antiseptic and Band-Aids that Joan had packed in my first-aid kit—a nurse never lets her kid go anywhere without one. I pressed the bandage firmly over the injury and took in my full reflection. I was quite a sight: dirty, sweaty hair, ratty scrubs, the beautiful, wholly incongruous necklace, and now this ridiculous Band-Aid across my cheek.
I crawled back into bed and checked the clock—4:47 in the morning. I switched off the lamp and laid my wounded head on the pillow. My body curled into the fetal position, settling into a tight ball, when something hard and pointy jabbed into my rib cage. My hand flew for the light again, nearly knocking it off the nightstand in the process. I sprung up on my feet, then crouched in bed and pulled back the covers, as though expecting something to leap out at me.
The book lay there, open and upside down.
Not the book I’d been reading on Chicago history, but the other one, the empty black journal that Lance had found labeled with my name. I picked it up and fanned the pages again. They flew by like so many milky wings.
Except for a few pages. Full of black-inked squiggles.
I snapped the book shut and dropped it, as if it had bit me and I needed to fend it off. I crept to the corner of the bed, up against the wall, trying to keep as far away from it as I could. I had looked through every page of that thing before. There was no way I had missed all of this writing, it wasn’t possible. With tentative fingers I pinched at one sharp corner and slid the book toward me. I opened the cover slowly, leafing through the bare endpaper, and then found on the next page these words scrawled out:
Be strong, winged one. And beneath that: And beware all beautiful things.
My stomach dropped to the floor. But I had to keep going. I flipped past this perplexing inscription to a full page of the messy, curly script that looked nearly as unruly as my own. Marked across the upper right corner was today’s date. I curled my legs up, my arms around my knees, and began to read:
Happy belated birthday. You are sixteen and your life is about to change. You cannot possibly know how special you are going to be. You will be a legend. As powerless as you feel now, you will soon be nearly drunk with influence and control, astounded by the sheer force you possess within. But you must heed my words, Haven—
It knocked the wind out of me to see my name written by this mysterious hand. But I forced my eyes back onto the page. My hand to my mouth, my pulse racing, I kept on:
There is much to learn. And quickly, for you are in danger.
I hugged my knees closer to my chest, trying to steady myself. This was obviously some strange joke—maybe Dante was up to something, maybe he was making fun of me for being so cautious all the time, for treating everything like it was a life-or-death situation. But the handwriting didn’t look neat and clear enough to be his, it didn’t have the same bubbly quality. Even so, I wanted to bang on his door right now, wake him, wake Lance, wake the whole floor, do whatever I needed to in order to set my mind at ease. But I couldn’t stop reading.
You‘re a smart young woman, Haven. You are no doubt wondering what to make of this book, of this writing. You have to trust me. As an act of good faith, I will tell you things that no one else would know. To begin: You have three distinct scars. Each consists of three stripes. One of these scars is above your heart. Two are on your back.
I exhaled. Fine, I reassured myself. Telling details, indeed. It’s true there weren’t a ton of people who knew this about me, but there were some—Dante, Joan, everyone at the hospital, anyone who had bothered to watch me change for gym class. I read on:
Furthermore, when you get anxious or frightened, your scars begin to sting and burn.
No one knew this. My fingers began to tremble; I opened and closed my hands making fists and shaking them out. It was true
I crawled back into bed and checked the clock—4:47 in the morning. I switched off the lamp and laid my wounded head on the pillow. My body curled into the fetal position, settling into a tight ball, when something hard and pointy jabbed into my rib cage. My hand flew for the light again, nearly knocking it off the nightstand in the process. I sprung up on my feet, then crouched in bed and pulled back the covers, as though expecting something to leap out at me.
The book lay there, open and upside down.
Not the book I’d been reading on Chicago history, but the other one, the empty black journal that Lance had found labeled with my name. I picked it up and fanned the pages again. They flew by like so many milky wings.
Except for a few pages. Full of black-inked squiggles.
I snapped the book shut and dropped it, as if it had bit me and I needed to fend it off. I crept to the corner of the bed, up against the wall, trying to keep as far away from it as I could. I had looked through every page of that thing before. There was no way I had missed all of this writing, it wasn’t possible. With tentative fingers I pinched at one sharp corner and slid the book toward me. I opened the cover slowly, leafing through the bare endpaper, and then found on the next page these words scrawled out:
Be strong, winged one. And beneath that: And beware all beautiful things.
My stomach dropped to the floor. But I had to keep going. I flipped past this perplexing inscription to a full page of the messy, curly script that looked nearly as unruly as my own. Marked across the upper right corner was today’s date. I curled my legs up, my arms around my knees, and began to read:
Happy belated birthday. You are sixteen and your life is about to change. You cannot possibly know how special you are going to be. You will be a legend. As powerless as you feel now, you will soon be nearly drunk with influence and control, astounded by the sheer force you possess within. But you must heed my words, Haven—
It knocked the wind out of me to see my name written by this mysterious hand. But I forced my eyes back onto the page. My hand to my mouth, my pulse racing, I kept on:
There is much to learn. And quickly, for you are in danger.
I hugged my knees closer to my chest, trying to steady myself. This was obviously some strange joke—maybe Dante was up to something, maybe he was making fun of me for being so cautious all the time, for treating everything like it was a life-or-death situation. But the handwriting didn’t look neat and clear enough to be his, it didn’t have the same bubbly quality. Even so, I wanted to bang on his door right now, wake him, wake Lance, wake the whole floor, do whatever I needed to in order to set my mind at ease. But I couldn’t stop reading.
You‘re a smart young woman, Haven. You are no doubt wondering what to make of this book, of this writing. You have to trust me. As an act of good faith, I will tell you things that no one else would know. To begin: You have three distinct scars. Each consists of three stripes. One of these scars is above your heart. Two are on your back.
I exhaled. Fine, I reassured myself. Telling details, indeed. It’s true there weren’t a ton of people who knew this about me, but there were some—Dante, Joan, everyone at the hospital, anyone who had bothered to watch me change for gym class. I read on:
Furthermore, when you get anxious or frightened, your scars begin to sting and burn.
No one knew this. My fingers began to tremble; I opened and closed my hands making fists and shaking them out. It was true
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