by Kristy Tate
“I’m sorry, Amy,” Chase said. “But I don’t want to be here anymore.”
“You’re supposed to be helping me find the dwarfs,” Grace said.
Chase lifted his hands in surrender and walked away.
Oliver kicked up a bit of sawdust in Gabby’s direction. “See what you’ve done?”
“What I’ve done?” Gabby huffed. “He’s the one who made-out with her.”
“She kissed him!” Oliver and Amy said simultaneously, sounding, for the first time, like twins.
“But why? She’s with Brock!” Gabby looked on the edge of explosion.
Grace wasn’t interested in their drama, nor did she want to sit through a show of clowns, lion tamers, and acrobats. She wanted to confront the dwarfs, and she wanted to ask Hot Horse Guy just who he thought she was. She also wanted to know exactly who Blanche was and why everyone was looking for her.
“You guys go ahead without me,” Grace said. “I’ll catch up with you.”
She pushed through the crowd, searching for one tall blond head or seven bald ones, feeling a little like Alice lost in Wonderland. When she reached the stands, the lights flickered and then died with an electric sigh. The park disappeared into black. The Ferris wheel cars rocked, a few children began to cry, and in the distance a coyote howled. The moon and stars did their best to shine through the marine layer blowing in from the coast. She stood stalk still, listening and trying to get her bearings. All around her, children and adults stumbled in the dark, waiting for the lights to return. Someone, a tall weaving figure in a black cape, bumped into her.
“Pardon,” he mumbled.
Grace found shelter beneath a slim maple tree and waited until her sight adjusted to the gloom. Scanning the crowd, she took note of the booths strung with inoperable lights. She couldn’t see the dwarfs or the guy called Charmant, but she did see a security officer, or at least someone dressed in a uniform. She moved back into the crowd and then felt someone tugging on her wrist.
At first, believing there was a mistake, she said, “Excuse me.” But the hand holding her didn’t loosen. In the dark, she could only see the man’s cloak. She tried to shake him loose, but the grip tightened and pulled her toward a crop of outbuildings. She opened her mouth to scream, but the man must have been expecting this. He shoved an apple into her mouth as he pulled her behind the restrooms.
Grace tried to spit the apple out, but he just pushed it deeper. She gagged. Her nose burned and her vision blurred. Shadows loomed around her; she saw buildings, rocks, and trees. Stumbling forward, she hit her head against a building. She struggled against the pain, the apple in her mouth, and the hands holding her wrist, but within seconds a tide of warm lassitude spread through her and buckled her knees. She fell into the embrace of her captor. Right before she passed out, she heard, “Ah, princess. Must you make everything très difficile?”
#
Brock and Alicia stood in the line outside the big top waiting to pass through security. Little kids with parents, college-age couples with their arms around each other’s waists, senior citizens holding hands—the circus was one of those one-size-fits-all places that cater to everyone. The only people who didn’t belong were loners. It wasn’t like a movie theater where you could sit alone in the dark, or a bookstore where you could get lost in the aisles.
Brock glanced over at Alicia. She studied her phone with a screwed-on smile on her lips. He wasn’t really alone, but he felt like it. What was worse? Being alone? Or being with someone who made you feel lonely? Besides, he hated being called Brocky. It sounded too close to broccoli. He wondered what she’d say if he started calling her Alicia-sparagus.
Brock peeked over her shoulder.
She moved her phone out of sight. “Don’t look!”
“Why not?”
“Girl stuff!” She edged away, her smile broadening.
Alicia handed her bag to the security guard for inspection while Brock stood with his hands in his pockets, wishing he was somewhere else. He had only agreed to go to the circus because he’d heard Grace and Dillinger making plans. Brock knew he should feel guilty about this, but it didn’t stop him from going. Maybe sometime between the acrobats and clowns, he’d find a way to break things off with Alicia.
He slid a glance at her. She had a secret. Brock felt it hanging between them. She’d been mad that he’d taken Grace home from the beach, but there was more to it than that. In some ways, she was like the whispering painting in the attic—just another something or someone he couldn’t figure out.
