Part 15 (2/2)

Her excitement unexpectedly invigorates me. Makes me feel giddy. A surge of warmth runs through my body and I suddenly find myself wanting to do anything to keep the feeling alive. To please her.

”Well,” I begin. The smile on my face is automatic. Unconscious. ”She could run really fast. And she was very strong.”

”Stronger than the boys?”

”Stronger than anyone.”

Jane's eyes are wide with fascination, her mouth hanging open. Her pa.s.sion fuels me. Presses me forward. ”And she could see in the dark,” I add, attempting to give my voice a mysterious lilt, the way I've heard Zen do so many times. ”And hear things from very far away. And read very quickly. And speak several languages.”

”Like French?” Jane asks.

I nod. ”Yes. Like French and Spanish and Portuguese and Russian.”

”That's wondrous!” Jane marvels, clearly entranced.

I can't help but laugh. ”Yes, I suppose it is.”

”She's very lucky.”

I let out a sigh. ”Actually, no. She isn't. Because you see, she was forced to run very far away from her home. To a place that she didn't know at all. She had to hide because there were bad people chasing her.”

”They wanted her magic powers,” Jane adds shrewdly.

”Exactly. They wanted to capture her and bring her back to where she came from.”

”But there was a prince?” Jane a.s.sumes, as though this solves everything.

And I suppose, when you're six years old, it does.

”Yes, there was a prince. And he was...” My voice trails off for a moment and I feel that subtle tingle that covers my skin every time I think of Zen. ”Well, he helped her escape from the bad people. She loved him very much.”

I can tell right away that this was the correct answer. Jane smiles triumphantly. ”So now she could be happy? Because she escaped?”

The expression on Jane's sweet little face causes a splinter to stab into my chest. She looks as though the weight of her existence-everything she knows to be true-is riding on this very answer.

”She was,” I say cautiously. ”However, because she was so different, she often felt...” I exhale, finding the truth in my breath. ”Lonely. And scared. Like she didn't belong anywhere. Like she wasn't...” I pause again, glancing down at Lulu, her tiny handcrafted body tucked into Jane's slender, pale arms. Her faded red lips, permanently drawn into a smile. Her blank b.u.t.ton eyes stare back at me. Unblinking. Unfeeling.

”... human.”

The two syllables hang in the air like a puff of stale smoke, waiting for the wind to determine which way they will drift. How long they will stay.

When I look down at Jane again, her forehead is furrowed and I immediately fear that I've failed at my attempt to entertain her. ”But she wasn't an animal,” she argues, confusion soaked into her small voice.

”N-no,” I try to explain, stammering slightly, ”I meant, she didn't feel ... real.”

Jane is pensive. She appears to be absorbing everything I said. a.n.a.lyzing it. Deciding whether or not this qualifies as a satisfactory story.

”If she wasn't real,” she finally says, ”then she wouldn't have been able to run away from the bad people. That was a good choice.”

My smile is strained. ”I suppose it was.”

There's a long silence in which neither one of us speaks or looks at the other. Finally, I feel a soft tug on the sleeve of my s.h.i.+rt. I glance down to see that Jane has ever so carefully peeled away the cuff to reveal the thin, black mark underneath.

She studies it for a moment. Then, with surprising boldness, she reaches out with one tiny finger-barely a twig-and touches it. Sweeps along the length of the line. Delicate. Like a baby mouse running across my skin. Back and forth. Back and forth.

I don't say anything. I don't try to move away. I just watch. And feel.

”She needs to hide really well.” Jane finally speaks, her voice quiet but steady. Unusually wise for her age.

She removes her hand, allowing the sleeve to fall back into place, concealing the inside of my left wrist once again. ”So they can never ever find her.”

She looks up at me, her blue eyes liquid and sparkling.

My bottom lip starts to tremble. I bite down on it hard. Small droplets of blood trickle onto my tongue. I swallow them.

”Yes,” I say, trying to ignore the bitter metallic taste in my mouth. ”She does.”

Farrar Straus Giroux Books for Young Readers.

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