That Night, 8:15 P.M.
"I'se out!"
Blink happily displayed two empty hands; his last paper had just vanished down the street with a hurried businessman, and his last penny, into his pocket.
"New Yawk economy headed fer disasta! T'ank ya, miss," Secret murmured sweetly, tipping her hat to a well-dressed young woman, then turned to Blink and announced, "I'se out, too."
"Hey, guys!" Mush crossed from the other side of the street, grinning. "Jist sold my last few papes ta dis liddle caravan o' rich suckas...'Freak oithquake predicted ta split America in half'...honestly!"
Blink laughed. "Great. Dat jist leaves..."
"...dem," Mush finished, pointing down the street.
Sure enough, Flick and Racetrack were approaching slowly, engaged in some sort of conversation that would probably mean nothing to anyone but them.
"Wheah'd day sey dey was goin' again?" asked Mush.
"Da venda down da street," Secret replied. "Ta get sometin' ta eat."
"Took 'em long enough," Blink observed.
"I'll say," Secret agreed.
The three newsies shut up promptly when the two subjects of their discussion entered hearing range. Flick turned away from Race to give them a suspicious look.
"So, what've youse t'ree been up ta while we was gone?"
"Sellin'," Blink replied glibly, smiling broadly and holding up his hands again to prove it. "We's all out."
"Us too," Race replied cheerfully. "An' jist in time ta get ta da track."
This triggered groans from the other two Musketeers. Flick and Secret exchanged questioning looks. Race noticed and grinned.
"What, din't youse eveh consida dat dere might be a reason fer my name?"
"When was da las' time ya went?" Blink demanded.
"Two days ago," Mush supplied promptly. "I should know, seein' as it was my money he was bettin' wit."
"Hey!" Race protested. "I told ya I'd pay ya back!"
"True...an' as I said," Mush added pointedly, "dat was two days ago."
Deeming Mush hopeless, Race turned hopefully to Blink. Before he'd even opened his mouth, however, Blink was shaking his head adamently.
"Uh-uh, don't even t'ink 'bout it, ya don't even wanna know what ya owe me right now."
"So I'll pay it back t'night," Race explained eagerly, "afta Fallin' Star wins--"
"Jist like Shadow Queen won?" Mush interjected.
Flick couldn't help it; Racetrack's expression was so deeply forlorn that she had to take pity on him. With an exasperated sigh, she produced a coin from her pocket.
"I can spot ya, but I'se tellin' ya right now, I had best get it back."
"Ya will!" Race beamed, surprised and delighted, as he took the coin. "Soon as Fallin' Star wins t'night..."
"Yeah, well, I'd best get it back whedda Fallin' Star wins or not. Wheah ya goin', anyway?"
"Sheepshead Races," Race informed her patiently. "Coney Island."
"I'll come," she announced impulsively. "I'se neveh seen a horse race."
Several seconds passed in silence. "Anyone got a problem wit dat?" Flick demanded.
Four mouths snapped shut; four heads shook furiously.
"Nah, dat's great!" Racetrack assured her, wondering if he was dreaming. "Anyone else wanna come?"
"May as well," Blink sighed. "Nuttin' like seein' a friend t'row 'is money away..." He dodged Racetrack's swipe.
"Mush? Secret?"
Mush shrugged. "Actually," he admitted, "I hoid Cowboy an' Dave was goin' ta Brooklyn dis evenin' ta visit Spot an' his boys. An' goils," he added, glancing at the two girls present. "I was t'inkin' o' goin' along. Ain't been dere in a while." He turned shyly to Secret. "Ya wanna come?"
A lightning-quick glance was exchanged between Secret and Flick. Flick bit back her protests; the longing in her friend's eyes was plain.
"Shoa...why not?" Secret shrugged, feigning indifference. "Neveh been ta Brooklyn, but I'se hoid it's great...like da centa o' da univoise, an' all." She coughed, realizing she was babbling slightly. "'Scuse me fer a second, dough."
While the boys looked on curiously, the girls walked a few paces away, out of hearing range, then turned to face each other. Secret's gaze was pleading. Flick gave her a long, hard stare, then sighed.
"Jist be ca'hful, a'right? As in real ca'hful? As in do not mention da name Flick O'Grady anywheah neah Spot Conlon?"
Secret nodded firmly and saluted. "Gotcha. It ain't like he don't know I'se yer friend, dough," she added. "Spot knows ev'rytin'."
"True," Flick answered grimly. "But I'se willin' ta bet dat if you don't bring me up, he won't eidda. I ain't e'zactly 'is fav'rite subject. If he boddas ya at all, dough, I'll go straight ta Brooklyn an' soak 'im."
"I'll jist bet ya will," Secret muttered, starting to head back over to the puzzled boys. Then she turned and called over her shoulder.
"Oh, an' Flick?"
"Yeah?"
"You be ca'hful too, a'right?" Her voice softened, and quavered a little with her next words. "'Cause we's got moah serious t'ings ta worry 'bout den Spot Conlon...an' some o' dem ain't da kinda t'ings ya can soak."
"Wow."
Flick sat up straighter in the small box at the Sheepshead Races, craning her neck for a better view of the horses lined up at the starting gate.
"Wow?" Race repeated.
"It's jist..." Flick shrugged. "It's big. An' crowded."
Blink snorted. "Welcome ta New Yawk."
Flick reached across Racetrack to whap at Blink with her hat. "I'se lived in New Yawk all my life, t'ank ya very much. Jist din't know horse racin' was dis popula."
