by Eric Smith
“Go on. Open it.” The woman smiles.
My fingers shake as I fumble with the twine with one hand while clutching my sack with the other.
“Here, let me hold that for you.” She reaches for the sack, and I jerk it out of reach.
“It’s mine.” It’s all I have left, and I can’t bear to part with it. Not even for a second.
My heart thuds against my chest at the way her mouth forms a little “o” of surprise.
“I know it’s yours,” she says, the kindness in her voice unwavering, though she’s watching me carefully now. “I just wanted to help.”
“I don’t need help.” I speak quietly as I drop my eyes to my lap and study the knotted twine.
I don’t need help. Not from a woman who doesn’t love me. Who doesn’t even know me. Not from a woman who will surely bring me back to the steps of Ms. Adelaide’s once she realizes that I can’t be the governess or the maid or the daughter she hopes I’ll be. The pit of fear that opened inside of me at the orphanage yawns dark and wide.
The woman is quiet for a moment. Then she says, “What do you need?”
I shrug my shoulders and pick at the twine.
“Bellana, I’m your mother now, and I—”
“You aren’t my mother.” The words escape before I can hold them back. “My mother left me.”
“Oh, Bellana—”
“I can hold my own things.” My voice trembles. “And I can unknot some twine. I’ve learned how to do a lot of things without a mother.”
Tears prick my eyes, and I turn to the window, blinking rapidly as we pass through the city of Berasford. The whitewashed brick exteriors of shops with their filigreed iron shutters and their hand-painted wooden signs give way to wide streets lined with peach trees and bushes with pale yellow blooms. In the distance, the spires of the king’s Berasford castle pierce the sky, the scarlet flag of Veraci fluttering in the breeze.
My breath hitches in my chest as silence fills the carriage. I don’t dare look at her, though from the corner of my eye, I see her hands clenched tightly together in her lap. I’ve been rude. Worse, I refused her help, and I’m still struggling with the twine. So much for making a good first impression. Solana would’ve found a way to gracefully accept this woman’s help. Ellie would’ve had her laughing by now. And Karis would’ve ripped off the twine like it was string.
I draw in a deep breath and try to ignore the fear inside me. Maybe this woman will decide I’m not worth keeping. Maybe she won’t. But she gave me a present, and in my experience, only those who care about you take the trouble to do that. The least I can do is open it and thank her properly.
As the gently rounded hills of Berasford flatten into plains, I turn away from the window, place my sack at my feet, and push the twine to the edges of the rectangular object it hides.The paper tears, the twine catches on the corner and then slides free, and I’m left holding a book.
The cover is worn, its edges frayed, and the golden letters that spell out Tales of Valor are dull as if rubbed often over the years. I lift the book and catch its scent—the musk of aged paper and the sweetness of ink—and then I gently open the cover and see a list of names written on the inside. Each name looks to have been written by a different person, and at the bottom of the list I see Bellana Shriner written in elegant letters.
My heart beats fast as my fingers slowly trace the name, and then I look up at the woman. “Thank you.”
She smiles, though tears shimmer in her dark eyes. Quietly, she says, “It’s been passed down for generations in our family, from mother to daughter.”
Something tingles up my spine at the weight she gives to the word “daughter.”
“I’m sorry I was rude,” I say as I slowly hug the book to my chest. The light streaming in through the carriage window is diffused with gold as the sun begins to set.
She leans toward me. “You weren’t rude. And I’m so sorry your birth mother left you. I know it’s going to take time for you to trust that I won’t do the same.” She pulls a handkerchief from her pocket and hands it to me as tears fill my eyes. “Relationships take time to grow. I’d like to get to know you. Ms. Adelaide says you like stories. So do I. I’ve collected hundreds of books. So many books, I decided to turn my dining room into a library.”
I choke on a half-laugh, half-sob and say, “You turned your dining room into a library?”
“I did.”
“But where do you eat?”
She smiles, warm and generous. “In a chair with a book balanced on one knee and a plate of food on the other. Much nicer than a big, lonely table. I might have some stories that you’d like to read. If I don’t, then we can plan trips to booksellers across Veraci to find them. And along the way, we’ll get to know one another. We’ll learn how to be a family with each other.”
“You aren’t married?”
“I was for a time, but he died years ago, so it will be just the two of us.” She reaches for me, and I let her take my hand. “We can take all the time we need to figure things out, Bellana. I’d really like to try, if that’s all right with you.”
I stare at her fingers, golden brown against my pale skin. At the way she holds on to me like a gift she doesn’t want to lose. At the precious book she passed down to me.
“I’d like to try too,” I say.
Her hand remains over mine as the carriage passes through fields of ripening wheat, golden stalks painted crimson beneath the dying rays of the sun. I search myself for the icy pit of fear, but find in its place a tiny kernel of warmth slowly unfurling into something I haven’t felt since the last time I stared into the night sky and wished upon a star.
Hope.
C.J. Redwine loves fairy tales, Harry Potter, and watching movies at the theater. She is the New York Times bestselling author of The Shadow Queen, The Wish Granter, and the Defiance trilogy. C.J. lives in Nashville with her husband and children. If the novel-writing gig ever falls through, she’ll join the Avengers and wear a cape to work every day.
