Sarah's P.O.V.

The attic was pleasantly musty. I liked to write in here because it was the one place that didn't remind me of my parents. They never came here when they were alive. I bent over my journal, making sweeping characters on the delicate pages.

My parents died. That is what people think of when they see me. I can tell. Poor little orphan girl, in that big house with only a stale old man and a stuffy young boy for company. If only her parents were still alive. She needs a mother to look after her.

If only they would forget! I come up here because this place does not remind me again, and then all I do is write about them. If everyone else forgot that they had died, maybe I too would be allowed to forget and move on with my life. But perhaps it does not matter at all. In two years, when I am eighteen, I will legally own Anubis house. I will sell it and I go somewhere where no one knows that Sarah Frobisher-Smythe's parents died.

Two more years. I suppose I can hold on for that long.

"Sarah!"

A youthful, boyish voice interrupted me. Quickly, I shoved the journal into my old dollhouse. A dark head appeared on the stairs. "Victor," I said, standing up and wiping my dusty hands on the front of my dress. "What are you doing up here? Does your father want me?"

He reached the top of the stairs, then surveyed the decaying room with disgust. "You should not be up here. It is bad for your health."

"As if you care," I muttered under my breath.

We used to be friends, a long time ago when we were children, before he became obsessed with his father. I hated the way he watched me. He took pains not to look directly into my eyes, but always treated me with cold objectivity, like I was a science experiment he must be careful not to disturb.

For some reason, he seemed hurt. "It is breakfast time. We do not want to be late for school."

"Of course!" I raced towards the stairs in a panic. He stepped out of my way. I stumbled down the steps, somehow managing to step on every creaky board.

I dashed into my room and checked myself in the mirror. Mr. Rodenmaar hated a slovenly appearance. I straightened my blouse, adjusted my skirt and smoothed out the small rolls of fabric in my stockings. Then, in the manner that one would walk down the aisle, I walked ceremoniously down the stairs and into the kitchen. Victor and his father were already seated and primly buttering their respective pieces of toast. I slid into my chair without making a sound.

"Sarah," Mr. Rodenmaar began.

I sighed inwardly, reaching for a bowl of fruit. He always began the day strangely, with a question that I always dreaded. "How are you feeling?" he asked. "Have you been hearing voices again."

Victor's face did not change.

"No voices, sir," I answered respectfully.

Mr. Rodenmaar leaned back, seeming discontent.

When I was little, I used to hear voices in the walls. Innocently, I had once mentioned them to Victor, who had immediately informed his father. Ever since, my delusions had been a sort of fascination to Mr. Rodenmaar. Not a day went by when he did not ask me about them. So I remained constantly frightened that I would hear the voices again.

"Did you finish your report for class?" the grim gentleman inquired.

"Ten pages, practically worthy of publishing," I answered.

"And you, Victor?" Mr. Rodenmaar turned to his son.

"Yes, Father," he replied shortly, then appeared to be consumed in the menial task of placing each fork-full of food into his mouth.

"Excellent."

We finished the meal in silence.

"Shall I drive the two of you to school?"

Victor and I glanced at each other at the same time.

He has a handsome face, I realized with shock, then looked away. I had never thought of Victor as handsome before. In his childhood, he had been a little too plump and always sweaty. Now he was tall and strong, with dark pecan eyes and smooth, shiny hair. "Bea and I are going to walk together," I answered Mr. Rodenmaar, shaking my head to rid myself of these disturbing thoughts.

Victor cleared his throat. "I will walk as well."

"Then you both should hurry," Mr. Rodenmaar said, glancing at the clock on the wall. Right then, the doorbell rung.

"I will get it!" I shouted, leaping from the table and nearly upsetting my cup.

"Slowly, child!" Mr. Rodenmaar shouted at me as I ran into the hallway.

I could see Bea through the glass. I grabbed my book bag from its hook and stepped into the early morning. Bea linked her arms with mine immediately as we started down the path. "I have news!" she squealed.

She had been my best friend ever since she moved into the house about a quarter mile down the road, the closest building besides the school.

"Is it good?" I asked. "Because if it is bad I do not think I want to hear it."

"It is fantastic," she gushed. "There is a new family in town, and they have a son who is just our age. I heard from Annabelle who has a cousin who knew their gardener when they lived in London. And Grace walked by their house the other day, you know, the house that the Yardens used to live in? She saw the son. She says he is the finest specimen of manhood she ever saw."

"That seems a bit extreme," I said doubtfully. "Do you know his name?"

She gave a little skip. "Not yet, but Annabelle told me his last name."

A footstep made me turn around. Victor was following behind us at a respectful distance. When he saw me watching him he averted his gaze to the trees on either side of the gravel walkway. I faced the front warily. "What's the name?" I asked.

"Zeno," Bea said.

Hope you guys liked it! I've got some really good ideas for this story.

For Anubis' sake, review me to death.