Amoura Awakened

By Meg Kramer

One girl's quest for belonging leads to perilous secrets. Will she uncover the truth before it's too late?

Amoura Renly is anything but average, much to her dismay. When a violent confrontation with a bully awakens her connection to magic, Amoura struggles with the realization she's farther from fitting in than

• Language: English
• Publisher: Candid Crow Press
• Release date: Oct 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798988676614

Book preview

Amoura Awakened

Meg Kramer

Candid Crow Press

For Meli and Bowen, who are undoubtedly made of magic.

Copyright

AMOURA AWAKENED

Copyright © 2023 by Candid Crow Press

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact [e-mail].

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book cover image by Katie Newman and Nico Barredo.

First printing edition 2023

Contents

1.Wednesday

2.Thursday

3.The Visitor

4.After

5.Friday

6.Saturday

7.Professor Rei

8.The Academic Assessment

9.The Magical Aptitude Assessment

10.The Interview

11.A Letter Arrives

12.Summer

13.The Woman in White

14.Moving In

15.June

16.Hall Meeting

17.The Woman in White

18.Breakfast

19.Purity

20.Morning Academics

21.Casting

22.Crissy Field

23.The Woman in White

24.Studying

25.Samhain

26.Fallout

27.Thanksgiving

28.Penumbra

29.The Woman in White

30.Searching

31.History

32.Casting

33.Kjell

34.Dr. Blackwood

35.The Amulet

36.Magic Within

37.The Woman in White

38.Dr. Blackwood

39.Professor Lankford

40.The Casting Assessment

41.Cruelty

42.Mallory Labs

43.Aditi

44.Practice

45.Tío Beto

46.Secrets Kept

47.The Woman in White

48.Kjell

49.Fallout

50.The Casting Showcase

51.Bea

52.Dinner

53.The Amulet

54.Hiding

55.The Beltane Ball

56.The Woman in White

57.Captured

58.The Woman in White

59.Truth

60.Awakened

61.Escape

62.Back at School

63.The Casting Final

64.Dr. Blackwood

65.Dinner

66.Flying Home

With Gratitude

About the Author

Chapter one

Wednesday

Ispotted the postcard under our doormat, tucked safely under so as not to blow away in the afternoon breeze. Amoura Jimenez Renly , it read across the front. No address, no indication of sender. Just a sharp indentation in the top half, as if something had attempted, unsuccessfully, to puncture the thick paper.

I assumed it to be a mistake. Or some kind of stupid prank left by one of the bottom-dwelling miscreants who tormented me at school (though I knew realistically it was way too clever to have been planted by any of them). An invitation to attend an entrance exam at a school for the magically inclined. Hysterical.

Love note, my darling? a voice crooned, startling me. My neighbor, Mrs. Mulgarden, lounged along the oversized railing of her front porch, her bare feet crossed at the ankles and peeking from below her cerulean caftan and a mug steaming between her hands. Unlike me, Mrs. Mulgarden was magically inclined, and looked in that moment, perched on her banister, like she could’ve been the poster child of whatever whimsical creature this Elderwood place promised to produce. If it was even a real place.

Not quite, I called back, studying the card. Just someone’s weird idea of a joke. I ran my fingers over the embossed watermark at the bottom of the card, what looked to be a wand underlining the letters ESMI. That’s quite an elaborate detail for a prank.

I looked up at my neighbor. Did you see who left this?

Mrs. Mulgarden’s emerald eyes widened. "No, my darling! I’ve been inside all afternoon brewing that elixir your father asked for—the healing potion for his marathon next weekend to help with his shin splints. The formula they sell at that overpriced apothecary on Hawthorne is such a waste, she rolled her eyes. I swear they dilute all their brews with old herbs."

I nodded and looked back down at the card. The tip of my finger retraced the embossed letters. ESMI.

I was too competitive not to be intrigued by the idea of an entrance exam, too curious not to wonder, just a little, what life at a school for the magically inclined would be like. I probably had a better base of magical knowledge than most human sixteen-year-olds, being that Mrs. Mulgarden had been making me potions and tinctures to cure my every ailment since I started toddling around and hurting myself as a baby.

ESMI. The slightest vibration lingered on my skin like a whisper as I brushed the letters once more. Curious, I thought, examining the tip of my finger.

