homeless.
My biggest fear, after being alone.
She can’t possibly understand the effect her threat has on me. My words come out low and tight. “You’re a horrible person, Phoebe Akakios. Do what you like. I can take care of myself.” As I turn to go back to my room, prickles flood my body like mild electrocution. My ring burns hot. “What… Hey! Are you trying to turn me into a doll?”
Phoebe’s eyes narrow in concentration as her fingers aim and twitch at me.
“Knock it off! That hurts!” I slap her fingers down. “Listen, if you tell Amelia or your father I’m here, what can they do? If they kick me out, then I’ll never come back to visit you. Even if they drag me in here, they can’t force me to be your friend. I’ll ignore you. I swear I will.”
“You ignored me today!”
“I have other friends.”
“Well, I don’t.”
Poor kid – she’s right. It sucks to be so alone. Still… “I don’t want to play with you when you’re like this. I’m leaving.”
Amelia walks in – and freezes.
The fear on her face scares me more than Phoebe’s attempt to turn me wooden.
Wordless, she stumbles out into the hallway.
I hurry after her. Phoebe’s screeches fade to silence when I pass through the shimmery seal. I expect a lecture or a barrage of questions, but Amelia is silent. Stunned. Her lips are moving like she’s hunting for words.
“How did you get in there?” she finally whispers.
I remove the bandage over my ring. “It jumped onto my finger the first day I got here, and it won’t come off. I wanted to tell you but I thought you’d be angry.”
Her face drains of color. She has to lean against the wall for support. “Did the mirror…”
“Yes.”
Her medallion bursts into green flecks at the exact moment my ring pulses. “That’s your cue to check on Phoebe, isn’t it?” I ask, relieved to figure out that piece of the puzzle. “Mine does that, too.”
She clutches the medallion. “You can see this?”
“The sparkles? They’re all over the house. Listen, I never meant to get involved in any of this. I swear I wouldn’t have poked around if the ring hadn’t attacked me. But now…”
I hesitate. Will they kick me out of the mansion for snooping? The Ambassador was so afraid I’d discover the secret… Still, I’m the only one who can get into the dollhouse. If they send me away, who will take care of the Whitmans? Might as well tell Amelia everything.
“I know about the Whitman family. They’re awake. I’m their only link to the outside world.” Anticipating her lecture, I rush to continue. “I feed them. I can get in and out of the dollhouse now. You can’t send me away. They’ll starve. ”
She manages to squeak out the words, “How long?”
“I found the Whitmans in September. Just found Phoebe last night. Nobody else knows. I’m good at secrets.”
She pushes away from the wall. Her eyebrows start to knit together. “You’d better be. I have no idea how the Ambassador would react to this. She brings destruction wherever she goes… She… she…”
“She wants to change. And she must, if we’re to get the Whitmans free. I don’t know much about magic or Artemics, but it seems she can’t learn to grow up if she lives in the same room, year after year. Isn’t life supposed to be about gaining experiences?”
“She got about a hundred and thirty years’ worth of experience before she was grounded – and for good reason.”
“I know the reason. But we have to try.”
Amelia paces up the length of the hallway, arms crossed, and then returns. “Zenia, I know you mean well, but the truth is that she’s never going to get better. I inherited this medallion from my mother, and she got it from her grandfather. We’ve been serving the Akakios family since the mansion opened. Do you think we haven’t tried to help her?”
“Wait. You’re not Artemic? At all?”
“No. Why would I be?”
“Oh. I just wondered why you stick with this job, when she treats you like trash.”
A harsh smile jumps to her lips. “The benefits are beyond what you can imagine.”
“I don’t care how much they paid me. I’d never be her babysitter.”
“It’s not about money. It’s about legacy. The Ambassador trusted my great-grandfather with the secret that magic exists in this world. Only the most trustworthy members of my family get to inherit that secret. Not even my siblings know.”
“What keeps you from telling the world? Tabloids would pay a fortune for this kind of thing.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “That’s my secret. One I won’t be sharing. And it concerns me, Zenia, that you’d consider selling out this family.”
“Not me. Not ever,” I protest.
“Why not? You have everything to gain.”
“Are you kidding? Morally, it
would be wrong to make money off someone else’s suffering. But logistically, how would I get a reporter in here unnoticed? It’s not my house.”
“No, it’s not. Remember that.”
My face grows warm. “I do. All the time.”
