Larkstorm

by Dawn Rae Miller

  I break off a piece of roll and pop it in my mouth. What do Callum and Annalise want with me, anyway? It can’t just be that Mother wants me home. Annalise wouldn’t dare show her Sensitivity for something like that. The risk is too great. There has to be something more.

  Maybe they’re trying to keep me from Beck because they know I’ll try to make him good? Maybe they want him to be bad so he can work with them? Maybe Annalise is mind-controlling Callum, my mother and everyone else in hopes of assuming Head of State?

  I realize, for the first time, I have no idea what Sensitives can actually do beyond vague notions of ‘destroy the world,’ ‘kill us,’ ‘control us,’ and the like. We never actually learned about their specific abilities in school.

  The jangling of keys startles me and a tight ball forms in the pit of my stomach. I hide myself in the furthest corner of the stall and cover my legs with loose hay. The noise comes closer and stops at the stall next to mine.

  On the other side of the slats, an old woman stands next to a wheelbarrow. She’s dressed like a farmer—knee-high rubber boots, wool jacket over a loose cotton shirt, hair pulled into a braid. Only an old lady would wear such a jacket in this heat. Still, I’d hoped someday to wear an outfit like that.

  A sigh escapes my lips.

  “Is somebody here?” she asks.

  I pause and weigh the risks. She looks harmless, but you never know. Sensitives are everywhere.

  She calls again. I watch her through the narrow gaps of the stall while analyzing the situation.

  I need help. I have no idea where I am or how to get to Summer Hill. Maybe, living out here away from the major towns, this old woman won’t recognize me?

  “Yes,” I say softly, half hoping she doesn’t hear me and turns away.

  She inches over to my stall.

  The woman clenches her hands over her heart and drops her keys. Her mouth hangs open.

  I leap to her side, concerned I’ve given this poor elderly woman a heart attack.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that I’m lost and–”

  “Oh good gracious, child!” She grabs my hands. “Do you know how worried everyone is? Your poor mother has been on TV begging for your safe return and here you are hiding in my barn!”

  “What?” I stammer. So much for my hope she won’t recognize me.

  “Let’s get you up to the house. We’ll ping the authorities and get you back where you belong.” She pulls me toward the barn door.

  I attempt to process what little information she’s given me. My mother’s been on TV asking for my safe return. As if I’d been…kidnapped.

  “You must be terrified.” She pats my hand gently. “I saw the look of that boy they caught at the train station. Shifty fellow. You can tell by the eyes.”

  “At the train station? Maz?” I say. What is going on? Maz is being accused of kidnapping me?

  “Him and all those others.”

  I let her lead me toward the barn door. The old woman pauses mid-step. “What in the world? Where did this come from?”

  Long, spiky points of ice hang from tree branches as if waiting to impale the next passerby. It coats the ground, slick and dangerous. An obstacle course of death.

  Like the destruction left by the Long Winter.

  Then it hits me.

  The snow is connected to Annalise—she somehow controls the weather. Every time she’s around, it’s as if the icy, cold edge hidden beneath her silky purr manifests into a roaring storm.

  It makes sense—the strange dancing snow at school, the freak ice storm that caused the train delay—all Annalise. That’s her magic.

  Pangs of panic rise in me. She’s coming for me.

  “I have to go,” I say, as I scan the storm. Annalise could be just outside the door, and I wouldn’t know it.

  “Nonsense.” The woman’s watery blue eyes question my motives more than her words do. “Let’s get inside and ping Ms. Greene.” She holds up her wrist, exposing her blue wristlet—mated but not a States woman. A common worker. “This storm seems to be interfering with my wristlet. We’ll have to ping from the wall screen.” She smiles at me again. “Ms. Greene is going to be relieved to know you’re alright.”

  I can’t think of any way to refuse without causing her physical harm. And I don’t want to hurt this woman.

  I follow her blindly, through the snow, to her house. The sun is now but a faint glowing orb obscured by the gusting snow. The transformation from sweltering summer to frozen winter is unnerving.

  “Poor thing! You’re shaking like a leaf!”

  I hold my hands in front of me. They tremble, but not from the cold.

  It’s because I’m trapped.

  The woman leads me up the side stairs and into the house. The warmth of her tiny kitchen greets me, a sharp contrast to the blustering storm outside. She points to a small table shoved against a wall.

  “Have a seat.” She picks up the kettle. “Would you like tea?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  My mind races. I need to get out of here. I can’t let her call my mother.

  “I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything to eat, my food ration has been cut and…” She looks at me apologetically, as if I should understand.

  “You don’t have enough food?” I ask. How is that possible? The State provides for everyone.

  “No, of course I do,” she stammers and stares at the table. “Where are my manners?” Her lips curve up gently. “I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Miss Tully.” She offers her hand in greeting.

  “Thank you, Miss Tully. It’s very kind of you to take me in.”

  “It’s the least I could do. Especially after seeing that story. The way those–” Her mouth puckers as if tasting something bad. “–those Sensitives, took you like that. You’re lucky someone found your wristlet. Such a smart girl leaving a clue like that.”

