The Marked Girl by Lindsey Klingele

couldn’t see.

THE ORPHAN’S REFUGE
    W hen Cedric woke up, he had no idea whether it was morning or still night. Though his eyes had mostly adjusted to the natural darkness of the living space under the museum, it was still difficult to see more than a few feet in front of him. With a groan, he pulled himself up from his nest of blankets and rubbed at a crick in his neck.
    He heard a click, and then a small, bright flame flared up in the darkness. It illuminated the face of Merek, who leaned against the wall near Cedric’s makeshift bed.
    â€œHe rises,” Merek drawled.
    Cedric rubbed his eyes. He was definitely not awake enough yet to deal with Merek. “Watching me sleep?”
    Merek scoffed. “Hardly. Katerina asked me to come fetch you from your royal slumber.”
    â€œFetch me?”
    Merek clicked the little metal device in his hand again, this time closing the cap that extinguished the fire. Then he clicked again, relighting it. He’d found the device in the alley outsideof the museum and couldn’t be parted from it. Partially, Cedric suspected, because he knew how much the constant clicking noise irritated Cedric.
    â€œI am merely the messenger.” Merek kicked off from the wall and slipped through the doorway, blessedly taking his clicking fire device with him.
    Cedric sighed. Whenever he went outside, into the wild, chaotic mess of a world that existed out there, he was terrified of running into a new threat or doing something that would expose them. He was constantly confused by new words, places, and situations that made little sense, and every day threw him something new to try to comprehend. But when he was down here, surrounded by Merek’s endless barbs and the stress in Kat’s eyes, he longed to climb up to the surface of the museum, escape through his tunnel hatch, and run down the streets, free.
    Cedric lay back down against the tangle of old blankets, trying to prepare himself for another fight. If it were the kind involving swords and fists—like the one he’d had last night against that wrath—he’d be up and ready to go. But this kind of fight, the kind that involved labored discussions and endless complaints, was one he would rather do without.
    Again and again, the king had tried to prepare Cedric for leadership, telling him that he must be firm with his subjects as well as fierce with his enemies. The second part had always been the most appealing. He had wanted to be a great warrior, like his father. He’d just assumed all the leadership stuff would easily follow.
    It wasn’t really working out that way.
    Cedric pulled himself up and put on a shirt—he was now in possession of two of them, in addition to the nightclothes he’d worn through the portal and his stolen museum uniform. The shirt he wore now was faded and old, emblazoned on the front with bold letters that read, inexplicably, “The Rolling Stones.” He had seen many people in this world wearing clothes with words and pictures on them, but as far as he could tell, they only sometimes designated their wearers with particular meaning. The museum guards wore shirts that read “Security.” That, Cedric could understand. But the day before, he’d seen an old woman with a walker wearing headgear that read “Oakland Raiders,” and Cedric doubted highly that she was in the process of raiding anything at all. Some shirts even had nonsensical directions, which were even more confusing.
    Honestly, what did “Come at Me, Bro” even mean?
    Cedric ducked to avoid the low ceiling and walked carefully out into the common living area, where stolen lanterns provided some light. Kat was making a meal out of something called “trail mix,” which Cedric had stolen from the museum gift shop. Next to her was the sword Cedric had taken back from the museum’s Acquisitions Department—by breaking through its door the previous