“Adoption is the heartbeat of our family. We adopted two of our children from China and we will be going back to adopt another within the next few years. It’s the most heartbreaking, beautiful, challenging, amazing journey we’ve ever been on. Our daughters are so precious to us, and getting to watch them blossom is one of the best parts of my life. I love encouraging others toward adoption. Every child deserves a loving home!”
The Snow-Covered Sidewalk
by Randy Ribay
I’m not sure I should open it here. The café is too public, too busy. It’s practically buzzing. Every table’s taken up by people chatting or reading or staring at their phones as they sip their lattes and take a break from Christmas shopping. The air is thick with afternoon conversation, punctuated by the bursting hiss of the milk steamer or the sudden growl of the coffee grinder.
Sure, everyone seems to be doing their own thing. But I can’t be sure some creep won’t read my screen over my shoulder. You just never know with creeps.
Besides.
It just doesn’t feel right to read it here on my phone. That’s, like, pretty unceremonious. Like maybe I should read it at midnight by the glow of a candle with some dramatic music playing in the background. Or on a ship at sea as the sun sets and Morgan Freeman narrates. I don’t know. Something like that.
Or not.
I should at least be by myself. I’m sure of that. After all, I know I’m going to lose it, and I don’t want to have a freaking nervous breakdown in public and then have everyone staring at me thinking something stupid like I just got dumped by a boy or I didn’t get into my top college choice. And, of course, someone would recognize me and then end up asking my parents if I’m doing okay. I’d have to tell them what I’ve been up to, and I’d probably die of awkwardness or shame or awkward shame.
Still. My heart’s racing. I
t’s taking everything in me not to click on the little envelope icon that indicates I have a new message. The need to know what it says is consuming, but I slip my phone into my backpack at my feet. Not now, not here.
I drag my right index finger down the side of my iced coffee’s plastic cup to wipe off the condensation and repeat the motion all the way around while taking a few slow, deep breaths. After there’s no more condensation to wipe, I let my eyes drift outside the window to the failing light and falling snow. It’s not much of a view, just the strip mall’s parking lot. But it’s still kind of pretty, and after a couple of minutes I feel my heart slowing. I take one more deep breath and pick up the book I was reading before I got the message notification. Except I end up reading the same sentence a million times because I can’t get my freaking mind off that freaking unread message. Those are the words I want to be reading.
Screw it.
I mark my page, close my book, and reach for my bag.
“Excuse me, m’lady,” some guy says in a really terrible mock-English accent.
I look up. A boy’s standing on the other side of my table with a gloved hand on the opposite chair. He’s maybe a little older than me. White. Smiling. Short. Wearing all black—black jeans, black shirt, black winter coat with snowflakes still melting on the shoulders. Even his hair—which is a tangled mess—seems like it’s dyed black. He’s got these really long, scraggly sideburns that look like wings, and around his neck hangs a necklace with a yin-yang pendant, which makes me imagine he’s got a shelf full of anime and a samurai sword on the wall at home. Not my type.
“Mind if I sit here?” he asks, dropping the accent and already starting to pull out the chair. “It’s pretty crowded up in this place.”
I shrug. “Sure. I was just leaving.”
“Cool.” He pulls the chair out the rest of the way and sits down. As he struggles out of his coat (I’m not sure why he didn’t remove it while he was still standing), I catch a whiff of winter and smoke. Not like fire-in-the-fireplace smoke, but like giving-himself-lung-cancer-via-cigarette smoke. Definitely not my type.
“Great book,” he says, as I’m slipping it into my bag. “But I don’t know about that ending.”
“You’ve read it?” I ask, surprised not only that a guy would have read this book but that a guy would publicly admit to having read it. It’s widely considered “girly” by the general public. Whatever that means.
He nods slowly, as if that was a really dumb question. Because how else would he know it was great but with an unsatisfying ending if he hadn’t read it? Go me.
“Cool,” I say, tucking it the rest of the way into my bag.
He pulls off his black gloves and shoves them into his coat pocket. “How far are you? Did you get to the part where she catches her boyfriend with her mother?”
“Um,” I say. “Just started.”
“Oops,” he says. “Spoiler alert.”
“You’re supposed to start with that.”
He musses his own hair, shakes his head like a dog trying to dry off. “Sorry. I have trouble doing what I’m supposed to. It’s pretty much my life story.”
“Cool,” is all I say, even though I can tell he wants me to ask him more about that. “Well, enjoy the table—it has a great view of the parking lot.” I zip up my bag, stand, and pull on my coat. I feel his eyes on me the entire time, like some creep, and think about calling him out, but whatever. I’ve got better things to do.
“Wait,” he says. No, pleads is a better word. He pleads. And his voice hits just the right note of pathetic-ness that it triggers some instinctual concern inside my brain. I pause, fingers lingering on my coat zipper. Our eyes meet, and there’s definitely some genuine desperation behind his. Like he wants to say something but can’t work up the courage.
“What?” I ask, trying not to sound bitchy but kind of failing.
“Um,” he says, mussing his hair again. “You don’t have to leave. We can share the table.”
