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Authors: Margaret Peterson Haddix
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thought that was necessary. Others worried that they’d find out more than they should know and treat us as … oddities.” Aunt Memory seemed to be choosing her words very carefully. She was looking straight into my eyes in a way that reminded me of being hypnotized. “Some saw all the technology the Americans had and wanted to use it to enhance our memories even more. Others worried that we would lose our old ways. Some … just wanted to fight.”
“What did my parents want?” I asked in a small voice. “And Sophia?”
I saw a flicker of something—was it anger?—in Aunt Memory’s eyes. But her expression stayed carefully bland. Maybe I’d imagined the anger.
“Well, of course you’d want to know that,” she said in a soothing tone. “Of course.” She glanced around the kitchen. “More tea first?”
I shook my head. Surely she could see I hadn’t even drunk the tea I had.
“All right, then.” She got up and bustled about, preparing herself some more tea. She didn’t speak again until she was sitting down, a fresh mug in front of her. “Your father volunteered to investigate computers for Crythe. And he took to them immediately. His mind worked that way. But ultimately he feared that they would … interfere with our lives. Our memories. He recommended that they be prohibited from Crythe forever. And that was why he was killed.”
I gasped.
“And my real mother?” I asked.
“She was executed at the same time as he,” Aunt Memory said. “For the same reason.”
Aunt Memory was watching my reaction very carefully, and that was why I had to be very careful not to react. I didn’t let myself think about what any of this meant.
“And my—I mean, Sophia?” I whispered.
Aunt Memory was looking at the clock above the old-fashioned stove.
“It is late,” she said. “Past midnight. We’ve talked enough for now. Tomorrow you’ll read your statement to the entire village. Then you can ask all the questions you want.”
She showed me to a room on the second floor. Its wallpaper had tiny pink rosebuds. Toys lined the walls: a rocking horse, a kite, a wooden train. I stopped at the threshold.
“This room—,” I murmured.
“You recognize it? Very good. This was your nursery, all those years ago. It’s been kept the same. But now you’ll be sleeping in your nurses old bed, not the crib, of course. The bathroom is through that door. Good night.”
Dazed, I walked around the room, sliding my fingers alongthe curve of the rocking chair, the post of the bed. I had the eeriest feeling. Did I really remember this room? Or did I just believe I did because of what Aunt Memory said? I couldn’t recreate in my mind what I’d been thinking when it first seemed familiar.
More than a little spooked, I shut the door behind me.
I found my suitcase beside my bed and shivered opening it. Aunt Memory had given me so much to think about that I’d forgotten about the suitcase; now I could finally find out why it was so heavy.
But it felt light now. And when I unzipped it, it contained only my jeans and sweatshirts, underwear and toothbrush, all jumbled together. I tried to refold the clothes more neatly, but my hands were shaking. I dropped my favorite Ohio State sweatshirt. When I bent down to pick it up, I heard a voice.
“Kira, whatever you do, don’t scream,” it whispered from under the bed. “You’re alone now, aren’t you?”
I swallowed the scream that had been forming in my throat. It came out as a yelp. I whipped back the dust ruffle of the bed.
And there, with lint in her hair, more than a thousand miles from home, was my best friend.
Seventeen
“L YNNE ?” I SAID IN DISBELIEF . A FTER EVERYTHING ELSE THAT HAD happened that evening, I wasn’t sure I could trust even what I saw with my own eyes. I wouldn’t have been surprised if everything that had happened since I got home from school today was a hallucination. “What—How—?”
Lynne raised her head, clunking it on
“What did my parents want?” I asked in a small voice. “And Sophia?”
I saw a flicker of something—was it anger?—in Aunt Memory’s eyes. But her expression stayed carefully bland. Maybe I’d imagined the anger.
“Well, of course you’d want to know that,” she said in a soothing tone. “Of course.” She glanced around the kitchen. “More tea first?”
I shook my head. Surely she could see I hadn’t even drunk the tea I had.
“All right, then.” She got up and bustled about, preparing herself some more tea. She didn’t speak again until she was sitting down, a fresh mug in front of her. “Your father volunteered to investigate computers for Crythe. And he took to them immediately. His mind worked that way. But ultimately he feared that they would … interfere with our lives. Our memories. He recommended that they be prohibited from Crythe forever. And that was why he was killed.”
I gasped.
“And my real mother?” I asked.
“She was executed at the same time as he,” Aunt Memory said. “For the same reason.”
Aunt Memory was watching my reaction very carefully, and that was why I had to be very careful not to react. I didn’t let myself think about what any of this meant.
“And my—I mean, Sophia?” I whispered.
Aunt Memory was looking at the clock above the old-fashioned stove.
“It is late,” she said. “Past midnight. We’ve talked enough for now. Tomorrow you’ll read your statement to the entire village. Then you can ask all the questions you want.”
She showed me to a room on the second floor. Its wallpaper had tiny pink rosebuds. Toys lined the walls: a rocking horse, a kite, a wooden train. I stopped at the threshold.
“This room—,” I murmured.
“You recognize it? Very good. This was your nursery, all those years ago. It’s been kept the same. But now you’ll be sleeping in your nurses old bed, not the crib, of course. The bathroom is through that door. Good night.”
Dazed, I walked around the room, sliding my fingers alongthe curve of the rocking chair, the post of the bed. I had the eeriest feeling. Did I really remember this room? Or did I just believe I did because of what Aunt Memory said? I couldn’t recreate in my mind what I’d been thinking when it first seemed familiar.
More than a little spooked, I shut the door behind me.
I found my suitcase beside my bed and shivered opening it. Aunt Memory had given me so much to think about that I’d forgotten about the suitcase; now I could finally find out why it was so heavy.
But it felt light now. And when I unzipped it, it contained only my jeans and sweatshirts, underwear and toothbrush, all jumbled together. I tried to refold the clothes more neatly, but my hands were shaking. I dropped my favorite Ohio State sweatshirt. When I bent down to pick it up, I heard a voice.
“Kira, whatever you do, don’t scream,” it whispered from under the bed. “You’re alone now, aren’t you?”
I swallowed the scream that had been forming in my throat. It came out as a yelp. I whipped back the dust ruffle of the bed.
And there, with lint in her hair, more than a thousand miles from home, was my best friend.
Seventeen
“L YNNE ?” I SAID IN DISBELIEF . A FTER EVERYTHING ELSE THAT HAD happened that evening, I wasn’t sure I could trust even what I saw with my own eyes. I wouldn’t have been surprised if everything that had happened since I got home from school today was a hallucination. “What—How—?”
Lynne raised her head, clunking it on
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