Everything alright, darling? Mrs. Mulgarden called, snapping me back to attention.

Yeah, I’m fine. I quickly tucked the card into my satchel. There’s nothing magical about you, a voice in my head scolded. It’s a prank or a mistake. The thought stung more than I expected.

It doesn’t matter, it isn’t real, I grumbled to myself as I shoved open the front door and disappeared into my house, leaving all thoughts of magic and entrance exams on the porch behind me.

Chapter two

Thursday

The clock hanging above Miss Haverman’s desk was the most insolent in the school. Its incessant tick shattered every silent second of my lunch hour on Thursday afternoons, clicking between my ears like claws tapping on glass. It made it hard to focus on my sandwich. The clocks in every other classroom had gliding hands that moved like silent exhales. Time passed without rude interruptions, without having to think about it passing. The clock in my history room seemed determined to remind me with each crisp tick that I was alone.

Thanks for holding down the fort! Miss Haverman chirped with a smile as she breezed through the door. My history teacher said this to me every Thursday upon returning from the bathroom just before the bell as if she’d charged me with a group of rowdy five-year-olds.

The smile I returned was thin and dishonest.

I didn’t feel bad that I always ate alone. I’d spent my lunch hour in various classrooms for almost an entire school year, ever since my best friend, Finn, moved to San Francisco. Finn was the only company I ever missed, but I’d taken to using my newfound lonely lunch hour to catch up on some drawing, so it didn’t seem like a bad thing.

It was amazing how quickly our lunch bunch dispersed when Finn moved away. Finn’d been the glue holding everyone together. He was a total brain, obsessed with coding and computers. No one considered him uncool, though, because he had a magnetism that made him impossible to dislike, and a smile that made both girls and guys weak in the knees. Saying you didn’t like Finn was like saying you didn’t like puppies. The drama kids found his expressiveness inspiring, and the jocks found his exuberant enthusiasm hysterical. I loved Finn, because we’d grown up together and he was the closest thing I had to a brother. My classmates tolerated me only because I was Finn’s friend. To them, I was the weird smart girl, always dressed in black, always lingering nearby like a shadow. When Finn moved away, they absorbed into their proper circles, the drama kids with the other drama kids, the jocks with the other jocks, and I found myself alone. It wasn’t long before they realized my social protective shield was gone, and tormenting me was, well, fun. And easy.

You know, Amoura, Miss Haverman said gently, perching on the desk in front of me. She swung her loafers onto the seat and rested her elbows on her knees as if preparing for a heart-to-heart with a girlfriend. Miss Haverman was one of the younger teachers at Rose City Prep, filled with an untarnished love of teaching and an unabashed drive to save the youth of America. I braced myself for another one of her pep talks. I know I say this a lot, but if you ever want to…talk, I’m always here.

Thanks, Miss Haverman, I’m fine. I picked up my pencil and looked down at the sketchbook spread open on my desk. My cheeks flushed as I noticed the letters I’d mindlessly doodled through the lunch hour, the letters I couldn’t unsee in my mind. ESMI. Bold block letters lined in thick black, elegantly curving calligraphy, rounded bubbles like balloons covering every inch of the page. I quickly flipped to a flower I’d worked on the previous lunch hour, hoping my teacher hadn’t noticed my doodling.

You could invite a couple of other kids to eat with you on Thursdays. I’m totally cool with that.

My pencil pressed harder onto the page, and I overshadowed a flower petal. Thanks, I said, my tone clipped. I grabbed an eraser from my bag. She’s just trying to be kind, I reminded myself with a deep breath.

Now that I think of it, there are some really smart sophomore girls in my third period class. Kind of quiet, like you. She spoke as if she were making this realization for the first time, though her acting skills were sub-par. I could see if they want to join us on Thursdays for a book club or something?

The frosty look I shot back in response could’ve formed icicles on her eyelashes.

Oh, come on! It wouldn’t be that bad, would it? You love to read! What was the last book you read?

"The Brothers Karamazov." I stopped drawing to hold her gaze.

Oh. She sat a little taller on the desk. I’ve never read any Tolstoy.

I looked back down at my journal and began shading. Dostoyevsky. Not Tolstoy. Wrong Russian.

Oh.

Did you really need to do that?

