“Off with your hat!” Mother raged, fists clenched skyward.
Alice set her book down and placed her hand on the banister. Mother’s cheeks flushed redder and redder until Alice feared her head might whistle like a tea kettle and pop off entirely.
“Alice Rose, you’re eighteen, and it’s high time you start acting like
Ethel limped through the park and sat at her usual table, the chess pieces already arranged on the gray and black terrazzo squares. She handed a footlong drenched in mustard to her informant, with a crisp one hundred tucked against the tin foil, and moved pawn to e4.
“Grazie, la Piccolina,” Sam said,
Phezznibbet rested his elbows on the church tower windowsill, staring into the boughs of a giant maple. A light breeze caressed his fur as he dreamed of a quiet life running a treetop inn, a hint of smile tugging at his lips. Out of habit, his finger jolted to the dark scar that traced
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Zai rotated the pendant dangling from his neck, lost in thought. Clanking shackles roused him, and he glanced at Xander, the drug dealer he’d apprehended in the Ketz District. “Maddening, isn’t it?”
A tall man in a red capitol uniform marched past the cell, and Zai shot to his feet. He slammed his huntsman’s
“If anyone objects to this man and woman being joined in marriage, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.” The pastor’s gaze landed on the groom, whose yellow ruffled tuxedo shirt peeked from beneath his emerald jacket. His hand shot in the air.
Spark Spaulding lowered his arm and caressed his fiancé’s
“Champagne.” The steward places my order on the tray table. “Is there anything else I can get you before takeoff, Miss Windthorn?”
“Chocolate.” I give him a winning, closed-lipped smile.
“Of course, Miss Windthorn.”
Lifting my flute high, I whisper toward the window, “Harrison, may you rot.”
I’m determined to enjoy every possible convenience
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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