The Stolen Heir by Holly Black

Listen to this monster, not that one.

“Mom wants to talk.”

I feel a little sick at the thought. “You. Just you. For now, at least. Please.”

Her voice goes distant, as though she’s speaking to someone other than me. “Wait. Yes, I’ll tell her.”

“Why did you go outside that night?” I ask.

There’s a pause, footsteps, then I hear a door close. “Okay, I’m away from them.”

I repeat my question, anxiety narrowing my focus to the gum on the floor, the smell of exhaust, the pinesap on my fingers, the sound of her sighs.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” Bex says finally.

“You remember me?” I choke out.

“You lived with us for seven years,” she says, accusation creeping into her voice. “After you went back to your birth family, we hoped we’d hear something. Mom used to cry on that made-up birthday she invented for you.”

“She told me to leave.” I growl out the words. I know it wasn’t her fault, that she and Dad and Bex were glamoured. But how could I go back to them, make them face my monstrousness, allow them to reject me again? “Dad kicked me.”

I look at the clock. It’s nearly time for the bus to pull in.

Bex sounds angry. “That’s not true.”

I need to end this call. I pull the charging cord out of the wall and out of the base of the phone, then start to wind it up. Soon I will be on my way north. Soon I will be cold inside and out.

“You met the storm hag,” I say. “You know that whatever story you heard can’t be the whole of it. And you know that I was adopted, not a foster child any longer. I couldn’t just up and return to my birth parents, nor could they come and take me away. Think about it, and the story falls apart. Because it’s one that you were enchanted with to explain something unexplainable.”

There’s a silence from the other end, but I hear people in the background. I don’t think the door is closed anymore.

“I thought you were a ghost the first time I spotted you,” she says softly.

I feel foolish, thinking that no one saw me slipping in and out of the house. If you do anything for long enough, you’re bound to be caught. “When?”

“About six months ago. I was up late reading, and I saw something moving outside. When I looked, it was like seeing your spirit, back from the dead. But then I thought you were in some kind of trouble. And I started to wait for you.”

“And the milk,” I say. “You left out milk.”

“You aren’t human, are you?” She whispers the words, as though she’s embarrassed to say them aloud.

I think of my unmother’s surprise at hearing my voice. “Did you tell—”

“No!” she interrupts me. “How was I supposed to? I wasn’t even sure what I saw. And they’re not happy with me right now.”

I look at the clock. The bus should be here. For a heart-stopping moment, I think that I’ve missed it, that time has jumped while I’ve been speaking with Bex. But a quick glance around shows me that none of the people waiting have moved from their seats.

The bus is late, I tell myself. It’s coming. Just late. But my heart keeps beating harder, and I shrink into myself, as though if I am still enough, anxiety will stop gnawing on my insides.

And if the bus is not the whole reason I feel the way that I do, it’s enough of it.

“Listen,” I say, my gaze going to the road, watching for headlights. “I don’t know how long I have, but if Bogdana knows where you are, it’s not safe. Fill your pockets with salt. Rowan berries will keep you from being glamoured by their magic. They hate cold-wrought iron. And they can’t lie.” I correct myself. “We. We can’t lie.”

“What are—”

I hear cloth rustling and my unmother’s voice cutting off Bex. “Wren, I know you want to talk to your sister.” She emphasizes the word as though I am about to deny it. “But I have something quick to say. If you’re in some kind of trouble, we can help you. You just tell us what’s going on. Bex made it sound like you were living on the streets.”

I almost laugh at that. “I’m surviving.”

“That’s not enough.” She gives an enormous shaky sigh. “But even if it were, I’d like to see you. I’ve wondered how you were doing. What you were doing. If you had enough to eat. If you were warm.”

My eyes burn, but I can’t imagine being there, in their living room, wearing my true face. I would horrify them. Maybe they wouldn’t scream and shove me away at first, the way they did when they were enchanted, but it would quickly turn awful. I couldn’t be the child that they had loved.

Not after everything that happened to me. Not after learning that I am made of sticks and snow.

Headlights swing into view. I am already moving by the time I hear the squeal of brakes.

“I never needed to be warm,” I tell my unmother, my voice hard, full of the anger that has been gnawing at my insides for years.

“Wren,” she says, stung.

I feel as though I am about to weep, and I am not even sure why.

“Tell Bex to remember the salt, the rowan, and the iron,” I say, and hang up the phone, racing for the bus.

Only one person gets off, and then I get on, holding out my fake ticket to the driver and concentrating my magic on him. Believe me, I plead with all the force I possess. Believe I have a ticket.