by Jeanna Kunce
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.
Text and Illustrations Copyright © 2014 Windhill Books LLC
Summary: A young girl named Darien uses magic paints to travel to another world and goes on a quest to rescue dragons from a wicked king.
Published in November, 2014 by Windhill Books LLC, Onalaska, Wisconsin.
windhillbooks.com
Library of Congress Control Number: 2014938874
ISBN 978-0-9844828-6-3
Created in the United States of America.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to my amazing husband, Craig—without your support and encouragement none of this would have been possible. Alex and Lauren, thank you for your patience and enthusiasm—you make it all worthwhile.
To my first readers, thanks for your suggestions and honest feedback: Avery Wickham, Baylea Wilk, Heather Swenson, Kristin Luhmann, Beth Ann McManimon and Crew.
Special thanks to Stacy Beatse—your hard work went far beyond my expectations.
My heartfelt appreciation goes to my editor Eleanor Duncan. Without you, this book would be awash in misplaced commas, and readers might never have known what really happened to Darien’s shoes.
And to all the writers whose works have crossed my bookshelves—thanks for inspiring me, teaching me, and helping me escape when I needed to.
For
Craig, all the days
and for
Alex and Lauren, my little sparkles
Prologue
In a quiet house on a quiet street, a single soft light glowed in an upstairs window. At precisely eight o’clock in the evening, the light blinked out. It appeared that everyone in the house had retired early and gone to sleep.
But appearances can be deceiving.
One member of the household, the father, had indeed gone to sleep. He sat sprawled out on a worn recliner in the basement living room with the mother, who was watching a television show and trying to ignore the father’s snoring. They were a normal couple, doing all the things normal people do: they went to work each day; they paid their bills on time; they kept up their home and yard, just as their neighbors did. They had two cars in their two-car garage—not brand new, yet not old enough to be out of place either. They complained about their bosses, who didn’t appreciate them enough; they complained about their relatives, who had taken a tropical vacation instead of visiting them for the holidays; and occasionally they complained about their daughter, who didn’t quite live up to their expectations of how a normal daughter should behave.
As the father snored and the mother tried to relax, the daughter was in her second-story bedroom, pretending to comply with her precisely eight o’clock bedtime. She had turned out her light at the correct time and then jumped under her covers with a flashlight and her new library book.
It wasn’t her intention to be disobedient—it was only that she was easily caught up in the excitement and adventures she could find in books, adventures that contrasted with the plainness of her real life. She could spend hours daydreaming of herself as the heroine in her favorite stories, burying herself in thick books, and drawing pictures of fantastic places and creatures, which afterward she hid under a box of outgrown clothing in the top of her closet.
The daughter suspected that her parents were disappointed in her, even though they never said as much, but she didn’t see the harm in daydreaming. She figured that she would grow out of it someday, just like those old clothes, and become the normal (boring) person her parents wanted her to be.
Tonight none of that bothered her. To her, nothing else existed outside of the story that now captured her attention. She turned page after page until her eyes were dry and it got so stuffy under the sheets that it was hard to breathe. In the late hours of the night, long after her parents had done all their normal things—like brushing their teeth and falling asleep on separate sides of their bed—the daughter’s flashlight ran out of power, and she reluctantly closed her eyes.
1
No Ordinary Neighbor
Darien woke up early on Friday morning, but the day didn’t awaken with her. Instead, it kept its head tucked behind dark and threatening storm clouds. Darien nestled her head into her pillow, hoping to go back to sleep, but the grumbling sound of thunder shook her wide awake again and out of bed. It had been an unseasonably chilly summer, so she shivered into her fuzzy ladybug bathrobe and padded downstairs in her stocking feet.
From the hallway, Darien could hear her parents talking in their hushed and hurried morning voices. In the kitchen, her mother was saying, “If that girl doesn’t get here soon, I’ll be late for work.” Darien figured they were talking about Jenny, the teenager who came to look after Darien during summer vacation.
Her father sighed. Darien knew that he couldn’t be late either. “She’ll be here,” he said. Just then, the sky flashed eerily with lightning. Thunder cracked. Darien jumped, startled, and looked down the hall to the back window, where rain had started to wash down in sheets.
Her attention returned to the kitchen as the phone rang and her mother scrambled to answer it. Afraid to go in with all the tension in her parents’ voices, Darien leaned against the door frame and tried to hear their conversation.
“Hello? . . . What do you mean, you’re not coming? We really need you to stay with Darien. . . . Oh. Really, lightning? Yes. I suppose your family needs you if the barn has been damaged. I’m glad nobody was hurt. Hopefully you can come back next week,” Darien’s mother said.
Darien heard the clatter of the phone hanging up and waited anxiously to see which of her parents would not be going to work. Her mother usually busied herself with housework when she stayed home. But perhaps today she could be persuaded to bake chocolate-chip cookies in the afternoon if Darien offered to help with the chores. Better still, but less likely, was that her father would stay home. Darien still had the paper sailboat he had once showed her how to make, which she had played with in the bathtub until it eventually got too soggy to float. Maybe today, she thought, we can make two boats, and we can have races and battles, and—
“—from across the street.”
