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But he doesn’t wake.
And then I’m fleeing the battlefield, train tucked under one arm, into the safety of the hall. Footsteps are coming—trapped! I spy the curio cabinet across from me and hide the train far back on the bottom shelf, behind a soft fox’s pelt, just as Sister Constance turns the corner.
I freeze.
Her lips press together firmly—it was only yesterday that I promised Sister Constance not to sneak around. “Emmaline!” She darts forward and grabs my ear. “You are supposed to be in quiet study in the library, young lady.”
“Ow, ow, ow,” I plead, but she pulls me a few feet down the hall, then lets me go.
“Go to your room for the remainder of the day, and ask God for forgiveness for your disobedience. If I see the slightest glimpse of you before breakfast tomorrow, I’ll put a bell around your neck like a cat.”
I head for the stairs, head hung low, but heart still secretly thrilled as I think of the hidden train. The chapel door is near the stairs, and I pause, because candles are glowing from within, even though it isn’t Sunday. The altar is draped in heavy liturgical cloth, presiding over three rows of wooden benches. Someone is sitting on the first bench, mouth moving in quiet prayer.
Thomas.
He reaches out and touches the altar cloth. It is a rich, royal purple reserved for Advent and Lent. The same shade as Anna’s colored pencil. 876-HELIOTROPE PURPLE.
Thomas lets his hand fall away from the cloth. He’s still whispering, though the words are too quiet to make out.
From somewhere deep in my chest, the stillwaters stir. They swell, prickling at the inside of my lungs, until I feel heavy and drowned, like I’ve fallen off Darwin’s ship into the sea of sparkling little creatures.
“Emmaline,” Sister Constance calls sternly. She points toward the attic stairs. “Now.”
I climb, thoughts jumping between Thomas and his father, the toy train and the purple altar cloth and Sister Constance, but at the top of the stairs, my eyes settle on my door, and I go still.
A sudden burst of anger surges inside of me.
A yellow ticket! Someone has replaced the one I tore up! I leap up to rip it off, but then I remember Dr. Turner has a whole stack of them. If I take it down, he will only replace it with another.
I throw myself on top of my bed, not touching my books or my schoolwork.
There is no point. There will always be Sister Constance watching. There will always be a yellow ticket. I will never be a proper explorer. I will never see the pyramids of Egypt. I will never watch the wild horses running free on the plains of America. I will never discover anything at all, except dust.
But no.
I sit up.
Anna believes in me, and Anna is the smartest person I know.
I snatch up some chalk and write on the back of one of my old drawings:
Dear Horse Lord,
I do not know if this letter will reach you, but I need you to know that I won’t give up, not ever. I have already found five colorful objects to protect Foxfire: a red one, a yellow one, a turquoise one, a pink one, and now a green one. I am working as fast as I can before the full moon comes to find the rest, but I have an important question: Do you think God will be angry with me if I steal the purple liturgical cloth from the chapel?
Truly,
Emmaline May
I think of the calling card in the curio cabinet belonging to Miss A. Rodan, Aviatrix, and I fold the drawing in half, and in half again, and then fold down the corners.
An airplane.
I push open the window and lean into the wind.
I cast out the paper airplane, whispering prayers as it flies, flies, flies toward the gardens, hoping that it lands true.
THE NEXT DAY IS SUNDAY.