  She beams at me, impressed by my craftiness. The safest thing to do is play along with the kidnapped scenario. But my heart sinks. How much trouble is Maz in?

  “Well, I needed to think fast,” I say.

  “Like a true leader,” she says, her wide smile growing.

  I eye her wristlet. “Is your mate home, too?”

  “Oh, no. She died many, many years ago.” She sets her cup down on the table and shuffles to the wall screen. “I need to find the hotline number for the authorities. I bet you can’t wait to get home.”

  I nod and hope I appear grateful, but my heart hammers in my chest. I have to get out of here. Before she calls Mother.

  Miss Tully fidgets with the wall screen’s manual controls. Nothing happens and I give a silent prayer of thanks. The feed must be down.

  My relief is short lived when an image flickers on the screen. The storm causes it to fade in-and-out before solidifying. But when it does, my mouth drops open.

  There, on the screen, is Beck leisurely walking back to our house. His head’s down, as if lost in thought. How can that be? What’s he doing there?

  The newscaster speaks over the image. “We’ve attempted several times to contact Beck Channing, the missing girl’s mate, but he remains in seclusion, unwilling to take interviews.”

  I study Beck’s image closer. Something about it isn’t right. He walks up the front stairs, his backpack slung over his shoulder. He reaches the door and enters.

  The backpack! It’s the one I left in the barn. He can’t be carrying it because I have it. Beck’s not at home. This is an old feed. But why and when did they shoot this?

  I move closer to the wall screen and hope the hotline number doesn’t come up anytime soon.

  “He’s rather handsome,” Miss Tully says. “You’re a lucky girl.”

  Unable to tear my eyes from the screen, I mumble, “Yeah, he’s great.”

  Beck’s image disappears from the screen. In its place are headshots of Kyra, Maz, Ryker and two other students who I recognize but don’t know. Under their pictures are the words “
Accused Sensitives: Kidnapping Suspects.” So they’re saying Maz kidnapped me and is Sensitive?

  Miss Tully jabs her finger at the screen. “Those children need to be punished for trying to abduct you! And the sum of money they tried getting from your family. Despicable!”

  I sort through the information. There are five pictures on the screen. Five, including Maz. Five. The same number as the Sensitives discovered at school. And Beck’s not included.

  Maz’s words ring in my ears: I bet she’s in major damage control mode right now.

  That’s what this is. Mother’s damage control. No one knows Beck is Sensitive. And I didn’t run off. I was abducted as part of a plot by Sensitives to extort money from my family.

  On cue, Mother’s image appears. She looks haggard. Strands of her normally neat blonde hair have fallen out of her chignon. Dark circles line her blue eyes.

  “We just want Lark back. Safely. Please.” She clutches a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her mouth and turns from the cameras as if to hide tears. My mother never cries. She’s the backbone of our society, the one people turn to for strength. Even when the last Head of State was assassinated, she didn’t shed a tear. She kept right on doing her job.

  And yet, she’s on the wall screen, crying about me.

  Newscasters shout questions at her, but she refuses to answer and disappears into the center of her security detail.

  I watch some more interviews—the ticket agent who sold me my fare and insists he thought I was being controlled by “unnatural forces.” The bartender in the dining car who noticed Maz and I arguing, but feared for his own safety. And so on. Each interview more fantastic than the last. The only person they didn’t interview, besides Beck, is Bethina. Even some of my housemates posed for the cameras.

  The teakettle whistles and Miss Tully pours two mugs. I look outside. The storm rages, but if I want to get to Summer Hill, I don’t have a choice.

  “Miss Tully?”

  “Yes, dear,” she says.

  “I believe I came here once, as a child. On a field trip. We stopped at Summer Hill. Is that very far?”

  “Is that where you were headed? To that old relic?” She stirs her tea.

  “Yes. It was the only place I could think to go in this area. After I made my escape.” It’s not exactly a lie, I think.

  “I never understood why people make such a fuss over pre-Long Winter artifacts. Who’d want to live surrounded by all those old things?”

  I smile politely, not wanting to sound like I’m prying for information.

  “Well.” She stops stirring her tea and takes a sip. “You were headed in the right direction. It’s normally about an hour by foot. But I don’t think you would have found it. The trail is behind the barn. You can’t see it from the road.”

  “Oh.” I pretend to look relieved. “Good thing I didn’t wander out then. Especially with this storm.”

  The Newscaster interrupts us. “If you have any information about the location of Lark Greene…”

  Miss Tully scurries across the room to the wall screen controls in anticipation. “Please contact the San Francisco Missing Person’s Bureau.” A number flashes across the screen and Miss Tully taps on her wristlet.

  “Oh nutter,” she mumbles. I hope that means she needs to re-enter the number.

  I have to go. Now. Fast. If Miss Tully calls, it could be mere minutes before Annalise and Callum arrive. Because if the blizzard outside is any indication, they must be near.

  I jump to my feet and say, “Oh no! I left my backpack in the barn!”

  Before Miss Tully can stop me, I run to the door. “Will you ping while I go get it? I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “You be careful,” she responds. “It’s awful out there.”