“I’ve got somewhere to be,” I say, thinking about that message sitting in my inbox, waiting to change everything.
“Oh.” He lowers his gaze. Uses the nail of his forefinger to scrape some piece of dried food off the table’s surface and then smooths his palm across to brush it clean. “Have a good evening then, m’lady,” he says, returning to that terrible English accent that sounds more like a mix of Irish and Australian. Then he leans forward, puts his arms up on the table, and rests his head in them like he’s going to take a nap.
It’s pretty damn sad. Makes me feel like I just kicked a freaking puppy.
I sigh.
I’ve waited my entire life trying to find anyone biologically related to me, so I suppose I can wait a few more minutes to read that message. Or maybe he’s just an excuse to put off what scares me about it. Whatever.
I slip my coat off and sit back down.
He lifts his head, and his lips lift in a small smile. It’s all I can do not to walk to the nearest drugstore, buy a razor, and shave those ridiculous sideburns off his face. Muttonchops, I think they’re called.
“You’re staying?” he asks.
“I guess,” I say. I want to note that he looks pretty damn sad, but I’m guessing he probably feels sad enough that that wouldn’t be a very helpful observation to share.
He sits up all the way and scoots his chair forward. “Are you . . .” he starts to ask, but hesitates. Then it’s like he just gives up and sits there like some malfunctioning robot. So despite the hum of conversation and movement all around us, we just chill out in this awkward bubble of silence.
“Um,” I say, wiping off the condensation that has reappeared on the side of my cup even though it’s mostly just ice now. He’s still not saying anything, leaving me to wonder about the rest of his question: Am I what?
“Are you . . .” He stalls again. “Never mind. Iced coffee in winter, eh?”
“Yup.”
“That’s kind of weird.” He nods outside in the direction of the still-falling snow.
I shrug. “Aren’t you getting any coffee or anything?”
He fidgets in his chair. Looks away. “I don’t really have the money.”
I laugh. “For a cup of coffee?”
He shakes his head, and I immediately feel like the world’s biggest asshat for laughing.
“You want to borrow a couple of dollars?” I ask.
“Nah, I’m cool,” he says. “Really.” He starts scratching at something on the table again. “I didn’t actually come in here to buy coffee.”
I raise an eyebrow. Here we go. “Oh?”
“I saw you in the window . . . and I . . . well, I wanted to talk to you.”
Ah. There it is. Just another dude who wants to hit on me. My eyes go back to his yin-yang pendant. Probably another one of those white guys who’s really into Asian stuff. Maybe he’s about to mention that he knows how to use chopsticks and that he took karate lessons for a year in fourth grade. Maybe he’ll compliment me in Mandarin. I rotate my cup. “Why did you want to talk to me?” I ask.
“You’re Emily Johnson, right?”
I narrow my eyes at him. He knows my name, but I have no idea who he is. I’m hoping this is just a consequence of being, like, one of the only Asians in this town and not because he’s been stalking me for months and wants to take me to the secret torture room he’s prepped in my honor.
Okay, maybe I watch too much Law & Order: SVU.
Still, it’s too weird for me.
“Well, I’m going now,” I say as I pull my coat back on.
He starts fidgeting hardcore. Scratching at the table again, mussing his hair some more, even rocking back and forth a bit like it’s time for his meds. I really need to get out of here.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m really sorry. That was creepy.”
I wrap my scarf arou
nd my neck. Avoid making eye contact. “Agreed.”
“I graduated two years ago,” he says, speaking quickly. “You were a sophomore when I was a senior. That’s why I know your name. Warren Lucas. That’s mine. That’s my name.”
That explanation makes this situation a little less creepy, but only a little. It doesn’t completely rule out the torture room possibility. I don’t remember ever hearing the name “Warren Lucas” before, and my eyes slide back to his face and it still doesn’t trigger any memories. Only about four hundred kids go to our school, so you actually end up knowing who most of them are even if you never talk to them. Especially if you’re in student council like I am.
He tugs at the sideburns that make him look like he stepped out of a Civil War portrait. “I didn’t have these back when I was in school.” He must notice the lack of recognition that remains on my face because a moment later he adds, “You probably didn’t know me. Most kids didn’t. I kept to myself mostly. Still do.”
And I know I should really get the hell out of there, but I take my time putting my hat and gloves on because there he goes again making me feel sorry for him with that kicked-puppy vibe he’s rocking.
“Are you still in student council?” Warren asks.
I nod. “I’m president this year.”
He nods. “That’s awesome. Congratulations. I bet that looks really good on college applications.”
“Yeah,” I say and sling my bag over my shoulder.
“Finished with your applications yet?” he asks.
I nod, and I almost ask Warren what college he’s going to. But if he can’t afford a cup of coffee, he’s probably not even at Community.
“Cool,” he says.
I pick up my cup and toss it into a trashcan next to the table. “Well, bye.”
“Wait,” he says, and before I can walk away, he reaches out and grabs my wrist. He doesn’t grip it hard, and it doesn’t hurt at all. But still. I pull away. Heat rises to my face. My pulse quickens. I feel people at the nearby tables look up from their books or phones or computers.