“Good.” No longer leaning on the wall for support, she now draws herself up to her full height. She’s back to her composed self, bossy tone and all. “Maybe it would be best for you to leave things alone. You’ve seen the Whitmans. Do you want to end up that way?”
“Her magic doesn’t affect me. I’m immune.”
“You sure? Even my medallion has limits.”
“Pretty sure.”
“And you believe she wants to change?”
“With all my heart.”
She shakes her head. “Then – I can’t believe I’m saying this - we’ll try it your way. Nothing else has worked. But you don’t tell the Ambassador. Leave that to me.”
Our jewelry flares at the same time. Phoebe’s tantrum is growing worse.
A wry grin on her face, Amelia gestures to the door. “Do you want to get in there, or should I?”
I hesitate. As much as I want to help the Whitmans, facing that little brat isn’t exactly an appealing option. Still, I’ve been alone and I know how frustrating it is. And Phoebe seems to like me – more than Amelia, at least. “I’ll go.”
Phoebe’s on her reading rug, crumpled into a little sobbing ball. When I kneel beside her, Amelia safely in the doorframe, Phoebe looks up at me in bewilderment.
“You have a choice, Phoebe. Either you forgive me and I can go get that treat bag for you right now, or you hold a grudge and I never come back. What do you say?”
It’s a tough decision for her. She rocks back and forth on the rug, muttering, but then she gets quiet and still. “I don’t want to be alone anymore,” she says into the rug.
“Me, neither. I’m sorry for forgetting about you.”
“I’m sorry for… for being so mean to you. I’ll work on being nicer.”
“Friends, then?”
“Friends.” She wraps her pinky around mine.
I pull her up and wipe the hair out of her face. As I give her a hug, there’s an odd sensation, as if she’s getting taller. When she steps back, she has changed.
She reaches up to where her curly pigtails were and discovers two long braids instead. “I’m growing up!” she exclaims. She runs over to her vanity to inspect her new face, which has lost its baby roundness.
Amelia gapes at me. “You only met her yesterday?”
“Can she come back?” Phoebe asks her, and then tries her new word. “Please?”
Amelia holds up her hands, leaving the decision to me.
“Only if you’re nice to Amelia, too,” I say. “She takes care of you even when she’d rather be sleeping. She deserves respect.”
“You’re right.” She turns to Amelia with a new air of maturity. “I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused, Amelia. I’m going to be better from now on.”
“We’ll see,” Amelia replies, then turns to me. “You’re in charge now. Good night.” She hangs out in the doorframe a minute longer before leaving.
Phoebe closes the door after her and then whirls around with a huge grin on her face. She’s about as tall as an eight-year-old now. The Ambassador’s going to notice. “What will your father say about all this?” I ask.
“He’ll be so happy! He didn’t think this was possible.”
“Yes, but won’t he want to know how it happened?”
“I see your point.” She plops into the vanity seat and leans her chin on her hands. “Lucky he’s gone on business for the next week, huh? We really shouldn’t tell him, anyway. I mean, if this was an accident and I can’t grow up all the way, he’ll be so disappointed.”
“Don’t think like that. You grew once. Why not again?”
“Well, because…” She pauses. “You know, I don’t know why not. Think it’ll work?”
I pick up a few fallen toys and put them back in their places. “That’s up to you, I guess.”
She joins me in tidying her room. “I want to do it. I never wanted it before, but now I do. It’s time to do something with my life. I just don’t know how.”
“Learning to control your magic is probably the first step.”
“Okay. How?”
“How should I know?”
She heads over to her closet to a section neatly labeled When I Start to Grow.
“Daddy makes me order a new outfit each year for my birthday,” she explains as she chooses a bigger outfit. “He thinks new clothes will tempt me to get taller.”
“Seems like a good strategy.” I don’t tell her that saddle shoes and a poodle skirt are no longer in fashion.
“You seem to know a lot about Artemics. I thought the servants weren’t supposed to tell stories.”
“They do anyway.” I have to be more careful if I’m going to keep the Whitmans a secret from her. “And we say staff nowadays, not servants.”
“I’ll take that treat bag now,” she says, and then catches herself. “I mean, please let me have it now. Oh, no. Is it rude to ask?”
I laugh at her struggle with manners and then go fetch it. When I return, she pushes me into her closet and closes the door.