What? What had she suggested? Darien leaned closer to the door.
“Are you serious?” she heard her father reply.
“Of course I am,” her mother snapped. Then she sighed heavily. “What choice do we have? Anyway, I can see her on her porch now, plain as day, sitting and rocking in her chair, as usual. I’m sure she won’t mind coming over once she hears our dilemma. After all, we are neighbors.”
Darien flung the door open and stomped into the kitchen, demanding her parents’ attention. “You can’t make me stay with her! You can’t let old Miss Mildew into our house. Who knows what she’ll do to me?”
Her mother turned away and began putting on her raincoat, saying, “Darien, this is no time for your nonsense. Someone has to stay with you while we’re at work.”
“Well, can’t you find someone else? What about Kari’s mom? What about Mrs. Meyer?”
“Kari’s mother has a part-time job now, and Mrs. Meyer had surgery last week,” Darien’s mother said and walked out of the kitchen.
Darien’s shoulders slumped, and she turned pleading eyes to he
r father. He peered over his glasses and said, “I don’t want you to go letting your imagination run wild like it usually does. Her name is Miss Mildred, not ‘Mildew,’ young lady. And I suggest that you be on your best behavior today. I am sure she is just a harmless old maid, but even they don’t take kindly to being called nasty names by impertinent children. Now go upstairs and make yourself presentable before your mother returns. I have to get to work.”
With that said, the subject was closed, and he became engrossed in the contents of his briefcase. Darien knew that once her parents had made a decision, no amount of pleading, crying, or tantrum throwing would budge them, so she headed back upstairs to get dressed. Through the window, she could already see her mother on Miss Mildew’s porch, wringing her hands and shifting nervously from left foot to right as the older woman looked up from her knitting.
* * *
Darien finished brushing her dark hair, pulled it back using a stretchy headband, and sighed with exasperation at her bangs, which were always determined to go their own way. She slipped a green calico-print dress over her head, tugged white tights on, and stepped into her shoes, bending hastily to fasten the buckles.
“Darien, come downstairs now,” her mother called from the front door. Darien hesitated, then decided she might as well get it over with—stalling would only make her mother mad.
Tiptoeing down the stairs, Darien tried to get a glimpse of her unfortunate houseguest, but all she could see was the swish of a long black coat and two angry black shoes with low heels and pointed toes. Witch’s shoes, she thought.
“Darien, quit dawdling or I’ll be late. Come meet our neighbor, who has generously agreed to watch over you today.” Her mother chuckled nervously and said something Darien couldn’t hear.
When Darien reached the foyer at the bottom of the stairs, her mother briskly took her arm and placed her in front of Miss Mildred. At first, Darien could only stare at those black shoes, afraid to look the old woman in the face. But as her mother made the introductions, she risked a glance upward. Because Darien had never seen Miss Mildred up close, she was surprised to find her neither as old or as scary as she had seemed from across the street, although her features were sharp and the set of her mouth was firm. The gray of her straight wool skirt mirrored the silver in her tightly pinned-up hair, while her plain black high-necked sweater accentuated both her slim frame and her hawklike eyes. She’s not so bad. Darien tried to reassure herself, but at the same time she wished that the woman’s eyes did not seem to pierce into her very thoughts.
After mumbling a brief greeting, Darien turned to say goodbye to her mother at the door, glancing warily at Miss Mildred’s misshapen handbag as she walked past. Still robed in her coat and hat, her mother grabbed the car keys from the entryway table and hastily kissed Darien on the top of her head.
“Be good,” she commanded. “I’ll be home before you know it.” Darien nodded, hoping to see at least some regret in her mother’s eyes, but all she saw underneath her distracted exterior was relief.
Darien watched her mother drive away. Reluctantly, she looked away from the window and toward Miss Mildred, who was standing with her arms folded in front of her chest.
“W-what do you want to do now?” Darien asked, trying to be courageous but feeling more nervous than anything else.
“Well, you might start by taking my coat and finding me a less drafty place to warm up,” the old woman stated crossly.
After hanging Miss Mildred’s coat on a hook by the door, Darien started to lead the way to the kitchen, then thought better of it. It might only encourage Miss Mildew to whip up some kind of magic potion if I take her in there. Instead, they headed down the hall toward the living room.
Abruptly, Miss Mildew stopped and asked Darien to go back for her purse.
Knowing it was a mistake but unable to help herself, Darien argued, “Why don’t you go get it?” In truth, she was afraid that this seemingly frail and harmless old lady just might be keeping her nastiest tricks in that lumpy bag of hers. Before she could be confronted, Darien hurried through the doorway to the living room, the soft click of low heels close behind.
