PROLOGUE
Clean my fingernails or don't clean my fingernails? Clean my fingernails or don't clean my fingernails? Clean my—
Oh, hello!
You really are still here, aren't you? It's good to see you, I suppose. And I further suppose you think it's good to see me.
Me.
Me, me, me.
Mi-mi-mi-mi-mi!
Oops, sorry. I just lapsed into song for a moment there, practicing my opera singing. But we weren't talking about mi, were we? We were talking about me.
Me.
Now, there's something that's been occupying your mind, hasn't it—the subject of who I am. In fact, it's been occupying your mind ever since you first heard about the Sisters Eight, which of course you first heard about from me.
You wonder: Who is that person who keeps talking to us in the prologues? You wonder: Are we supposed to know that voice from somewhere? You wonder: And does it matter?
One thing's for certain: I have to be Someone. I mean, I can't be No One, can I? If I were No One, I'd certainly be the most Chatty Cathy of a No One ever.
I'm here to tell you, I'm definitely Someone. In fact—hold on to your hats!—you have already met me in the Sisters Eight books. Well, maybe not me in person, as in seeing my face and my body, but you have met my syntax.
Ring any bells yet?
Now, if Jackie were by my side right now, she'd explain that syntax has to do with the way words are put together. So you could say that my personal syntax, not to mention my overall tone, is like a set of fingerprints that give me away. Lots of people have fingers, but no two sets of fingerprints are exactly alike. You can catch a criminal by his or her fingerprints. You'd do well to keep that in mind.
Still not ringing any bells?
Fine. I'll give you one hint:
Dear Rebecca,
I always knew you were a fiery girl—nice work!
And:
I must say, with you involved, it was always touch and go if this day would ever arrive.
Okay, so maybe that's two hints. So sue me.
Now do you have it? I certainly hope you do. I could give you tons of other examples—well, maybe not tons, but at least a dozen—but honestly, if you haven't figured it out by now...
I'm the being the Eights keep referring to as the note leaver.
That's right. Those notes left behind the loose stone in the wall of the drawing room? My handiwork. Mine, all mine. Me.
I suppose now that you know I'm the note leaver, you'd like to know my name too. Isn't that just like people? Give them an inch, they want it all.
Well, we don't have time for that right now because Zinnia's been waiting to have her turn quite long enough. It would be cruel to keep her waiting any longer.
Before I turn the story over to the story, though, I suppose I do need to remind you of the Eights' individual powers and gifts, just in case you've forgotten since last we met.
Annie: power—can think like an adult when necessary; gift—purple ring
Durinda: power—can freeze people, except Zinnia; gift—green earrings
Georgia: power—can become invisible; gift—gold compact
Jackie: power—faster than a speeding train; gift—red cape
Marcia: power—x-ray vision; gift—purple cloak
Petal: power—can read people's minds; gift—silver charm bracelet
Rebecca: power—can shoot fire from her fingertips; gift—a locket
I wonder what Zinnia's power and gift will be. I wonder if either will prove to be as much of a doozy as Zinnia has been hoping for. I rather hope so. I have a certain soft spot for Zinnia.
But there's no time to wonder about that or anything else now because it really is ...
Zinnia time.
ONE
"Why so glum, chums?" asked Pete.
It was Friday morning, August 1, and we were all hanging around in the drawing room, doing nothing but slouching where we sat, except for Georgia, who was lying on her back on the floor, throwing a ball toward the ceiling and catching it, over and over again. Even the cats were slouching, except for Greatorex, who kept leaping upward in hopes of catching Georgia's ball.
Pete had entered a moment ago with Mrs.
Clean my fingernails or don't clean my fingernails? Clean my fingernails or don't clean my fingernails? Clean my—
Oh, hello!
You really are still here, aren't you? It's good to see you, I suppose. And I further suppose you think it's good to see me.
Me.
Me, me, me.
Mi-mi-mi-mi-mi!
Oops, sorry. I just lapsed into song for a moment there, practicing my opera singing. But we weren't talking about mi, were we? We were talking about me.
Me.
Now, there's something that's been occupying your mind, hasn't it—the subject of who I am. In fact, it's been occupying your mind ever since you first heard about the Sisters Eight, which of course you first heard about from me.
You wonder: Who is that person who keeps talking to us in the prologues? You wonder: Are we supposed to know that voice from somewhere? You wonder: And does it matter?
One thing's for certain: I have to be Someone. I mean, I can't be No One, can I? If I were No One, I'd certainly be the most Chatty Cathy of a No One ever.
I'm here to tell you, I'm definitely Someone. In fact—hold on to your hats!—you have already met me in the Sisters Eight books. Well, maybe not me in person, as in seeing my face and my body, but you have met my syntax.
Ring any bells yet?
Now, if Jackie were by my side right now, she'd explain that syntax has to do with the way words are put together. So you could say that my personal syntax, not to mention my overall tone, is like a set of fingerprints that give me away. Lots of people have fingers, but no two sets of fingerprints are exactly alike. You can catch a criminal by his or her fingerprints. You'd do well to keep that in mind.
Still not ringing any bells?
Fine. I'll give you one hint:
Dear Rebecca,
I always knew you were a fiery girl—nice work!
And:
I must say, with you involved, it was always touch and go if this day would ever arrive.
Okay, so maybe that's two hints. So sue me.
Now do you have it? I certainly hope you do. I could give you tons of other examples—well, maybe not tons, but at least a dozen—but honestly, if you haven't figured it out by now...
I'm the being the Eights keep referring to as the note leaver.
That's right. Those notes left behind the loose stone in the wall of the drawing room? My handiwork. Mine, all mine. Me.
I suppose now that you know I'm the note leaver, you'd like to know my name too. Isn't that just like people? Give them an inch, they want it all.
Well, we don't have time for that right now because Zinnia's been waiting to have her turn quite long enough. It would be cruel to keep her waiting any longer.
Before I turn the story over to the story, though, I suppose I do need to remind you of the Eights' individual powers and gifts, just in case you've forgotten since last we met.
Annie: power—can think like an adult when necessary; gift—purple ring
Durinda: power—can freeze people, except Zinnia; gift—green earrings
Georgia: power—can become invisible; gift—gold compact
Jackie: power—faster than a speeding train; gift—red cape
Marcia: power—x-ray vision; gift—purple cloak
Petal: power—can read people's minds; gift—silver charm bracelet
Rebecca: power—can shoot fire from her fingertips; gift—a locket
I wonder what Zinnia's power and gift will be. I wonder if either will prove to be as much of a doozy as Zinnia has been hoping for. I rather hope so. I have a certain soft spot for Zinnia.
But there's no time to wonder about that or anything else now because it really is ...
Zinnia time.
ONE
"Why so glum, chums?" asked Pete.
It was Friday morning, August 1, and we were all hanging around in the drawing room, doing nothing but slouching where we sat, except for Georgia, who was lying on her back on the floor, throwing a ball toward the ceiling and catching it, over and over again. Even the cats were slouching, except for Greatorex, who kept leaping upward in hopes of catching Georgia's ball.
Pete had entered a moment ago with Mrs.
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