Fury's Fire (10 page)

Carl and Tim, for some reason, got a more forgiving love. The Mr. Archer they knew was different from Will’s father. Different, but the same.

Pink light stole through his window, and Will woke with a start. He was half covered with a blanket and the lamp on his bedside table had been turned off, and he realized that his mother must have looked into his room on her way down to start the early-morning baking. A glance out the window showed only the unchanged house, which revealed no clue as to Gretchen’s safety.

His father had taken Carl to the hospital to get stitched up. Mr. Archer had come home after two hours, looking grim. “Your uncle’s going to be all right,” he’d said, but Will had to wonder.
What made him take a drink in the first place?

The adventure had left Will feeling tired and confused. He’d gone back upstairs to watch Gretchen’s house. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for, but he’d planned to be there all night.

He tossed away the covers, and the flute tumbled out of them. Will’s heart sank.
What if Gretchen went sleepwalking again? What if I fell asleep and missed it? What if something …

Cursing himself, he flung himself out of bed and across the room. He dashed down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Gretchen was sitting at the table, drinking from a chipped white mug.

She cocked her head in calm confusion. “Pulling an all-nighter?” she asked, nodding in the direction of Will’s rumpled clothes.

He stopped short and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he sagged, leaning against the counter-top. “I just—thought I was late.”

“You are late.” She smiled and walked over to him. “But not hideously. I was a little early, so I decided to come in and help myself.” She tilted her face to him, and he leaned down, tasting the coffee sweetness on her lips.

The back door flew open, and Will looked up into his uncle’s startled face. Gretchen moved away and took a sip of her coffee as Will scratched at his arm and said, “Hey, Uncle Carl.”

“Hey. Is your dad around?” Carl nodded at Gretchen but skipped his usual cheerful, blustery greeting.

“He’s at the farm stand,” Gretchen said.

Carl nodded again.

“What happened to your hand?” Gretchen asked, indicating the white gauze that rested between his palm and the door.

“Cut it,” Carl said sharply. His chin trembled, as if he wanted to add something, but he just flashed Will an unreadable look and headed out the back door.

“Pretty subdued,” Gretchen said.

“Yeah.” Will could think of a few reasons for that, given his drunken ramblings the night before. But what popped into his mind was Carl saying that he was “just checking.” Checking on what? Will looked up and realized that she was watching him. “I’d better change my shirt.”

“And put on some shoes,” Gretchen agreed. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“Do you—do you want to come with me?” Will blushed as he asked.

“Up to your room?” Gretchen sounded wryly surprised. “Then we’ll never get out of here.”

“I didn’t mean—” Will shook his head. All he’d meant was that he didn’t want to let Gretchen out of his sight. But it did sound suggestive … not that he was opposed to that idea, either. “Okay.” He grinned sheepishly and headed up to his room, alone.

Gretchen is fine
, he told himself.
She’s fine
.

But when he opened the door to his room, the flute was still on his bed.

Mafer had asked Gretchen if they could meet at her family’s apartment, which was down the street from the library in Waterbreak. Waterbreak was actually smaller than Walfang but had a tiny movie theater, a few shops, a decent Italian restaurant and an excellent Polish one, and a library.

Mafer lived in a complex of duplex apartments, brick with white trim. The grass was mowed, but a few stray tufts at the edges showed a lack of attention to detail. Every apartment revealed the character of its residents. In front of one, there were two toddler bicycles and a pink striped toy stroller. Another bore a collection of wind chimes that tinkled with crazy
merriment as a breeze blew by, tickling them. A third sported a few mums in pots and a fat orange cat, watching Gretchen with calm reserve from its perch in the window.

Somehow Gretchen knew which apartment was Mafer’s even before she saw the brass number beside the door. Bright yellow heliopsis grew in a tall, wild bunch, the yellow blooms falling over each other like friendly, affectionate drunks. An orange and black butterfly sat on a flower, pulsing its wings as if in concentration. Below, a riot of blue Michaelmas daisies carpeted the ground. This apartment was brilliant with color and life and seemed to hold hidden depths, just like Mafer herself.

Beside the door was a cross the size of Gretchen’s hand. It was covered in small tin charms, each one unique: a pair of praying hands, a dancer, a sock. Gretchen rang the doorbell and heard it chime through the apartment. A young boy, about eight, answered the door. He had large black eyes and looked up at Gretchen with excitement. “You’re Mafer’s friend?” he asked, and before Gretchen could answer, he darted off.

Gretchen stepped into the living room, which was cramped despite being uncluttered. There was a tiny blue plaid love seat placed across from an ancient-looking television. A large bookcase, holding framed photos and volumes in both English and Spanish, lined one wall. Gretchen walked over to inspect a photograph of a young woman in uniform. Beside that image was one of the Virgin Mary—again, the frame overlaid with small tin trinkets.

A rustle behind her made Gretchen turn. She had expected to see Mafer, but instead a small woman with gray hair was watching her. Her face was round, her bright eyes watchful and merry.

“Hi,” Gretchen said awkwardly. “I’m Gretchen.”

The woman nodded.

“Are you Mafer’s grandmother?”