Inside, the tent felt closed, dark, and stuffy. Brock looked around and caught sight of Ashton, Clark, and Beans on the bleachers about three rows from the front. They waved him over. He nudged Alicia. “Let’s go sit with the guys.”
She rolled her eyes, but somehow managed to keep them glued to her phone. “Your friends…”
“What?”
She lifted a shoulder and put her phone in her bag. “They’re one dimensional.”
“What does that mean?”
Sighing, she placed her hand on his arm. “I love that you’re a nerd. I really do. Smart is sexy…but those guys…” She wrinkled her nose as if she’d just entered a house overrun by cats.
“How would you feel if I told you I didn’t like Devon?”
“You don’t like Devon?”
“Of course I like Devon.” Mostly. “I just wondered how you’d feel if I said I didn’t.”
Alicia scratched her ear. “It’s not the same. Devon is awesome. Your friends are… What sort of name is Bean?”
Knowing that telling her that Bean’s family dubbed him that when he was a fat little kid with gas wouldn’t help, he said, “It’s a nickname. You don’t get to pick your nickname.”
“And Ashton, he’s too—”
“What?”
“He’s kind of like Mount Rushmore.”
“What does that mean?”
“He looks great. He’s super impressive, but he’s hard to talk to.” She found a seat five rows back from the center, sat down, and tugged on Brock’s hand. “Besides, it’s nice when it’s just us.”
Brock sat beside her, disliking her, and hating himself for being with her. On the other side of the ring, he caught sight of Gabby, Amy, Oliver, and Dillinger. They all wore the pig suits. They were standing, looking around, as if searching for someone.
Grace.
She’d been with them earlier. So where was she now?
CHAPTER NINE
Grace tried to process her surroundings: a sawdust-strewn floor, rough stone walls, water tinkling, and moonlight filtering through a high window. The floor’s chill crept through her pig suit. She wanted to lift her head off the ground, away from the sawdust tickling her nose and making her throat itch, but when a pair of dark boots entered her line of sight, she relaxed and played possum-like dead. The toe of one boot nudged her side and she didn’t respond or flinch. A warm hand picked up her arm. She contemplated struggling, but hadn’t the strength. Despite rising goose-bumps, she kept her arms wet-noodle limp. When the man lifted her, she tried to peek, only a little, to identify him, but her eyelids, as if they had gone into league with the man and the poison apple, wouldn’t cooperate. She slept.
Next time she woke, Grace bounced down a canyon road on a velvety cushion. Rocking with each hairpin turn, she tried to form a coherent thought. Before she passed out again, the only thing that registered was the unmistakable clip-clop of horses’ hooves.
Sometime later, she stirred with her face in drool and her head full of wool. The cushion beneath her cheek smelled like a barn and her own stinky breath. She rubbed her tongue over her gritty teeth and rolled her head to look out the window at the stars flickering through the boughs of oak trees. An owl winged past the moon; his shadow fell on the canyon wall. Where was she? How long had she been there?
The carriage listed to one side so that her head sat lower than her feet. A thick fog blowing in from the coast billowed and puffed under a l
one street light. Scraggly oaks and tangles of mesquite bordered the guard rail that kept the canyon foliage from spilling into the parking area. Why had they stopped? Where was the guy who had taken her?
Her arms and legs felt detached from her torso, as if they belonged to someone else. She wiggled her fingers and found they worked. She didn’t try to sit up. Listening for her kidnapper, she couldn’t come up with a sane thought, a plan for escape, or a reason anyone would take her. The strange sense of ease flooded her body, but instead of being at peace, she grew increasingly frustrated with the sapping droopiness. She shifted her legs. They’d grown sweaty and sticky in the costume.
Suddenly the carriage pitched as if hit. The piggy ears poked Grace’s cheek, and she pulled off the headband. Clanging rang out. Twisting, she looked out the window and saw two men battling with swords. Charmant wore a tight black T-shirt that pulled across his chest. A tall man, presumably her kidnapper, wore a cloak and a hat with a feather. Sweat rolled down their faces, and the man who looked like Robin Hood flashed a smile, telling the world that he was enjoying himself. A beam of light glinted off a sword.
