Taken (Erin Bowman)

bed.
    This world is a mysterious one, with its Heists and Wall, so unnatural that I have never been able to accept it outright. And I believe, come your eighteenth birthday, you will understand why I’ve shared this secret with you. The truth, or the pursuit of the truth, must not die with me. Above all, you must not tell your brother. I know this will be hard for you, but if Gray knows, he will look for answers. He will risk everything, and in turn jeopardize your discovering the truth. And you must. You must discover the truth for me because death will take me before I am able to witness it myself.
    And so I share this with you now, my son: You and your brother are not as I’ve raised you to believe. Gray is, in fact—
    I flip the letter over, but there are no more words. I search the debris on the floor, but whatever sheet once accompanied the first is no longer hidden within the frame. I reread the letter once, twice, several times over.
    Gray is, in fact — I am, in fact, what? I race into the bedroom and throw open the chest that still holds Blaine’s things. I rifle through clothing and gear until my hands find a small journal, bound with stubborn twine. I flick through it noting the dates, and stop when I find the one where our mother passed. Blaine’s entry is short.
    Carter had no magic left to spin and Ma died today. She left me a peculiar letter. It made me angry at first, and confused, but I realize now that I am incredibly fortunate—to have my brother with me still. Gray, who I value more with each passing day.
    I hurl the journal back into the chest and return to the kitchen, where I clench the original letter from Ma in my fist. How dare they keep a secret that so clearly affects me. And now what? They are both gone and I am left alone in the dark without any answers. Whatever truth Ma had hoped would be revealed at Blaine’s Heist remains a mystery. Especially to me.
    I read Ma’s note again, and again, and when I am boiling with feelings of resentment and betrayal, I storm from the house. I have to get away from the letter, as far away from it as possible, but then I remember Chalice’s original words, the ones that sparked its discovery, and I don’t get very far.
    I stand before Maude’s house and take deep breaths. I let rage settle to anger and dwindle into irritation before I knock on her door. She opens it immediately and invites me in.
    Maude’s place is one of the nicest in town. She has floorboards instead of dirt and her water basin has an attached handle that can actually be pumped to supply water. A kettle whistles over her fire as I enter, and the scent of fresh bread lingers in the air.
    “Tea?” she asks as I take a seat at the kitchen table. I decline, probably not as politely as I should, and wait as she pours herself a cup of hot water and brews her herbs. She joins me at the table eventually, cautiously sipping the piping drink.
    “You wanted to see me?” I ask.
    “Yes, yes. I’ve got a name for you.” I know what this means and I don’t want to hear it. It’s the last thing I want to think about at the moment.
    “I thought you said I didn’t have to deal with that for a little while.”
    “It’s been nearly three weeks, Gray.” The steam from her tea rises, twisting delicately before her nose and blending in with her white hair before it continues toward the ceiling.
    “Has it really?”
    “Mhmm,” she hums in agreement.
    “So who is it this time?” Here comes another month of awkward formality. Me, hanging out with some girl openly enough that Maude thinks I’m sleeping with her, and then trying to turn that same girl down when the opportunity actually arises. The latter part is harder than I expect sometimes, even with the potential of fatherhood at stake.
    “If there’s someone you’d prefer to see, Gray, that’s fine,” she says. “But we have to make plans when we don’t see anything materializing naturally.”
    If the slatings weren’t so pressured and formal, then maybe things would happen naturally. But for me, it’s just like when I was a little boy. Ma told Blaine and me not to play with fire, and because of that we did. On the other hand, if she had forced us to play with fire, we’d likely have entertained ourselves with rocks instead. And so it is with this. I’m uninterested in the fire they force on me. I don’t like being told what to do.
    “Lately I only feel like myself when I’m in the woods,” I admit.