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Even though I’m only eight and he’s eleven. I know this because he told me.
I race down the paths, over the cobbles and between the gates of the secret garden with my dog on my heels. I watch for Dare above the flowers, beneath the massive angel statues, and I finally see him sitting on the edge of a pond, his dark eyes thoughtful as he skips a rock across the glassy surface.
“You’re not supposed to be out here,” I tell him tentatively as I approach. He barely glances up.
“So go tell Eleanor.”
His tone is sullen as he mentions my grandmother, but I’m used to that.
My mother said his lot in life has left him grumpy, that I’m to be patient.
I’m more than patient.
I live for every word out of his mouth.
I sit next to him, and even though I try, none of my rocks skip. They just fall heavily into the water.
Wordlessly, Dare reaches over and adjusts my hand, making me flick my wrist as I toss the stone. I watch it skip once, twice, three times before it sinks.
I smile.
“What does ‘lot in life’ mean?” I ask him curiously.
His eyes narrow.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because my mom said you’re grumpy because of your lot in life. But I don’t know what that means.”
Dare seems to turn pale, and he looks away and I think I’ve made him mad.
“It’s not your business,” he snaps. “You’re supposed to be learning how to be a good Savage. And a good Savage doesn’t pry.”
I gulp, because Lord knows I’ve heard Grandmother Eleanor say that a million times.
“But what does it mean?” I ask after a few minutes, ever persistent.
Dare sighs heavily and gets to his feet. He stares into the distance for a minute before he answers.
“It means your place in the world,” his words are heavy. “And mine sort of sucks.”
“So change it,” I tell him simply, because it seems simple enough to me.
Dare snorts. “You don’t know anything,” he tells me wisely. “You’re just a kid.”
“So are you.”
“But I’m older.”
I can’t argue with that.
“Can I hold your hand?” I ask him as we make our way out of the gardens. “I forgot my shoes and I don’t want to fall on the stones.”
I’m lying. I just want to hold his hand.
He’s hesitant and he seems a bit repelled, but he glances up toward the house, then reluctantly lets me cling to his fingers.
“You’ve got to be more responsible, Calla,” he advises me with a sidelong look toward my bare feet. But he lets me hold his hand as we slowly make our way back to the house. He shakes off my fingers before we open the doors.