“Hey! What are you doing?” I fumble to find the doorknob. I don’t feel any strange tingles. Am I turning wooden? Shrinking? “Hey!”
“Trick or treat!” she shouts, flinging open the door with a huge grin.
“Don’t ever do that again, Phoebe Akakios!” I shout, darting out of the closet so she can’t close the door again.
“Did you think I was going to…”
“What else am I supposed to think? You’ve got a bad reputation.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t fix things. Here.” I shove her bag of treats at her and try to stop trembling.
She wanders to her bay window and stares over her back yard. White snowflakes meander around the dark sky.
“Sorry for yelling,” I say when my heart rate settles. “What’s wrong?”
“I remember when people used to pray instead pulling tricks. Prayer doesn’t work, though. My mom’s still out there.” She points toward the evergreen maze on the edge of the property. “Do you think you could take a candle out for me? I’ll say the prayer here, and you can put it by her statue. Oh, please?”
Making a midnight run in the freezing cold isn’t my idea of fun, especially when I remember the ghost who helped Mouser. But nothing seems harmful here, only misunderstood. Sighing, I accept the candle.
“Tell me about it when you get back,” she demands, then changes her tone. “Or in the morning, if you’re too tired. Or whenever is most convenient for you…”
Poor little kid! She’s trying to be considerate. I give her a thumbs-up before heading back to my room for my coat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE:
EVERGREEN
I’ve never visited the gardens before, not even when the leaves were in their full autumn glory. Since Amelia has never let me explore the rest of the mansion, I only know of one door that leads to the back yard. It’s in the kitchen.
Great. Amelia’s sitting at the island, drinking chamomile tea. She puts down her mug as soon as she sees me. “She’s okay?”
“Yep.”
“You’re okay?”
“I’m going out,” I announce, holding up the candle for her to see. “For a walk.”
She rises to escort me.
That’s it. I lose it. “Do you have to take me everywhere? I can find my own way! Unless you have more secrets to hide?”
Her eyebrows nearly fly off her face.
“Sorry,” I mutter, surprised by my own anger.
“No, you’re right. I do treat you like a little kid. I’m the one who should be saying sorry.” Amelia offers an apologetic shrug. “Gets cold out there. Will you need a scarf?”
Sarcasm coats my words. “No, mother. I�
�ll be fine.”
“Wow. I’m doing it again. And I don’t even have kids of my own yet.” She turns back to her mug of tea as I slip into the icy night air.
The snowflakes are gaining speed, much like my temper over these past few weeks. My anger eases when I’m in the dollhouse, but when I’m falling asleep at night, all worried about Mamá, it flares up. I hate moving around all the time. I hate how Dad left us, and how he burdened Mamá with all his debt. I hate not seeing her because she works three jobs – and now because she’s gone and I’m starting to lose faith that she’ll ever come back. I hate Mrs. Halverson and people like her who make me feel bad about who I am. Mr. Larson, too, even though the Ambassador paid off the contract. Even Mrs. Nelson isn’t a kind woman. She only lets me work at the bakery because she needs me. My thoughts swirl inside my head, my own personal blizzard.
Then I remind myself I have a lot to be grateful for. I’m living in a mansion, for crying out loud, eating fine food every single night. Sewing. Dancing. Building my Tiny House.
As I approach the evergreen maze, my thoughts turn toward navigation. I can’t see over the tall walls. I should have grabbed a visitor’s map. Too late. I’m sure Amelia will come drag out my frozen corpse if I get lost…
It’s almost warm inside the maze, since the walls form a natural shield against the icy wind. I set my mind to figuring out the logic of the maze. Surely there’s a pattern to help me get to the grave of Mrs. Akakios. Some of the turns lead to water fountains that have been turned off for winter. Others end with crystal-covered benches or frosty topiaries. Eventually, I meander my way to the center.
“Oh!”
A statue of an elegant Victorian lady stands on a low pedestal, wearing puffy sleeves, a high collar, and tidy button-up boots. Her delicate, chiseled face seems full of sadness. At her base, a plaquette reads, “Marina Akakios, Beloved Wife and Mother.” But there are no dates for her birth or death.
“So you’re the mother.” My breath makes a little white cloud of vapor as I speak. “I’m so sorry about what happened to you. Phoebe sent me out here with a candle for you, see?”
I’m talking out loud to a statue. It’s one thing to do it with Whitmans, but now I’ve started with statues, too. Great.