I really think if you—

Miss Haverman, I interrupted, exasperated. I know you’re probably just out of college and eager to change the hearts and minds of every antisocial teen like me, but I promise you: I don’t need saving, I don’t like high schoolers, and I don’t like book clubs. I just want a place to eat my sandwich.

Wounding reflected in her eyes.

You shouldn’t have said she was just out of college. The bell signaling the end of lunch saved us both from having to say anything further. Miss Haverman dropped her eyes, her cheeks flushed, and scurried back to her desk where she busied herself with a stack of papers. Great job, idiot. It’s been a while since you made a teacher cry.

I sighed heavily, slipping the journal into my bag as I endured the internal lashings of my conscience. You’re so weak, Renly. I pulled out my laptop as voices poured in with my classmates from the doorway. By now I’d think you’d be able to control yourself. I opened a blank document, preparing for the notes I’d take in class. No wonder everyone hates you. I huffed, shaking my head wildly as if to rattle out the final thought.

I don’t NEED anyone, I shouted back in my mind.

What’s up, Goth Girl? You miss me? Asher Rockford slid into his desk behind me and breathed his greeting into my ear, sending every hair on my arms to full attention. I’d become pretty good at shielding myself from the taunts of most of my classmates, at not allowing them the satisfaction of seeing their jeers stab my soft underbelly. But there was something about Asher Rockford that really twisted my guts. Perhaps it was the fact that being the star of Rose City’s winningest soccer team made him impervious to the behavioral expectations all other students were subjected to. To his credit, Asher was an equal-opportunity asshole, tormenting students and faculty alike. But I had earned extra-special attention being the only sophomore in his senior-level classes.

What do you do to make your hair so big? I felt his fingers pick at the frizzy curls on the back of my neck, hard and sharp like pinpricks.

Don’t touch me. I jerked my head away from his hand and felt a sharp snap at the base of my skull when he didn’t let go of a few strands.

You shed everywhere. I glanced over my shoulder to see him shaking off the hair he’d pulled. You should really think about shaving that pelt. It would make a great blanket in the winter. Snickers popped around us, his audience growing as students took their seats, curious to see how Asher would taunt me today. My stomach twisted hard as I pulled my curls over one shoulder. I kept my eyes on the blank computer screen in front of me, breathing deep. Don’t engage. He wants you to react.

His finger poked hard into the crown of my head. You in there, Goth Girl? I feel like I’m talking to myself here!

I tapped the mouse on my keyboard and labeled the open blank document with the date. My fingertips quivered as they grazed the keys.

Well, if Goth Girl isn’t home, I guess that means I can go through her stuff, right? I flipped around, my cheeks igniting. He held my satchel in front of him.

Give it back. I grabbed for the bag, but he slid from his seat to his feet and out of my reach, eyes alight with satisfaction.

There she is, he smiled. What could be in here that’s got you so hot and bothered?

Kids, let’s take a seat; it’s time to get started, Miss Haverman called, her voice devoid of any demand for respect.

Asher ignored her and opened the bag. Hmm, nothing really interesting, he said as he rummaged, disappointed. Then, Oh, but what’s this? He revealed my sketchbook dramatically, and my stomach dropped. "Could this be…your diary?"

Our classmates hooted at the show. My skin tingled with anxiety, intensifying with each thud of my heart.

I wonder if I’ll find anything about me, he mumbled, flipping it open. "Dear diary. Asher Rockford is the boy I dream about when I’m alone in my bed," he cooed in a high-pitched voice. My classmates laughed.

Miss Haverman clapped her hands at the front of the room. Enough, Asher, she called, pleading rather than demanding.

I lunged at him, grabbing for the book as he stumbled backwards into a desk, laughing. He rolled out from under me and took a few steps backwards down the row. "Dear diary. I wish I could feel his hard arms wrapped around me."

Tears burned the corners of my eyes as I followed him, jumping towards the book he held above his head. It doesn’t say that. Give it back. I could feel my control slipping, like the binding that secured my anger deep in my marrow was fraying at the seams. My fingers vibrated with energy, the sensation shooting up my arms to my shoulders, like an infusion of electricity in my veins.

Asher stumbled backward, lifting the journal farther out of my reach. Geez, Goth Girl. If I’d known you were so hot for me, I might’ve been a little nicer to you. Laughter continued as I followed him farther down the row, stepping over books and backpacks while he dipped the sketchbook in and out of my reach, as if taunting a cat.