Miss Mildew’s bony fingers brushed Darien’s shoulder, making her shudder and flinch away.
“I don’t think you heard me, young miss. You wouldn’t refuse to bring an old woman her bag, would you?”
Darien retreated further into the room and yelled, “I’m not going near your icky old bag, and you can’t make me, y–you witch!” Miss Mildred’s eyes did not go wide with shock at these words, but Darien’s did. She clapped her hand to her mouth in fear, wishing she could bring the words back and seal them inside. There was no telling what kind of mess she would be in after this; if she survived the day with Miss Mildew, she would still have to face whatever punishment her parents would hand out.
Instead of getting angry, Miss Mildred only shook her head, disappointment clearly on her face.
“I’m sorry for what I said—” Darien began.
“What’s done is done,” Miss Mildred replied quietly.
“My father said I’m not supposed to be pert-nit, but I don’t even know what that means, so how am I going to know if I’m being it or not? P-please don’t put any curses on me; I didn’t mean to call you a witch, it just sort of popped out.” Darien’s eyes filled up with tears, and though she vowed not to bawl in front of the old woman, one hot, salty drop teetered on the edge of her eyelid and slowly tickled its way down her cheek.
The woman’s face softened a bit, and she said, “Now, girl, there’s no need to cry; no harm’s been done. Impertinent simply means not having good manners, or in your case, talking of rumors that the other children might have invented without knowing the truth. No matter what you might have heard, I’m not going to turn you into any strange animals or put any curses on you. I’m simply a lonely old crone who doesn’t always have as much patience with the wildness of children as she should. It’s been so long since I was young myself, after all. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and a strange faraway look came into her eyes. Darien found herself uncomfortably aware that she was becoming curious about this woman, despite her drab clothes and gruff manners.
Miss Mildred seemed to shake herself back from some mysterious past, and she said to Darien, “Well. Now that all that uncomfortable business is over, you may call me Miss Millie, if you like. And as I’ve not had time to prepare any constructive activities ahead of time, you will have to inform me as to what your days normally consist of.” Darien looked puzzled. “Well, what do you do all day, child? Do you read together when that other girl comes? Do you play games of knowledge, practice steps or athletics?”
To Miss Millie’s astonishment, Darien burst out giggling. “Jenny? I’m not sure she knows how to read anything except her friends’ phone numbers. And considering her weight, I don’t think athletics are something she does very often.”
Darien ignored the rest of Miss Millie’s question because she didn’t know what games of knowledge and practicing steps were. “Anyway,” she continued, “Jenny hardly notices me in between watching TV, calling her friends, and poking at the red bumps on her face—which she says always show up when she is ‘totally stressed out’ but that my mother says are from too much junk food.” Miss Millie pursed her lips in disapproval but didn’t comment on the babysitter’s habits. “Most days, I just hang out in my room until lunch. I read a lot. Sometimes I do puzzles. And I really like to draw. Usually Jenny falls asleep in the afternoon, so I can take a turn watching TV, or I go outside if the weather’s nice.”
“What do you do when you go outside? Perhaps we can find a way to do the same thing indoors,” Miss Millie suggested.
Darien’s cheeks flushed and her eyes shifted downward to examine the toes of her shoes. “Nothing much,” she mumbled.
“Speak up, girl,” Miss Millie commanded. “You must do something.”
“Well, I imagine things. But you can’t tell my parents!” Darien blurted.
Miss Millie’s eyebrows rose in surprise and the side of her mouth twitched with the slightest of smiles. “And what do you imagine is so terrible that I can’t tell your parents?”
Darien briefly considered whether it was a good idea to confide in this curious old woman, then shrugged it off. “Oh, I imagine all kinds of things, like being other people or going different places. It’s not that I pretend anything terrible, it’s just the fact that I do it at all that would bother them. My mother says that daydreaming is for foolish and lazy children who won’t be able to make it in the real world. She caught me at it once, and I had to spend the rest of the day doing chores to prove that I would be a ‘productive member of society’ someday. Whatever that means.”
Miss Millie looked at Darien for a long moment as if trying to see straight through her. Darien endured the scrutiny as long as she could, until finally she found herself wanting to squirm under the woman’s intense gaze. At last, Miss Millie looked up at the ceiling, took a deep breath, then looked back at Darien as if she had made a momentous decision.
“You are so young, yet much has already clouded your mind.” She leaned close, and Darien could smell a not-unpleasant mixture of mint and something unfamiliar—flowery, but not common like roses or lilacs. “We’ve only just met, you and I, but I sense you have an adventurous spirit inside you. I could help you set it free, if only you are willing to put aside what your mother said and trust me.”
Miss Millie opened her hands to Darien, palms up, and waited for Darien’s response.
“This isn’t about drugs, is it?” Darien asked.
Surprise passed over Miss Millie’s face, then she chuckled with a pleasant laugh that Darien found quite unlike the witchy cackle she had expected.
