“Why are you trying to help me?”
He flipped his palms to the ceiling as if to say, Why not? “Because it’s the right thing?”
He sat next to me on the bed, keeping a safe distance between us.
I rolled my eyes. “No one does anything because it’s the right thing,” I said.
“You do.”
“I do?”
Maybe that was true, but even if it was, how would he know it? We’d known each other for all of twenty minutes total.
“ You do,” Pete said, this time with emphasis. “Except when you threatened to kill me, that is.”
I had to laugh at that.
“But I didn’t actually kill you, so it doesn’t count.”
“Seriously,” he said. “Everyone in the palace has been whispering about Dorothy’s latest prisoner. I knew it had to be you. The girl I rescued from the tin farm. Ever since I saw you, I just had a feeling. I feel responsible for you.”
Only then did it occur to me that this was the first time I’d ever had a boy in my bed. The circumstances were less than ideal.
Not that it mattered at a time like this. I was trapped in a cell in a strange kingdom, facing an inevitable sentence of a Fate Worse Than Death. It wasn’t the moment to be shopping for a boyfriend.
“How did you know I would be there?” I asked. “When my trailer crashed by the pit. If you work all the way over here in the palace, how did you know I was there? I mean, you got there right in the nick of time. Any later and I’d have fallen in.”
“I just had a feeling,” he said, shifting in his seat. “I just—I don’t know. It was just like someone was calling me there, so I went.”
Part of me didn’t care that he was obviously still lying. He’d been right—after all the hours locked away in here, all alone, it really did help just to have him sitting next to me. Just to hear another human voice, to be able to ask a question and get an answer back, even if it wasn’t the right answer.
Then that faraway, distracted look crossed his face again, the same look I’d seen him get the day I met him, just before he left me. It was the look of someone trying to place a distant tune that only he could hear.
His body seemed to flicker in and out, to grow hazy around the edges, but it was so faint I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t my imagination. It reminded me of the hologram of Ozma we’d seen on the road.
He stood up abruptly. This time, I thought I knew what was coming. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to go.”
“Why . . . ?” I asked.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’ll try to help you if I can.” Then, before I could protest, before I could even stand to say good-bye, he had pulled a big brass key from the pocket of his loose, white gardener’s pants. He walked across the cell in three quick strides and plunged it into a space in the wall where there was no keyhole. The stone rippled around it like he’d just dropped a pebble in a pond.
The door appeared. He pushed it open.
“Pete,” I said. My voice cracked unexpectedly as I said it. I just wanted him to look at me. He didn’t. He stepped out, the door sealed up, and I was alone again.
After that, I really lost track of time. I slept, I sat, I slept some more and forced down the disgusting bowls of porridge that would now and then, without warning, materialize on the ever-pristine floor of my prison.
I looked out the enchanted, evil window. Sometimes it was night and sometimes it was day. When the moon was out, I tried to judge the passage of time by its phases, but it was no use. It would be full one moment and a thin thumbnail crescent the next, and then—when I turned away and looked for it again—gone entirely.
I wasted about fifteen minutes trying to play hide-and-seek with Star, but it was pointless. There was no place to hide except under the bed, and anyway, only Star was small enough to fit down there.
With nothing to do except think, my mind kept returning to my mother. I was ashamed of myself for how little I’d thought
He flipped his palms to the ceiling as if to say, Why not? “Because it’s the right thing?”
He sat next to me on the bed, keeping a safe distance between us.
I rolled my eyes. “No one does anything because it’s the right thing,” I said.
“You do.”
“I do?”
Maybe that was true, but even if it was, how would he know it? We’d known each other for all of twenty minutes total.
“ You do,” Pete said, this time with emphasis. “Except when you threatened to kill me, that is.”
I had to laugh at that.
“But I didn’t actually kill you, so it doesn’t count.”
“Seriously,” he said. “Everyone in the palace has been whispering about Dorothy’s latest prisoner. I knew it had to be you. The girl I rescued from the tin farm. Ever since I saw you, I just had a feeling. I feel responsible for you.”
Only then did it occur to me that this was the first time I’d ever had a boy in my bed. The circumstances were less than ideal.
Not that it mattered at a time like this. I was trapped in a cell in a strange kingdom, facing an inevitable sentence of a Fate Worse Than Death. It wasn’t the moment to be shopping for a boyfriend.
“How did you know I would be there?” I asked. “When my trailer crashed by the pit. If you work all the way over here in the palace, how did you know I was there? I mean, you got there right in the nick of time. Any later and I’d have fallen in.”
“I just had a feeling,” he said, shifting in his seat. “I just—I don’t know. It was just like someone was calling me there, so I went.”
Part of me didn’t care that he was obviously still lying. He’d been right—after all the hours locked away in here, all alone, it really did help just to have him sitting next to me. Just to hear another human voice, to be able to ask a question and get an answer back, even if it wasn’t the right answer.
Then that faraway, distracted look crossed his face again, the same look I’d seen him get the day I met him, just before he left me. It was the look of someone trying to place a distant tune that only he could hear.
His body seemed to flicker in and out, to grow hazy around the edges, but it was so faint I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t my imagination. It reminded me of the hologram of Ozma we’d seen on the road.
He stood up abruptly. This time, I thought I knew what was coming. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I have to go.”
“Why . . . ?” I asked.
“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’ll try to help you if I can.” Then, before I could protest, before I could even stand to say good-bye, he had pulled a big brass key from the pocket of his loose, white gardener’s pants. He walked across the cell in three quick strides and plunged it into a space in the wall where there was no keyhole. The stone rippled around it like he’d just dropped a pebble in a pond.
The door appeared. He pushed it open.
“Pete,” I said. My voice cracked unexpectedly as I said it. I just wanted him to look at me. He didn’t. He stepped out, the door sealed up, and I was alone again.
After that, I really lost track of time. I slept, I sat, I slept some more and forced down the disgusting bowls of porridge that would now and then, without warning, materialize on the ever-pristine floor of my prison.
I looked out the enchanted, evil window. Sometimes it was night and sometimes it was day. When the moon was out, I tried to judge the passage of time by its phases, but it was no use. It would be full one moment and a thin thumbnail crescent the next, and then—when I turned away and looked for it again—gone entirely.
I wasted about fifteen minutes trying to play hide-and-seek with Star, but it was pointless. There was no place to hide except under the bed, and anyway, only Star was small enough to fit down there.
With nothing to do except think, my mind kept returning to my mother. I was ashamed of myself for how little I’d thought
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