"Dear diary. I’d give up all my black clothes just to feel Asher Rockfort’s body against me. Ohhh, Asher!" he cried. The classroom roared. Miss Haverman clapped her hands. I lunged for the book, and he grabbed me around the waist with his free hand, pulling me close as if I weighed nothing, pinning me against his left hip. You like that, Goth Girl? He breathed into my face. I thrashed against him, kicking—I hadn’t realized he’d lifted me from the ground. I felt my foot smack the back of his knee. Without warning, he let me go, and I collapsed on the ground at his feet.

The hollering from our classmates was deafening. His face above blurred behind my tears. I wanted to claw the smirk right off his face, but my joints felt locked in place, frozen by the rage and embarrassment pulsing through me. I could feel everyone’s eyes on us, eager to see if he’d take pity, hoping he wouldn’t. For a split second, as a tear slipped from my eye and his face became clear, I thought he might give it back. But his mouth curled into a sneer, and he flipped open the sketchbook.

What’s in this thing, anyway? he asked, scanning the drawings. Asher’s eyebrows raised slightly, as if impressed. These are good. He held the book up for others to see. "Like, really good, Goth Girl. You could make money off these." Asher flipped the page and scanned the next drawing. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he ripped it from the book. My body flinched at the action as if something sharp had cut me.

Don’t do that, I bellowed, jumping to my feet and lunging at him again.

He didn’t stop. One by one, Asher ripped out the pages, throwing them into the air for other students to catch as they fluttered around us. Share the wealth, Goth Girl, he laughed as I lunged at him again and again, tears flowing down my face.

I have few memories of what happened next. I remember the tightness spreading in my chest and the passing thought that I might be having a heart attack. I remember the shift in Asher’s eyes as he realized the earthquake rolling through my body was no longer from desperation; the flash of emotion across his face—amusement to confusion to fear. I remember how hot my hands felt, the tingling sensation that ignited fire, real fire. Vibrant sparkler flickers solidifying into orange and crimson flames that danced on the surface of my outstretched palms. I remember the classroom going silent, all eyes on the flames twisting on my skin, the steadfast tick of the clock echoing as the realization that something was shifting settled on everyone. I wasn’t what they’d all thought.

And then the world went black.

I don’t know how much time passed, but the tingling in my fingers brought me back into my body. Ragged breaths released in bursts on my nose. Can you hear me? Miss Haverman’s voice whispered. I opened my eyes to hers hovering inches over mine, darting wildly over my face. I took inventory of my stiff body and realized I was splayed on the floor like a starfish.

Did I faint? I wondered, wiggling my toes inside my Doc Martins. Ye—yeah. I can hear you, I croaked, shifting slightly to roll onto my side.

Miss Haverman pressed me hard into the ground. Lie still. We don’t know if you’re injured.

Really, I think I’m okay. If you just let me— My teacher’s withering look sucked the air from my lungs, and I lay still.

She’s afraid of me. The realization rolled through my veins like ice water. Her hand pressed harder into my chest, pinning me to the ground. What did I do? I heard whispers and whimpers from somewhere in the room, too far away to make out what was being said. My gaze traveled my periphery. The desks were no longer in their neatly lined formation. Metal legs jetted into the air like fractured bones. The arms attaching tabletops to desk seats seemed twisted and akimbo, as if they had grown sick of their normal occupants and thrown their arms in the air. I closed my eyes, frantically searching my mind for the last images I could remember. Tiny flames. Flying books. Journal pages singed at the edges, burned to ash. ESMI. So much screaming, straining from the fibrous tissues of my muscles.

The school nurse arrived, her mousy voice whispering in my ear, asking if I could move, if anything hurt, then helping me off the ground. My legs went numb as I scanned the classroom, what looked like the aftermath of a tornado. Pencils, books, backpacks littering the floor. Desks overturned and twisted like optical illusions. A lacy spiderweb of cracks veining every large window along the classroom wall. Miss Haverman’s tan filing cabinets wilting toward the floor like thirsty flowers. The inspirational poster hanging above the whiteboard—a goldfish wearing a shark fin reminding us Mindset is Everything—burnt around the edges. My classmates huddled in the far corner together, eyes peeking around desks and watching me, as if I was a beast on the loose. My head throbbed as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing, as the nurse grabbed my arms and led me through the wreckage and out the door.