  “I will. Be back in a minute.” I zip my jacket all the way up and adjust my scarf.

  When I open the door, I’m pulled into a winter tornado.

  The howling wind circles me and nearly knocks me down. The barn is only about a hundred feet away, but the furious snow obscures it until I’m just inches from the door. I waste no time and run to my stall, locate the pack and throw it over my shoulder.

  At the barn door, I scan the landscape. Even if Miss Tully were trying to look for me, she’d see nothing but a sheet of white. But that also means there’s no way for me to watch for Callum and Annalise.

  The snow forms a wall of white all around me. I touch the side of the barn and feel my way around, until I come to the back.

  The snow eases slightly and I spot two rows of trees sloping upward. There’s no path to speak of, since about six inches of snow cover everything, but that must be it.

  I give the open field a quick once over. Annalise and Callum are nowhere to be seen so I trudge to the path. My feet sink deep in the snow. The wind picks up and blows against my back, hard.

  Annalise must be getting closer. Determined to avoid her, I try to quicken my pace but the snow makes it difficult.

  Halfway up the hill, I slide back and land a few feet from the bottom. Frustration pokes at me. It begs me to give up and trek back to the house. It pleads with me to lie to Miss Tully again and say that I got lost in the storm. And for a moment, I listen—lying, after all, is becoming second nature for me.

  The silence of the storm surrounds me. Even though the snow falls at an unseemly rate and the trees bend to gravity defying angles, there’s silence.

  The sound of my breath fills my ears. Deep inside I feel a gentle pull, as if several strings have been tied around my heart. They lift me from the snow and urge me forward.

  With renewed determination, I climb the hill again. This time, the dwindling wind makes the attempt easier but reaching the top is agonizingly slow. I slide back with every other step on the icy path. To make matters worse, when the wind gusts, it’s from behind. Strong blasts knock me to my knees.

  Walking upright doesn’t get me anywhere, so I crawl. The snow stings my ungloved fingers, but I have no other option.

  As I near the crest, the wind and snow start up their game of torture again. The frigid air cuts at my throat and stings my nostrils through my scarf. The endless strain of confusion, frustration and heartbreak becomes too much and I break. Tears freeze on my cheeks.

  Annalise and Callum must be close to cause a storm like this.

  “C’mon, Annalise!” I yell into the gray sky. “Come get me if you want me so badly!”

  In response, the snow spins violently and lashes at me. But no one comes. I’m alone, crawling in the snow, crying. My clothes are a wet mess. My hands are frozen. I wipe my snotty nose on my stiff scarf.

  Why are they doing this? Why? Is it really so awful that I want to see Beck?

  Tired of fighting, I close my eyes and roll onto my back. The memory of Beck’s warm hand in mine fills me. My tears slow as the invisible strings around my heart tighten. They comfort me in some strange way and prod me to get up, to keep going.

  The sensation is so odd and unexpected. It’s as if I’d cried out all the fear and frustration. Enough, I think. Enough of the self-pity. Sitting here crying isn’t going to bring Beck to you.

  I stand, determined to press on. Only a little bit more, I tell myself. Beck is nearby. You just have to walk a little bit more.

  But what feels like hours later, I’m still walking and crawling—my fingers numb and my cheeks wind burnt. And yet the strings won’t let me stop, even though I want to. They drag me along and force me forward.

  I’m not sure where I am. Miss Tully said Summer Hill was just up the path, but there’s no visible path. For all I know, I may be standing deep in the forest somewhere.

  I search for an indication of my whereabouts. There’s nothing but snow and trees.

  How do you pass a house as large and magnificent as Summer Hill?

  You don’t. Not even in a blizzard.

  I must not have gone far enough. I need to keep going.

  Branches snap from the weight of the snow. Without warning, a snow
-heavy tree groans and breaks, falling directly across the path. The sound severs my heartstrings and I’m left untethered, lost in the woods.

  Defeated, I slam my bag on the ground. It’s not fair! Why am I going through all this? Beck obviously didn’t care enough about me to share his secret.

  I throw myself into a snow bank, no longer caring if I get wet. Let me die here.

  The storm swirls around me as if feeding on my misery. I’ve always loved this weather, but now it’s like everything conspires against me.

  If I ever see Annalise again, I’ll…I’ll what? Run away, so she can’t squeeze the air from my lungs again? What exactly can I do against a Sensitive?

  I sit up and hurl a handful of snow. The wind shifts and a faint sparkle of sunlight glimmers off my left. I squint and see a shape about ten feet in front of me. Somewhere, over there, is sun. Curious, I stand up and trudge over to where I saw the glimmer.

  There, in the middle of this snowstorm, is Summer Hill—completely enclosed by an invisible dome and as clear and sunny as the brightest summer day.

  14

  Summer Hill.

  Like a mirage, the pale yellow house shimmers beneath the glowing sun. Tall meadow grass bends and sways, sending a ripple from the bottom of the hill to the top, where the house sits. From my perspective, the roof appears to break through the bright blue sky.