The skin beneath my bandages was pale and puckered with fresh scabs, like some injured lake creature that had washed ashore. Samuel touched the jagged curve of the J carved into my skin.
“You did not need rescuing, then, it seems,” he said, a wry twist in his smile. “Stregas rescue themselves in all the stories.”
“Stregas?”
“Witches,” he clarified.
“Oh.” Sure, I’d been hoping for something a little more complimentary but—he believed me, without even a flicker of doubt. Maybe all those years of sneaking pulpy monster stories when he was supposed to be manning the shop counter had rotted his brain just like his mother said they would. Maybe he just trusted me.
Samuel continued, speculatively. “They always end up alone in the stories—witches, I mean—living in the woods or mountains or locked in towers. I suppose it would take a brave man to love a witch, and men are mostly cowards.” He looked directly at me as he finished, with a kind of raised-chin boldness that said: I am not a coward.
I found I couldn’t say anything at all. Or even think, much.
After a moment he smiled again, gently, and said, “So these Society people. They will keep looking for you, won’t they? For the things you know, and the things you can do.”
“Yes, they will.” Jane’s voice came from behind me. She stood in the doorway, framed by the last red rays of sunlight, her mouth set in a grim line. Something about her reminded me of my father, and the way grief stooped his shoulders and carved lines on his face.
Jane moved stiffly to the water bucket to rinse her dirt-grimed arms, saying, “We need a plan, and a place to hide.” She patted herself dry. “I suggest Arcadia, the name your father gave me for a world hidden on the southern coast of Maine. It is inhospitable and inaccessible, or so I am given to understand, which makes it an excellent place to disappear. I know the way.” Jane’s voice was perfectly even, as if a hostile and alien world was a perfectly ordinary destination, like the bank or the post office.
“But surely we don’t need to—”
“January,” she interrupted, “we have no money, no place to live, no family. I am black in a nation that abhors blackness, foreign in a nation that abhors foreigners. And worst of all we are memorable—an African woman and an in-between girl with wild hair and a scarred arm.” She turned her hands palm up. “If the Society wants to find you, they will. And I doubt Mr. Havemeyer was the worst of them.”
Samuel shifted against his pillows. “But you are forgetting—Miss January is not defenseless. She could write you anything you pleased, it seems to me. A fortress. A door to Timbuktu, or Mars. An unfortunate accident for Mr. Locke.” He sounded rather hopeful about that last possibility; he had growled in a very Bad-like manner when I told him about Brattleboro.
A sour smile twisted Jane’s face. “Her powers are not unlimited, I am told.”
I felt a prickle of defensiveness, doused in shame. “No.” It came out slightly choked-sounding. “My father says word-working comes at a cost. I can’t just rip things up and stick them back together however I like.” I snuck a sidelong look at Samuel, my voice lowering. “I’m not much of a witch, I’m afraid.”
He twitched his hand so that it lay very near to mine on the blankets, our fingertips almost touching. “Good,” he whispered. “I’m not that brave.”
Jane cleared her throat rather markedly. “Now, getting there will be challenging. We have two hundred miles to cross without being recognized or followed, and not much money to do it with. I am afraid”—she smiled a tight, chill smile—“Miss Scaller will have to become accustomed to a rather different standard of living.”
That stung. “I have traveled a bit, you know.” I had luggage with my name stamped on little brass plates; my passport looked like a well-thumbed paperback novel.
Jane laughed. It wasn’t a very cheerful sound. “And in all your travels, have you spent a single night in a bed you made yourself? Cooked a single meal? Have you ever even seen a second-class ticket?” I didn’t say anything, damningly, but merely glared. “We’ll be sleeping in the woods and begging rides, so adjust your expectations accordingly.”
I couldn’t think of an especially clever reply, so I switched subjects. “I’m not convinced we should even go to this Arcadia place. My father disappeared in Japan, if you recall, and we ought to go look for him, at least—”
But Jane was shaking her head tiredly. “They’ll be expecting that above all. Maybe someday, after some time has passed, when it’s safer.”
To hell with safer. “Maybe—maybe we could go to Mr. Locke for help.” Samuel and Jane both emitted sounds somewhere between disbelief and outrage. I forged on, shoulders squared. “I know, I know—but look: I don’t think he wanted me or my father hurt or dead. He just wanted to get a little richer and have a few more rare objects to stick in display cases. He might not even know about the Society closing the Doors, or maybe he doesn’t care—and he loved me, I think. At least a little. He could help us hide, lend us some money, get us to Japan…” I trailed off.
Jane’s eyes filled with something tarry and oozing: pity. It’s surprising how much pity can hurt. “You’d like to go off adventuring and save your father, like a fairy-tale hero. I understand. But you are young and penniless and homeless, and you’ve never really seen the ugly side of the world. It would swallow you whole, January.”
Beside me, Samuel said, “And if Mr. Locke was trying to protect you before, he has done a very bad job so far. I think you should run.”
I went mute, feeling my whole future twist and warp dizzyingly beneath my feet. I’d been waiting for my life to snap back to normal, as if everything that’d happened since my father’s disappearance were a movie and soon the card would say THE END and the lights would buzz back to life and I’d find myself safely back at Locke House, rereading The Rover Boys on Land and Sea.
But all that was permanently in the past, like a dragonfly preserved in amber.
Follow Jane. “All right,” I whispered, and tried not to feel like I was seven again, eternally running away. “We’ll go to Arcadia. And will you—will you stay there with me? Or go home?”
She flinched. “I have no home.” I met her eyes and found that the pity in them had curdled into something ragged and despairing. It made me think of ancient ruins or decaying tapestries, of things that have lost the thread of themselves.
She teetered for a moment on the edge of saying something further—recriminations or rebukes or regrets—then turned and left the cabin with her back very straight.
Samuel and I were quiet in her absence. My thoughts were a flock of drunk birds, ricocheting between despair (Would we both be homeless forever? Would I spend my life running?) and a childish, bubbling excitement (Arcadia! Adventure! Escape!) and the distracting warmth of Samuel’s hand still lying beside mine on the quilt.
He cleared his throat and said, not very casually, “I intend to go with you. If you allow it.”
“What—you can’t! Leave your family, your home, your, your profession—it’s far too dangerous—”