You’ll wait here, she said softly, guiding my body to the plastic chair next to the dean’s closed office door. My eyes watered under the fluorescent lights above, their gentle, incessant hum hammering at the throb in my head. What did I do?

Her fathers are on their way, Dean Matigan’s assistant said softly through the crack in the door. I hadn’t even noticed her creep up beside me. It was as if my senses had short-circuited. I couldn’t feel the heaviness of gravity on my chair, but I’d sat in that very spot so many times over the years that my mind knew what I should be feeling. Like muscle memory. Dean Matigan and I knew each other very well; I’d been a thorn in his side since I was five years old, since my very first day of kindergarten at Rose City Prep. Over the years, I’d been sent home for back-talking teachers and screaming at other students, for refusing to follow directions in kindergarten on an almost weekly basis. Never for anything violent. Never anything…like this.

The more I tried to piece together my memories, the more my hands tingled, the more confused I felt. So, I closed my eyes, breathed deep and tried to settle my thoughts. Algeria. Angola. Benin. Botswana, my mind recited. Lists always grounded me in my body. Burkina Faso. Cameroon. Cape Verde. Central African Republic. Chad. When I felt out of control, I chose a continent and listed the countries. Comoros. Congo. Djibouti.

How far did you get? Papá’s voice wrapped around me like a warm blanket. I opened my eyes to him squatting before me, Dad at his side.

Djibouti.

Papá smiled. We made it here quick, then. Concern flashed through his eyes, a desire to say something further. But he stopped himself, stood up, and kissed my forehead. Dad and I are going to figure out what’s going on, mijita. They disappeared into the office behind me, closing the door, and leaving me alone once again.

Egypt. Equatorial Guinea. Eritrea. I squeezed my eyes tighter, trying to drown out the phrase shards seeping through the cracks in the doorway. …no longer welcome… Dean Matigan’s voice grumbling through the door felt like potholes for my focus. Ethiopia. Gabon. …it’s my legal requirement… Gambia. Ghana. Guinea. …must alert the authorities… Guinea-Bissau. Ivory Coast. …with others of her kind…

He can’t even say it. He can’t name what I am.

If my mind hadn’t felt so fragile, if I hadn’t felt as though my bones were numb, I would’ve fought every adult in the building to be in that office, hearing my fate, simply so my fathers wouldn’t have to relive the conversation with me later at home. So I wouldn’t have to endure their pained eyes as they told me I wouldn’t be returning to Rose City Prep. They were walking ghosts emerging from the dean’s office some time later, faces chalky and eyes glazed.

Dad cleared his throat and grasped my shoulder. Let’s get you home, Mo. We’ll talk there.

Mr. Renly, Dean Matigan called from inside. The door swung wide, and out he trundled on stubby legs, a small periwinkle card grasped between his pointer and middle finger. This is the colleague I told you about, he said in a hushed tone, his caterpillar mustache twitching on his upper lip. I’ll phone her as soon as you leave and explain…the situation. I’m sure she will know what to do next.

Thank you, Dean Matigan. We appreciate your help. Dad accepted the card and slipped it in the pocket of his coat. With a curt nod of his head, Dean Matigan disappeared back into his office, closing the door behind him. He never looked down in my direction, never even acknowledged my presence, as if the simple act of doing so would reduce his school to rubble.

Chapter three

The Visitor

She appeared on our doorstep at precisely six-thirty. Her arrival was so quiet that even our old watchdog, Morris, jumped at the sound of the doorbell when it rang. I dropped the knife I’d been using to chop carrots in the kitchen.

Dad looked at me from where he stood in the doorway, his eyebrows raising. You good?

Am I good? As good as a lamb going to slaughter. His obsidian eyes widened as he entered the kitchen, but the bell chimed again, beckoning him to greet our waiting visitor. Dad glanced down the hall towards the front door, back to me, then towards the door once more before sighing and rushing down the hall.

I flew on cat feet, hiding in the shadows just off our entryway. My futile attempts to calm the quiver in my breath had a reverse effect on my bones, which seemed to quake below my skin. I crouched close to the ground, spying on Dad as he wiped his hands on his apron and opened the door to our visitor.

