Read The Fire Chronicle Online
Authors: John Stephens
The Fire Chronicle (4 page)
Separation
T
he boy was small, and new to the orphanage, which meant he had the worst bed in the dormitory, the most uneven, the saggiest, the strangest-smelling; it was little more than a cot, jammed into an alcove at the back of the room. And when the scream came—a scream unlike any the boy had ever heard, the way it seemed to reach into his chest and crush his heart—he was the last of the frightened, shrieking children out the door
.
At the bottom of the stairs, the mob of children encountered a dense fog and turned right, stampeding down the hall. The boy was about to follow when two figures emerged from the mist, close on the heels of the children. They were black-garbed, with burning yellow eyes, and held long, jagged swords and stank of rot
.
The boy waited till they passed, then fled in the other direction
.
He ran blindly, with fear thick in his throat, knowing only that
he had to get away, to hide. Then, somehow, he was in the director’s office, and there were voices in the hall. He dove beneath a desk, tucking his legs up close
.
The door of the office banged open; a light snapped on. A pair of green slippers backed into view, and he heard the orphanage director, a dull bully of a man, begging:
“Please—please, don’t hurt me—”
A second man spoke, his voice strangely cold and lilting. “Now, why would I do a thing like that? It’s three children I came for.”
“So take them! Take three! Take ten! Just don’t hurt me!”
The other man stepped closer, the floor groaning under his weight
.
“Well, that is generous. Only it’s three very special children I’m after. A brother and two sisters. They go by the lovely names of Kate, Michael, and Emma.”
“But they’re not … they’re not here anymore. We sent them away! More than a year ago—”
There was a strangled gurgle, and the boy watched as the slippered feet rose, thrashing, into the air. The other man’s voice was calm, without a hint of strain
.
“And where did you send them? Where do I find them?”
The boy pressed his hands to his ears, but he could still hear the choking, still hear the man’s lilting, murderous voice. “Where are the children …?”
Kate finished writing the letter, sealed it in an envelope, then walked over and dropped it into the hollow of an old tree.
He’ll come, she told herself.
She’d written to him about her dream, the one that had yanked her out of sleep every night that week. Again and again, she’d lain there in the dark, covered in cold sweat and waiting for her heart to slow, relieved that Emma, lying beside her, hadn’t woken, relieved that it had only been a dream.
Except it wasn’t a dream; she knew that.
He’ll come, Kate repeated. When he reads it, he’ll come.
The day was hot and humid, and Kate wore a lightweight summer dress and a pair of patched leather sandals. Her hair was pulled back and cinched with a rubber band, though a few loose strands stuck to her face and neck. She was fifteen and taller than
she’d been a year ago. In other respects, her appearance hadn’t changed. With her dark blond hair and hazel eyes, she still struck all who saw her as a remarkably pretty girl. But a person did not have to look closely to see the furrow of worry that was etched into her brow, or the tension that lived in her arms and shoulders, or the way her fingernails were bitten to the quick.
In that respect, truly, nothing had changed.
Kate had not moved from beside the tree, but stood there, absently fingering the gold locket that hung from her neck.
More than ten years earlier, Kate and her younger brother and sister had been sent away from their parents. They had grown up in a series of orphanages, a few that were nice and clean, run by kind men and women, but most of them not so nice, and the adults who ran them not so kind. The children had not been told why their parents had sent them away, or when they were coming back. But that their parents would eventually return, that they would all once more be a family, the children had never doubted.