Ambling through the orchard to the rear of my estate, I found an old friend. The worn handle of my cane firm in my grip, I whispered my questions. They floated away on the gentle breeze caressing me.
But the mighty maple did not answer. I shivered and tightened Mom’s favorite shawl around my shoulders.
As the sun hit the Louvre from a million different angles, I wiped a tear. Now was no time to let disappointment engulf me.
I can do this. I can go inside. Mamma flew all this way.
I plastered on a smile and took one agonizing step after another.
“Natalie!” Mamma’s Italian accent was familiar and warm.
I knew two things about Boston. Running was its heartbeat and ducks were always welcome. Momma had told me of that magical place when I was a duckling. As a grown hen, I shared the tale with my two daughters, Roxi and Sara, and our decision to move was unanimous.
Ten days after departing Rochester, we were gliding over Boston Public Garden.
The doorman of the Marriott Marquis drew the doors, revealing a grand crystal chandelier. I smoothed imaginary wrinkles from my royal blue cocktail dress—a far cry from my shabby barista’s apron.
I tucked a lock of my long, dark hair behind one ear. Just breathe. My black heels clicked unevenly across the threshold
I perched in the trees with my flock, waiting for the land walkers to leave. The tourists had nicknamed our home Murder Island ever since we chose to inhabit it. My name is Maximillian, but my crow brothers called me Boss.
Twilight painted the sky orange and pink as the last two…
By Deborah Bainbridge I can’t believe I landed my red breeches in detention again. “Dia dhuit!” Mrs. O’Grady, a plump fiery-haired lady, walks past a row of my classmates and removes my green top hat by its gold buckle. “Third time this year, isn’t it, Skylar? You’re seventeen and as mischievous as the next leprechaun.
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There’s no harm in a quick swim before morning chores. No one ever notices. I’m always back by sunrise.
Something tugs my feet. In an instant, the current drags me under and out to sea.
No!
Spinning, I cannot think. My arms flail, fighting hard against the undertow.
Which way is up?
“Hikari, let’s review your statement.” I flip three pages back in my notebook. There needs to be no discrepancies in the retelling of my defendant’s story. Traveling at 220 mph, I’m aware I have little time to solve this case. The Nozomi Bullet Train takes two hours and fifteen minutes to travel from
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