My mounting concern must be apparent because Mrs. Percy quickly lines me up in front of the target and demonstrates the proper throwing motion.
“It’s all in the aiming and the snap of the wrist,” she explains. “You want to grab it by the tip and put as much spin on it as you can when you release it.” She demonstrates a few practice snaps before letting the first Star fly. It slices through the air and into the target.
“We’ll have to experiment and find out which style works best for you—?over the shoulder or from the side, near your waist.”
Mrs. Percy hands me a Star. It’s heavier and sturdier than I’d imagined. Nothing like Father’s small, weighted darts that fit into my hands like skipping stones.
I carefully touch the point of the Star with my gloved finger. “These seem”—?I hesitate—?“like they could be dangerous.”
The look that crosses Mrs. Percy’s face is not exactly comforting. “Yes, most definitely,” she says. “If thrown at a person—?in self-defense, of course—?they could even be fatal.”
In self-defense.
“Now,” says Mrs. Percy, and I step up to the line. “Let’s begin.”
During our card game on Thursday evening I notice that Miles has lost another tooth. I still feel bad over confronting him about Mother’s ring, and he hasn’t spoken a word to me since.
“Miles—” I say, wanting to make amends after the game is finished, but he ignores me and shuts the door to his room. I get ready for bed, take an aspirin for the headache that won’t seem to go away, and feel under my pillow to make sure the Star I wrapped is still there. Which gives me an idea.
I pull out Mother’s book. While I’m waiting for Miles to go to sleep, I scribble a few more notes in my new list:
Scents:
Thou losest thy old smell. —?As You Like It
Eyes without feeling,
feeling without sight,
Ears without hands or eyes,
smelling sans all. —?Hamlet
When the moon is low and bright between the oak branches outside my window, I sneak into Miles’s room with a nickel in my hand. He hadn’t called attention to his new missing tooth, and I’m not sure that Mrs. Cliffton noticed. Maybe a contribution toward a new Sub-Mariner comic will help mend things between us. I carefully tear out a sheet of paper from the notebook that lies open on the floor next to his bed and write:
Forgive me? ?
Love,
Your Sister
Miles is sleeping, his mouth turned down and drooping, his hair smashed against his forehead. His hand is curled around the edge of his blanket. When his mouth twitches, I wonder jealously if he is dreaming.
Thankfully, he’s a deep sleeper. Sliding the coin and note under a pillow weighted by his head isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. I feel a tooth there, just as I’d hoped, and pull it out in exchange.
On my way out the door I pause over his sketchbook. Now that I’ve torn out the front page, I can see a drawing and writing underneath. I bend for a closer look.
I’m relieved to see that the first drawing is something other than Mother’s grave. Instead it is a sketch of a winged tooth fairy. She carries a satchel spilling over with teeth, and she’s riding in a carriage made from a hazelnut shell.
I turn the page.
Mother, he’s written. I don’t know if you can see this from where you are now. But I thought you’d like this riddle.
He’s drawn a small, lifelike frog, with mossy shades of greens and browns. Underneath he’s written:
Why are frogs so happy?
(They eat whatever bugs them!)
What is a frog’s favorite drink?
(Croak-a-cola!)
Croak-a-cola. It’s so . . . stupid. I choke on a sob that comes out of nowhere. He’s drawn the little frog so carefully with his Variant pencils—?Mother would have loved it. And I’d forgotten about the hazelnut shells. Anytime we found an empty nutshell in the garden she’d tell us that a tooth fairy must have left it there. The tears flow over my cheeks, and my breath is hitching because I’m trying to cry without making any noise.
I want her ring back.
I want her back.
I close the notebook and return to my bed, where I lie down and cry straight into my pillow. It feels good, and it hurts, as if something tight and thorny is coming unknotted in my chest. I finally sit up, and I am drying my face with my sleeve when there’s a soft knock on my door. I hastily finish running my sleeve over my cheeks and nose. Then I throw a blanket around my shoulders and, at the last minute, grab my Star from under my pillow.
“Yes?” I open the door only a crack.
Will stands in front of me, dressed all in black. His hair is short again.
“Oh—?are—” He’s taken aback when he looks at my eyes, which must be bloodshot and red-rimmed. “I’m sorry. I can come back later.”
“No.” I attempt a smile and open the door wider. “It’s fine. What do you need?”
He remains in the hall but cocks his head and gives me a long look.
“Do you want to go somewhere with me?” he asks finally. “It’s relatively safe and not entirely allowed.”
I sniffle. I want to be anywhere but alone in this room. “Yes,” I say.
“Get dressed, and I’ll come back for you in ten minutes.” His mouth cracks into a grin. “And I’m glad you’re up for it. Your room happens to be my escape route.”
Chapter Eighteen
I plait my hair around my head, dress in trousers and boots, and pull out the coat I found hanging in my closet earlier in the week. It’s a deep cherry red in a thick-knit wool. Mrs. Cliffton said it was one of hers that was too small, but I know that’s not true: I saw it hanging in Finch’s tailor shop on our first day in town.
I open the door at Will’s light knock, and he steps into my room.
“Too bright. You should take it off,” he says immediately, closing the door behind him. “The coat, I mean,” he clarifies, flushing. “To help us blend in on the road.”
“Oh.” Reluctantly I return it to the closet, running my hand one last time over the red sleeve. Will shuts off the light, so that all we can see is the mottled brightness of the moon, more yellow than white. Then he pulls a pouch from his pocket.
“Embers,” he explains, and dusts some over my head and arms. “No coat needed.”
Next come the Night Vision Variants. He opens the stopper and puts some of the sparkling paste on his fingertips. “Close your eyes?” He steps forward until he’s standing close enough for me to feel his breath. He smoothes the Night Vision over my eyelids. A pleasant thrill shoots through me at the feather-light touch of his fingertips, which lingers even after he applies his own Night Vision and stoppers the vial again.
He climbs onto my window seat, hoists open the window without a sound, and leaps onto the outreaching arm of the tree branch. Then he turns and holds out his hand to me.
I blink at him in wonder, looking around and past him as my eyes adjust to the darkness. I can see everything in a silvery cast, a shade lighter than shadows and outlines, as if the world has been dimly backlit.