Grace wanted to scream, but instead she kicked the door and to her surprise, it caught the Robin Hood guy in the groin. He doubled over. Charmant whacked him on the head with the butt of his sword, and Robin Hood dropped onto the gravel with a grunt.
Roy placed his boot in the middle of the inert man’s back, pointed his sword at the man’s neck, cocked his head at Grace and smiled. “Many thanks,” he said.
Grace struggled out of the carriage and onto her feet. “I guess I should thank you.” Her knees buckled under her own weight and she braced herself against the carriage so she could remain upright.
Roy held her gaze for a moment, the smile toying around his lips. “Let me clean this up,” he said. “Don’t move.”
She didn’t think she could without falling, so obedience was a given.
Roy slipped the sword into the sheath secured to his waistband then hauled the man to his feet. One handed, he hoisted the man onto the back of the carriage.
Grace shifted to watch while Charmant opened a large trunk secured to the back end of the carriage, and folded the man into it like he was a cumbersome collection of bones and flesh. He clicked an old-fashioned lock closed and turned a skeleton key in the lock.
Grace covered her mouth, hoping she wouldn’t be sick. “Let him out!”
“What would you wish I do with him? He’ll be perfectly safe.”
Grace swallowed back bile.
“Chérie, the man wasn’t concerned for your safety. I don’t think you should worry about his.”
Grace tried to stop him, to object. Even kidnappers shouldn’t be tossed into trunks, she wanted to say, but as she pulled away from the carriage, all the blood left her head for other places. Charmant scooped her up before she could fall, and placed her back into the carriage.
Thumping came from the trunk. No longer rolling or pitching, Grace tried to make sense of her surroundings. She felt warm and damp in her pink pig suit, and soon drifted into a strange sleep. A flash of light accompanied a sudden cool breeze that brushed over her face. Strong arms freed her and she flew. Over a dark lawn, below the canopy of trees, she floated on her back. She didn’t feel fear or surprise at being airborne. She hovered in the damp dark. A door burst open.
“You got her?” a familiar gravelly voiced asked.
Grace looked around as she descended onto a cot. Faint moonlight touched the faces of the seven dwarfs. One of them stretched out a hot finger and touched her slightly parted lips as if feeling for her breath.
“She’ll be all right?” a concerned voice asked.
“Roy wouldn’t hurt her,” another voice replied.
“She will be fine, but I’m afraid we have been terribly mistaken,” Charmant said. “She isn’t my Blanche.”
“No!”
“She has to be!”
“Are you sure?”
“Can you doubt my heart?” Charmant asked, resting his hand on his chest. “We must accept the grim reality that my love is gone and that we have made a grave error.” He hung his head.
Despite the obvious fact that someone had drugged and kidnapped her—and Charmant and his little friends were possibly to blame—Grace felt sorry for them.
#
Grace woke shivering. Hot, cold, a pounding head, erratic blood coursing through her body. Her head swam when she tried to open her eyes and the walls seemed to breathe, in and out. The floor and ceiling tipped. Drenched in sweat, watching the dancing ceiling and walls, she felt faint. Her mouth tasted sour and felt dry.
Grace stretched on the bed and wiggled her numb arms and legs. She still wore the costume, but the pig ears had been placed on the nightstand. She was home. But how did she get here? What had happened? Had the kidnapping all been a horrible dream?
Heather, breathing slow and deep, slept in the twin bed on the other side of the room.
Her gaze landed on the aquamarine stone sitting on her nightstand. What had Brock said? Something about it being a protection. Maybe if she’d had it with her last night, she wouldn’t have been kidnapped. If she had been kidnapped. She knew how crazy that sounded, but did it really sound any crazier than being stalked by seven dwarfs or being poisoned by an apple?
Grace crawled from the bed, snagged Heather’s tablet, and looked up aquamarine stones.