A shrug. “Yes.” Perhaps it was just her accent, but her tone of voice communicated perfectly how little she was interested in stating the obvious. It didn’t hurt Gretchen’s feelings, though. On the contrary, it made her want to laugh.

“Is this your daughter?” Gretchen pointed to the photograph.

“She’s in Afghanistan. Third tour of duty.”

“That must be hard for you.”

“We are very proud of her.”

“Of course.”

The old woman narrowed her eyes. She looked deeply into Gretchen’s face. “Y dónde está tu mama, mija?” she asked gently, but in a voice that expected no answer.

Gretchen understood a little Spanish—enough to translate the question.
And where is your mother, my dear?

The old woman’s smile chilled her. Not because it held any malice—only because it seemed to know the answer.

Just then Mafer bounded down the stairs, followed by her little brother. The noise broke the spell.

“We’re just going to the library,” Mafer was saying.

“Can’t I come?”

“Ask a friend to come over, Joaquin,” she replied. She touched his hair gently. “Or go outside and play.”

“I’d rather be with you.”

Gretchen wondered how Mafer could resist those big eyes, that adoring gaze.

Mafer gave Joaquin a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be back in two hours. You’ll survive. Keep an eye on Abuelita.”

“You come with me,” Mafer’s grandmother said. “We’re going to make churros.”

Joaquin grinned. “And we won’t make any for Mafer.”

“What?” Mafer screeched in mock horror. “
Malcriado!
Gretchen, let’s get out of here. Have you met my grandmother? Abuelita, this is Gretchen.”

“Yo conozco esta huérfana,” Abuelita said. “La hija del fuego.”

Silence pulsed through the room. Gretchen felt as if she could hear the sound of her own blood traveling through her veins.

She caught the sideways glance Mafer tried to sneak at her, and felt her friend’s embarrassment.

“What does that mean?” Gretchen asked finally. “Daughter of fire—what do you mean by that?”

Mafer’s grandmother smiled. “You speak Spanish.” She didn’t seem at all surprised, and she didn’t offer any further explanation.

Mafer yanked open the door. “Okay, we’ve got to go,” she said quickly, half shoving Gretchen out the door. When it closed behind them, Gretchen felt as if
she had just returned to the real world, leaving a confusing dream on the other side of the wall behind her.

“God—I have no idea why she just said that.” Mafer grabbed Gretchen’s hand as soon as the door was shut behind them. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“She’s a little crazy, my grandmother.”

Gretchen nodded, but she didn’t believe what Mafer said. The older woman’s mind was so sharp it could slice through metal. No, she wasn’t crazy. Not at all. “I’m adopted,” Gretchen said.

Mafer bit her lip. “That only makes it worse.”

“You knew that.” Gretchen stopped and watched her friend squirm.

Mafer pulled her fingers through the ends of her long dark hair. It was her peculiar habit, Gretchen had noticed. “Sometimes, Gretchen, we … My family. We know things about people. We don’t find out. We don’t ask. We just …” She lifted her shoulders, then let them drop. “We just know. But I don’t know why my grandmother just called you an orphan. What was she thinking?”

Gretchen couldn’t fight the feeling that this was exactly the conversation Mafer’s grandmother had wanted them to have. She had said what she did because she wanted to tell Gretchen something. And what she wanted to tell Gretchen was this:
I know things about you
.

It was a thought that might have frightened some people, but not Gretchen. But it did leave her with a feeling of unease.
What did the woman know?

The Waterbreak library was a boxy, eighties-style modern building with an entire wall of windows. The children’s section was upstairs, and the main research area was downstairs. A corpulent librarian stood behind the circulation desk, organizing DVDs on a cart. He didn’t look up as the girls stepped inside, even though there was only one other person—a white-haired gentleman, reading quietly at a library table—in the whole place. The long wall of windows was tinted, and the light that crept in cast everything in sepia.

To Gretchen, the library felt like a safe place. She had often come here with her father when she was younger, as the video collection was better than the one in Walfang. In general, Gretchen preferred the Walfang library, with its small, snug spaces and nineteenth-century architecture. But Waterbreak had more resources, including a research room with an aggregating system that made article searches easy and comfortable chairs for collaborating. This was where the girls were headed now, as they passed the spinning racks of paperbacks and the cozy reading chairs gathered around a low wooden coffee table. Mafer led the way and took a seat at a wide library table. She removed her off-white jacket and slung it over the back of a chair. “Okay,” she said, pulling their science text from her messenger bag. “Want to check and see if there are any articles to back up what we’re saying?”

“Sure.” Gretchen pulled her library card from her
wallet and walked over to the bank of computers. Gretchen typed in her card number and logged on to the system. In the moment it took for her computer to boot up, she found herself staring at a painting on the far wall. She knew the painter—John William Waterhouse. He had never been one of her favorites. Gretchen preferred contemporary art, and this painting, like many Waterhouse paintings, was an idealized, romantic image of a classical subject. A beautiful woman sat by the sea, combing her long hair. An almost serpentine tail wrapped around her, gleaming. Her lips were parted, as if she might be singing to herself.