Good evening, Mr. Renly. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Her voice made me think of running my fingers through warm bathwater. I couldn’t see Dad’s face from my hiding spot, but the way his spine stretched a half-inch taller as he greeted the stranger made my heart thump in my throat. Through the doorway came a floating obelisk, caped in deep forest green with a slim silver cane clasped under her right arm. Black lace crawled like creeping vines up her neck from below her cape, a sharp contrast to her porcelain skin and painted red lips. She wore her crow-colored hair in a simple bun high on her head, pulled so tight my scalp hurt just looking at her. Swishing around, she inspected the foyer from ceiling to floorboard before settling her gaze on Dad.

I should be the one thanking you for coming all this way, Ms. Blackwood. And so quickly! Dad’s baritone voice took an unnaturally high-pitched tone.

"Doctor Blackwood, she corrected, lifting her chin. Even from a distance, I could see the electric twinkle in her sapphire eyes. When Dean Matigan shared with me what happened this afternoon, I knew I could be of help. And it was no trouble—a quick half-hour trip on the skyway."

Oh, right, Dad said, rubbing his bald head. "You would come by the skyway; that makes sense. He was quiet for a moment. Sorry, we’re all still shaken up about…everything." My six-foot-one father, usually the picture of relaxed confidence, looked like a schoolboy under the stranger’s gaze. He ran his hands over the front of his apron, smoothing and re-smoothing non-existent wrinkles.

She observed him, her mouth curling into an unreadable smile.

I’m sorry. May I take your coat? Or—or cape, I mean?

Dr. Blackwood flicked one long finger toward her collar. My hand shot to my mouth to stifle a gasp as the cloak slid from her shoulders, spun in midair as if dancing alone, and folded itself over his extended arm. I still couldn’t get a good look at Dad’s face, but the smile on her lips as she floated off into the living room made me feel pretty positive he was as surprised as I was by her floating outerwear.

Your home is lovely, Mr. Renly, Dr. Blackwood purred. I’ve always loved the old craftsmen houses of Portland.

Dad shook his head as if to snap himself out of a dream. Oh, thank you, he called back. He hung the cloak on our crowded coat rack with care. I knew he was scolding himself for not moving some of our family’s Pacific Northwest puff coats to the hall closet. This elegant frock shouldn’t have to interact with our common people coats, his voice chastised in my mind. My husband and I put a lot of love into this place. He followed her into the living room and out of my view. The houses in Portland were the reason we moved here. We knew we could never get this space in San Francisco.

Like a mouse, I scurried on my hands and knees along the entryway wall. You’re acting like a child, Renly. I ignored the scolding voice in my head and sank flat to my stomach, body flush with the wall, then pulled myself forward just enough to peer around the corner. Dad stood rigid in the middle of the living room, his profile to me.

Dr. Blackwood stalked the perimeter, examining artwork hanging on the wall.

You lived in San Francisco?

Yes, that’s where Mateo and I met. He was in nursing school, and I worked for a tech company. We wanted to start a family, and the city didn’t seem like the right place to do that. He paused, shrugging. So, we moved here.

And the child? She picked up our family photo from the coffee table. When did she join your family? My cheeks flushed as she referenced me. I knew I was the entire reason for her visit, but hearing her refer to me as the child made me feel like a thing rather than a person. Like a specimen under observation.

We adopted Amoura as an infant, three years after we settled in Portland.

I see. She studied the photo in her hands, and the room fell silent. I wondered if Dad felt as awkward as I did, watching her examine our family as if reading secrets on the frozen faces, smiling goofily back at her.

And her gifts, she continued, eyes still on the photo. You had no suspicion of your daughter’s abilities?

"Well, no—I mean, of course we knew Amoura was special, he said, rubbing his head again. She’s brilliant and kind and curious and…so many other things. Dr. Blackwood raised her eyes from the photo and settled them again on Dad. But—but your kind of special? No. No, we didn’t know."

Dr. Blackwood placed the photo back on the table, her eyes widening. "My kind of ‘special’ Mr. Renly? What in heavens could you mean?"

Dad opened and closed his mouth like a codfish. I—um, well—

Her face softened into playful amusement. I’m only teasing you, Mr. Renly. I know this has been a very emotional day for you all. But I think it’s best to avoid euphemisms when discussing Amoura’s identity. Wouldn’t you agree?