Since the beginning of time, aquamarine stones have been held to endow the wearer with sagacity, valor, and joy. In the Middle Ages, it was thought that aquamarine would ease the efficacy of poisons. Legend claims that sailors wore the gemstones for protection.
Deciding that an aquamarine stone sounded like a good thing to keep, Grace padded into her grandfather’s and found a paper clip in the desk drawer. She twisted it around the stone, making sure it was secure. Back in her room, she pulled a silver chain from her jewelry box, remembering the boy—Chad—her seventh-grade crush, who had given it to her. She threaded the end of the paperclip to the chain and promised herself that even if the legends weren’t true, she would wear the stone. She liked the cool solidity of it against her skin.
After her shower, she found Heather sitting on her bed with her tablet propped up in her lap. She didn’t even glance at Grace. “How was the circus?”
What would Heather say if Grace told her she’d been kidnapped by a man wielding a sword? The whole thing seemed so much like a dream, she didn’t know what was real and what was not. “Weird.”
Heather looked up and grinned. “How so?”
“Well, it was a circus…” Grace let her voice trail away.
A knock on the door interrupted them before Grace could decide whether or not to confide in Heather. Tobs stuck his head in.
“Someone here for you,” he told Grace. “It’s a boy.”
“Did he give you a name?”
“Said he lives next door.”
Brock.
“For some reason, he didn’t think you’d be here,” Tobs said. “He’s giving me a dollar to check on you.”
“Why would he think you wouldn’t be here?” Heather asked, looking up from her tablet.
Grace shrugged.
“But now that you’re home, I might not get the dollar,” Toby said.
“Tell him I’ll be there in a second,” Grace said, glancing in the mirror at her disheveled hair. As soon as Toby closed the door, she dropped her towel, stepped into her shredded jeans, and pulled on a bleach-splattered blue T from her drawer. She tied her hair into a knot as she headed for the front hall.
Grace found Brock in the dining room with Grandma Dorothy, both working on a giant jigsaw puzzle.
He looked up when she walked in, and relief spread over his face. “There you are,” he said, standing and sending the dining room chair he’d been sitting in screeching across the hardwood.
“Where did you think I was?”
He shook his head and shrugged at the same time. “Chase, Gabby, Amy, Oliv
er—they were all pretty upset last night when you ditched them. I guess you don’t have a cell?”
Grace huffed out a sigh.
“Now why would she need a cell phone?” Grandma Dorothy asked. Most days, she wore a red flannel housecoat, a pair of knee-high socks, and fuzzy blue slippers, but today for some reason she’d decided to mix things up and wore Grandpa’s big black robe, no socks, and pink running shoes. She did her hair once a week on Tuesdays, so by Sunday her hair was always out of control—although it looked much better than it did on Mondays.
Brock pulled out his phone to show Grace the list of texts from everyone. “They were worried.”
“Then they should have come over here to check on her themselves,” Grandma Dorothy said.
“They sent me,” Brock told her.
“And isn’t this a lot nicer than just some bleeping on a phone?” Dorothy asked.
“Maybe, Grandma, Brock had better things to do than checking in on me.”
“Cow pies!” Dorothy snorted.
“Grandma!” Embarrassment washed through Grace.
“Well, this whole generation has lost its ability to hold a face-to-face conversation. Back in my day, if a young man had the hots for a girl he would show up with some flowers—or even better—something sweet.” She slid Brock a suggestive glance.
“Brock doesn’t have the hots for me,” Grace told her grandma. “He has a girlfriend.”
Brock’s cheeks had turned the same shade of pink as the dining room curtains.
“I don’t care, next time he comes over here pestering us, he better bring some chocolates if he wants to talk to you!” Dorothy bent over the puzzle and refused to make eye contact.
Grace took Brock’s arm and led him through the French doors and out to the patio. The sun skimming the trees told her it was still early. She glanced through the kitchen window and saw Jeanie setting a few plates around the table. The smell of sausage and eggs floated toward them. A wave of anger and frustration swept over Grace. Why did her grandparents think her mom should be their personal slave?
