Chapter 3

“Get back here,” I whisper, worried that the Captain will walk in on me while I’m talking to him. How do I explain that? How do I express everything else I’ve been through?

“Shhh…Thunk! Crawl back in my pocket! Please? I try pleading with him, but Thunk isn’t listening to me. His attention is captivated by the red, blinking light; Thunk expands and contracts in perfect timing with its rhythm. Great. Apparently Thunk is bored, too.

Knock, knock.

Ever have one of those panic-filled moments where you want to run as far and as fast as you can? If you have, then you know exactly how I feel.

The door opens and a petite woman walks in. I can’t help but notice how beautiful she is; I feel very chunky and very plain by comparison. Her coloring is pretty exotic, like the color of chocolate caramels. She must be pretty short, because she’s wearing the tallest high heels I’ve ever seen.

“You like my shoes, Serafina?” the woman asks me. I’m about to correct her, to tell her that my name is “Sophie,” but decide to take Michaelsen’s advice instead.

“I do, but don’t your feet hurt by the end of the day?” I can’t help but wonder why any woman would put themselves through that much pain.

The woman laughs and closes the door behind her. Then, she does the weirdest thing. She points her finger at the red, blinking light and it disappears in a puff of smoke. Mumbling a few, choice words that sound like music, a ring of smoke that smells a bit like dried blood–is it iron?–surrounds both of us.

“That’s better,” she admits to me. “Now no one will be watching or listening to us.”

All of this should freak me out and I probably should be running. ‘Course, I “should” a lot of things like I “should” be grateful that the handcuffs are off of me and I’m alive after what William did. I “should” be pounding the Captain with a ton of questions trying to figure out where I’ll work and live from here on out and what they’re doing to punish my now former fiance–but I don’t. The smell of the smoke seems both oddly familiar and comforting to me. It’s as if…

“You are part of my past?” I ask the woman, whose languid, green eyes are now filling with tears.

“Yes,” she whispers, as if that one word is the most important thing she’s said to anyone all day. “I am your grandmother.”

That can’t be. Grandmothers are supposed to be old and frail with warm smiles and smell of chocolate chip cookies. Not…like her. She must be sensing my confusion; whoever the woman was, she doesn’t hide her emotions very well and she looks like she’s in a lot of pain.

“Serafina…” she starts, as if she’s about to tell me something important and precious. Something I should remember.

THUNK!