WELCOME TO DULLSHIRE
NO BEASTS
NO MAGIC
NO RIFFRAFF
The gray trees of the Woods loomed to the west. Barclay walked down a path in the opposite direction, and he swore he could sense someone—or something—watching him. The frosty wind made his skin prickle.
The graves of Franz and Alice Thorne rested side by side beneath the shade of an elm tree. Barclay visited them frequently, often with a book. But this time he hadn’t come to read.
He sat on The Extensive History and leaned back onto his father’s tombstone.
“I made a mistake,” he murmured. “I broke the most important rule, and I’m scared.”
Barclay told his parents the entire story of what had happened in the Woods. If he was going to spend his life lying to everyone he knew, then this was his only time to be honest.
But saying the words didn’t relieve the weight on his chest. If anything, it made him feel worse. His parents had been killed by Gravaldor, and now their son had bonded with another Beast from the Woods. It would have been better if the Beast had eaten him.
“I’m so sorry. I wish I could take it back. I wish…”
He wished they were here so that they could help him. So he’d have people who cared for him no matter how troublesome he was. So he, like Selby, could have a home to run back to when he got scared.
He missed them. So much.
Barclay didn’t have friends to ask for help either, other than Master Pilzmann and Mrs. Havener—and he’d disappointed both of them in the last twenty-four hours. Would they be able to fix this? Barclay doubted that they knew anything more about Lore Keepers and Beasts than he did.
“Why can’t I belong here?” Barclay asked his parents.
Nothing answered except the wailing of the wind.
When he’d returned to town, he intended to go straight to Master Pilzmann’s and beg his forgiveness. He avoided the festival and its cheerful passersby, and he clutched the charm in his pocket, feeling deeply alone.
“What are you carrying?” a voice asked him sharply.
Barclay jumped, dropping the massive copy of The Extensive History on the ground. He scrambled to pick it up—he hated to ruin such a new book.
Once he’d lifted it, he looked at his companion. Only, there were not one but three boys, all a few years older than him. Poldi, Marco, and Falk. Falk was the leader—the biggest, meanest of the bunch—and he wore thick gloves good for punching and leather boots good for kicking.
Barclay glanced down the street, but it was empty except for them. Empty was not a good sign. Normally, he would run. But he couldn’t while carrying The Extensive History, and he couldn’t lose it. He’d already hurt Mrs. Havener’s feelings once today.
“I asked you what you’re carrying,” Falk grunted.
“It’s a book,” Barclay answered stiffly. He considered adding, Not that you’d know, would you? But he thought better of insulting him, considering Barclay couldn’t flee afterward like he usually would.
“Look at the size of it! I’m surprised a twig like you can carry it.” Falk took a menacing step forward, as did his two backups. “Think you’re better than all of us, reading books like that? You think you’re so smart, but if you were smart, you wouldn’t be a lousy mushroom farmer, would you?”
Barclay was used to these insults, and he knew—no matter what he carried—Falk and his gang would find any excuse to torment him if they saw him walking past.
So he took a careful step back and said, “I’m just going home. I don’t want to fight you.”
“I bet you don’t. You hate that I’m better than you at it.”
Barclay was good at a lot of things, but only because he had to be. Dullshire would hardly tolerate a rule-breaking orphan if he weren’t. But that was also why Falk hated him, since Falk’s strength was his one and only skill. A fact which Barclay, admittedly, often reminded him of.
“That’s n-not true!” Barclay stammered, then he prepared to do something to Falk that he’d never done before: compliment him. “You’re better at loads of things than me, and I don’t mind. Like, well, eating things that I can’t.” He’d once switched Falk’s lunch with Gustav’s pig food, and Falk had eaten it all. He hadn’t even gotten a stomachache. “It’s a bit remarkable, actually.”
Falk narrowed his eyes, and Barclay immediately caught his mistake. “Remarkable” was a big word to Falk, and Barclay usually used those to tease him.
Falk nodded, and Poldi lunged forward, blocking Barclay’s path to escape. Behind him, Marco shoved him in the back. Barclay dropped The Extensive History with a thud.
“Bet that thing weighs more than you, huh?” Falk shot him a toothy, threatening smile.
Barclay swallowed and reached down to pick it up, but before he could, Marco grabbed a fistful of his coat. Soon Barclay was trapped, with both arms locked behind his back.
“Get off!” He jerked in Marco’s grip, but it didn’t do any good. It never did.
Falk reached down and picked up The Extensive History.
“Give it back,” Barclay snapped.
“You want it back? Well…”
As he spoke, Marco pushed Barclay down to the ground, his cheek pressed against dirt and stone. Poldi pinned him there.
Falk held The Extensive History over him.
“I wonder what would happen if I dropped this on your face? I’ll drop it, and you can have it back.”
Barclay considered yelling for help, but doing so had only earned him extra kicks and punches in the past. Besides, Falk never got punished because Barclay had no parents to demand it. Master Pilzmann was too oblivious for such squabbles.
All Barclay could do was squeeze his eyes shut and brace himself for a broken nose, his heart hammering in terror.
But when Falk did drop the book, a sudden wind tore across the street, so strong that all the shutters around them swung and smacked against their frames and walls.
Barclay heard a loud thump, then a groan. And when Marco let him go so that he could sit up, he saw Falk lying flat on his back, clutching his face. A bit of blood dribbled down his cheek.
“What happened?” Marco asked.
“The wind blew it at him!” Poldi answered.
“I don’t believe—”
“I saw it—”
“Arghhhhh,” Falk groaned.
While the others were distracted, Barclay scrambled to his feet. He regretfully abandoned The Extensive History and took off into a run, shouts of “No you don’t!” and “Where do you think you’re going?” echoing behind him.
And last, just as Barclay plunged into the crowd of the festival, he heard Falk holler “Barclay Thorne just did magic!”
FIVE
As Barclay ducked behind a fried food stall to hide, he tripped over a loose cobblestone and barreled into a sack of potatoes. The freshly dug-up vegetables tumbled out over Barclay’s clothes, covering his hands and clothes in dirt.
But Barclay had more important worries on his mind than Dullshire’s rule about cleanliness.
Once he had checked to make sure he was safely out of sight of the festivalgoers, he wrenched down his collar to look at his shoulder, where the Mark writhed, as golden as ever.