I scrunch my nose. “Hay rafters?”
“Hay rafters, Sophia! You know?” she laughs. “Never mind.”
Opening my front door ten minutes later, I collide with stacks of cardboard boxes piled in the foyer, managing to catch the top box before it topples over.
“Movers left five minutes ago,” my mother says, maneuvering toward me. Her flaxen hair is combed neatly, and she is wearing her typical pearl earrings and a cardigan, buttoned once, the second button down. She wipes her bare forearm against her brow. “It’s nice to see everything again, isn’t it?”
Careful not to bump my thigh, I kneel down. “How long has it been?”
My mother rips the tape off a box. “Four years, seven months, one day.”
Curious, I watch her open it. Inside is her collection of Nordic folk art: wood carvings, embroidered tablecloths, and Dala horses painted red and blue.
I shuffle through several boxes before I spot a familiar piece of lace and velvet sticking out from beneath a mound of crumpled tissue paper.
Katarina looks as I remember her: blond ringlets, a cobalt-blue taffeta gown, and Made in Russia imprinted in Cyrillic letters on the bottom of her black satin shoe.
A Ukrainian diplomat, Consular Petrenko, gave her to me during a posting in Damascus when I was six. I hadn’t known what to name her, so my mother suggested Katarina, a Russian ballerina she once knew.
For a very long time, I took Katarina with me everywhere. Every new place we moved I made a bed for Katarina beside my own. Together we would fall asleep as I imagined Katarina telling me stories of a simple life in the country where we would run barefoot in fields of wild berries and chase fireflies at dusk.
Then our last night in Bratislava, shortly after the movers left with our boxes, my mother flew into my bedroom—a small wallpapered room with a brass bed frame and a window overlooking the Danube River—and swept me into her arms. There was barely time to grab Katarina before I was whisked away—up the stairs and onto the tile rooftop. I watched the window of my bedroom erupt in flames as the helicopter ascended.
Not long afterward, we stopped unpacking altogether. I never saw our things again.
Carefully, I wrap Katarina back inside the tissue paper and tuck her into the box alongside the other dolls.
What is the point of having this unloaded? Here? Now?
Since we arrived, I’ve searched my parents’ faces, trying to read between our reality and the facade they have established in Waterford. I can’t find any reason not to trust them, not to believe that we are here permanently. So why don’t I?
“What do you think?”
Startled, I turn. My father could have successfully snuck away from the grizzly.
“Stay alert, Sophia. Even a great predator like the tiger can become prey—”
“Why are we here?” I snap, wanting none of his instruction.
He drops his teasing lecture. “Your mother and I retired,” he says carefully. His face is clean-shaven, and he keeps his silver-blond hair trimmed short. In his left hand, he holds a Prussian sword with a ten-inch hilt wrapped in disintegrating leather.
“Why not retire in Barcelona, or Hvar, or Positano? Why here?” I gesture around. Visible through the windows at the front of the house is a steep alpine summit. I can see golden quaking aspens and emerald pine trees, but no plaster apartment buildings with terra-cotta tiles; no dirty steps leading to underground metros; no art museums in elaborate old palaces.
I don’t wait for his answer, instead broaching the unresolved questions still bothering me. “How did Farhad find us in Tunis?”
He points the sword tip down, looking steadily into my eyes. “I don’t know, Sophia, but we’re safe here.”
“Except they keep finding us. No matter what we do, they are always one step ahead. What if they find us here?”
“They won’t. He was the last one. You saw me kill him, Sophia.”
“But if it’s over, why move us here to the middle of nowhere?”
My father smiles. “I was born in Massachusetts, Sophia. Snow is in our bones.”
“Snow is why we moved here?” I ask skeptically.
He shrugs. “Andrews said Waterford would be a good fit. It’s quiet and mountainous. Soon we can ski—”
“So tomorrow we won’t leave for Prague or Karachi or Nicosia—”
“No, Sophia.”
“And you moved here to do what other retired people do. Not because we’re waiting or hiding?”
My father runs the blade along his palm, examining it. Then he theatrically slashes left, slashes right, and—swish—slides the Prussian sword into its leather sheath.
“We moved here because it’s time you finally experience our country.”
CHAPTER 10
My country.
I’ve seen enough Halloween movies to get the idea. Nothing quite compares to the festivity permeating the air. My mother spends all day making caramel apples, and as I leave, a witch, an astronaut, and Spider-Man ring the doorbell.
We arrive to the Stomp an hour late—on time, if you ask Charlotte—and park in a field adjacent to the barn. Actually, we jolt to a stop; the car lurches forward as Emma mistimes the clutch. I have whiplash by the time she parks.
Charlotte unbuckles her seat belt and dramatically rubs her neck.
Emma scowls. “It’s not my fault I’m stuck with this old Jeep.”
Outside, the sky is a darkening slate. A breeze rustles the amber leaves lining the road; they drift around our ankles as we run through the plowed cornfield toward a gravel path lined with pumpkin lanterns.
“Why is the Stomp in a barn?” I ask, inspecting my costume as we approach the doors. Charlotte convinced us to wear fairy costumes, and to cover our bodies with a radiant, luminescent powder. We look like glowworms.
Charlotte laughs. “It always is—it’s a barn stomp!”
“Your wings!” Emma squeals, pointing to my shoulders.
I reach for the straps—darn. “I’ll catch up!” I say.
I run back down the path, scanning the darkening cornfield ahead. Quickly, I spot the shimmering wings. I pick them off the damp field and shake them out.
As I reach the gravel path, I hear a rustling in the distance. Swishing.
I look over my shoulder.
From out of the shadows, a dark figure emerges. He glides stealthily toward me—not slowing down or speeding up, but with a smooth stride—like a predator stalking prey.
Why did I come out here alone?
Backlit by headlights at the edge of the field, he’s wearing a cloak with an upturned collar; a mask conceals his face.
His pace quickens.
Instinctively, I retrieve my Ladybug from my waistband.
Diverting around the lanterns, I turn the corner toward the entrance and—“BOO!”
Tate McCormick jumps in front of me, laughing.
Simultaneously, the shadowy figure steps out from behind me, snickering. Ryan Rice pushes off his mask and fist-bumps Tate, “Scared New Girl too.”
Hot with embarrassment, I slip the knife back into my waistband. “Surprised,” I say. “And my name is Sophia.”
“You’re safe with us, Sophia.” Tate grins. He is dressed in an old military outfit, navy blue with yellow cording on the structured shoulders. His dark hair falls loose over his pale forehead. He takes off his cap and tucks it beneath his armpit, which is awkward considering Abigail Montgomery, dressed as a La Perla Cowgirl, is tucked in there too.