Lo siento, lo siento! Papá’s voice rang clear as sunlight from the kitchen. Dad’s shoulders relaxed as Papá whisked to his side. I’m so sorry to be late. I’ve been on a phone call with family. The family he referred to was my Aunt Aleisha, his best friend since college and the mother of my best friend, Finn. Papá kissed Dad’s cheek before turning to Dr. Blackwood and offering her his hands. Please pardon me for not greeting you.

Dr. Blackwood bowed, holding the cane firmly under her arm and ignoring his outstretched hands. No need to apologize, Mr. Renly. Your husband and I were just getting acquainted.

Papá opened and closed his unacknowledged hands before wrapping them around the nape of his neck. Well, yes. I’m sure we have much to discuss. Shall we sit and talk about Amoura? And please, call me Mateo.

Dr. Blackwood made no move. "I think it’s best I speak with your daughter rather than about her. Wouldn’t you agree, Amoura? Before my mind could register the question, her eyes locked with mine. The electrical zap that sped from my head to my toes shot me back behind the wall, my heart racing a thousand beats per second. Through the sound of pulsing blood in my ears, I heard Dad’s nervous laughter and desperate apologies for my unusual behavior, promising I didn’t usually act in such a way, sneaking around on the floor, so silly." Seconds later, he stood over me, his saucer eyes shining like spotlights.

"What on earth are you doing? Get out here this instant," he spat under his breath.

I shook my head, and a waterfall of black curls fell into my eyes. Dad’s twittering laugh called around the corner that I was just feeling a little nervous.

"Amoura Jimenez, you are acting like a child, he whispered frantically. Get off the floor and come into the living room. Now."

"I’d like to see how you’d react if you were in my place," I shot back. I hated upsetting him, but floating cloaks and smokey skirts felt like more than I could handle on that particular evening.

He sighed, then parted the curls in front of my eyes. Desperation looked back at me. "I know you’re scared. I’m scared, too, Love. But she wants to help you. She can tell us what to do next. Please? Do this for me?"

Alright, I groaned, extending my hands so he could help me off the floor. With a deep breath, I swept the curls back from my face and stepped out of the hallway shadows.

Dr. Blackwood stood in the center of the room, an amused smile lighting her porcelain face. Good evening, Ms. Renly. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance.

I expected to feel intimidated by her. Everything about Dr. Blackwood was extreme, from her towering stature and jet-black clothing to her face's angular bones that looked like they might cut me if I ran my fingers along her jaw. She was a jewel-eyed fairytale character who’d escaped the pages of the book where she lived. The kindness in her voice washed over me, though, with a warmth so different from how she addressed my fathers only moments before. Like she was meeting an old friend.

Hello, I said. Sorry about…about that. I pointed with my thumb over my shoulder to my hiding spot.

She stepped towards me, her lips parting as if to speak, but stopped herself and looked at my fathers, who were gawking at us. I think it’s best if I spend some time getting to know Amoura alone. She flashed that unreadable smile again.

You—you want us to leave? Dad asked, his eyelids fluttering. Don’t you think we should be a part of this conversation? Deep, fatherly concern built in his eyes as they shot from me to the towering woman.

I assure you both that Amoura will be just fine. We will all talk together once she and I have had some time, I promise you.

Dad puffed his chest. Dr. Blackwood, I told Amoura we would be by her side through this process. And if that’s what she wants, that’s what I intend to do.

My heart swelled at his show of loyalty, but I could tell by Dr. Blackwood’s unchanging expression that he was making no headway. Dad, I think I’ll be okay. He flinched as if startled by the sound of my voice. You and Papá can leave me for a bit.

Are you sure, honey? You were adamant earlier that you didn’t want to do this alone.

He was right. Before Dr. Blackwood’s arrival, I’d made my fathers swear they wouldn’t leave me alone with the stranger. It was the only way they’d gotten me to agree to meet with her. But I found myself inexplicably eased by her presence as if just the sound of her voice had melted my fears. I knew in my gut that she was an ally, not an enemy.

I’m sure.

Dad’s chest deflated, and he seemed grateful he wouldn’t have to further the argument with Dr. Blackwood. "Okay, then. But if you need anything at all—anything—Papá and I will just be in the kitchen. Call if you need me. I’ll be here. Papá grabbed Dad’s arm and led him away. Just holler if you need anything!" he called as the door swung