"Wit good reason!" Race was quick to defend his beloved sport.
"Race, I'll neveh say a woid 'gainst horse racin' if dis 'Fallin' Star' o' yers wins t'night. 'Cause den I might actually see dose two bits again."
"Flick O'Grady, are ya sayin' ya don't trust me?"
"Judgin' from da past experience o' da gentleman on yer right..."
"Uh, Flick, didja jist call me a gentleman?"
"Sorry, Blink, slip o' da tongue."
Blink was spared having to think of a retort by the ear-splitting bang of the starting gun. The gate flew open, the horses were off, and Flick, for what was perhaps the first time in her life, was struck speechless.
Eight horses fairly flew across the track, eight blurs of speed, eight stunning machines of muscle and power, eight souls soaring unfettered and free as the wind. Their colors flashed by in the dim, shadowy dusk's half-light: jet-black, ivory white, moon-grey, rich reds and browns. Their hooves pounded the track, their silky manes and tails streamed behind them in the wind. The jockeys were small, compact specks clinging to the backs of their mounts, urging them on. Whenever, during her life, Flick had happened to bother to think about horse racing, her general impression had been, "A bunch o' big, sweaty animals run down a track an' da foist one ta da finish line wins." Now...she was doing more than watching the horses run, she felt like she was one of them! Maybe that glossy red mare with the ebony mane, the wild one, neck bent into the wind, cutting left and right and just managing to dodge her competitors. Her jockey was obviously unable to control her; that would be Flick, all right. Deyre beautiful! Is dere anytin' moah powehful den dat...moah spirited, moah free?
One look at the girl's rapturous face revealed everything to Race. The tough, terrifying, untouchable Flick O'Grady had just fallen in love with horse racing.
"And the winner is Scarlet Flame, ridden by Kyle Novotasky!"
Before Flick knew what she was doing, she was on her feet, leaping up and down, waving her arms, and cheering her heart out, with a smile that lit up her face like a jack-o'-lantern.
Race stared at the girl leaping up from her seat beside him, screaming her approval of the rebellious red mare that had won, owing no thanks to its incompetent jockey. Was this really the Flick he knew? The same Flick who had soaked him, who had soaked Jack Kelly, who had soaked practically every Manhattan newsboy? The same Flick who played poker like an emotionless stone, who lashed out at people whenever they spoke to her, whose eyes went dark and shot fire when she was angry? Now...
Now her cheeks were flushed with joy and excitement instead of anger. Her eyes were baby-blue, bright and animated. Her cap remained on the seat, and that flaming red hair billowed up around her face in the wind, almost glowing in the light of the gibbous moon that had risen. If Racetrack had known the word incandescent, "lit from within", he would have applied it to Flick now.
It ain't like I was wrong 'bout her when I foist met 'er. She ain't pretty...but dere's sometin' inside 'er dat makes ya look at 'er, sometin' dat shines an' boins, sometin' so terrible an' beautiful at da same time...God, now I'se soundin' like some kinda poet. But da t'ing is, Race concluded, whateveh she's feelin, whedda it's anger or sadness or happiness or whateveh, she feels it ta da extreme. She feels it so strongly dat it blazes up all around 'er an' makes odda people feel it too. Dat's what's so amazin' an confusin' an' even terrifyin' 'bout her...it's how strongly she feels ev'rytin'. If she's mad, she's ready ta kill someone...an' if she's happy...
Before Race knew what was happening, Flick had spun around, pulled him up out of his seat, and thrown her arms around him. Laughing aloud at his state of shock, she squeezed him in a hug that practically suffocated him, then grabbed the stunned Blink and did the same to him.
"Uh...Flick..." Race gasped, finding himself shaken out of his pensive state, and terrified that some bizarre spirit had possessed Flick. "Fallin' Star was a close second, y'know, but I can't pay back yer two bits now," he pointed out, attempting to bring her back down to earth.
"Consida it a gift," Flick replied magnanimously, eyes still shining with excitement in the aftermath of the race. "Now, we might wanna be gettin' back ta da lodgin' house, 'cause we got a pokah game ta finish, an' I'se gonna crush ya, an' den yer jist gonna owe me money again, an' by da way..." Flick took a step back, folded her arms, and favored Race and Blink with her most scorching of glares. "Dis absolutely, positively did not happen, got it?"
"Got it," Race and Blink chorused, both thoroughly relieved to see the return of this familiar aspect of their "dragon".
"But, uh, Flick..." Race ventured as the three of them headed away from Sheepshead, jostling through the crowd of departing spectators, "ya wanna come again sometime?"
"Take a guess, kid," Flick replied with a smirk. "Long as it's someone else's money next time."
Walking through the shadows with Racetrack and Kid Blink, the gentle breeze on her face, mind full of her new hobby, Flick was happy. Perfectly, blissfully happy. How easy it was to forget.
No...not to forget. They were still there, lurking in her mind, the images, the words, that would mean the end of everything if she let them float to the surface. She was simply disregarding them, pushing them away, trying to pretend they weren't there at all...trying not to believe. If she tried hard enough, it wouldn't be real...
If only that were true.
Twilight was falling over New York City, in deep, cold shades of muted blue. The summer breeze rustled suporifically in the lush green leaves of the trees scattered along the bank of the East River. The serenity of the evening was disturbed by the appearance of four young intruders.
Secret stared in awe at the scene before her. A light mist swirled over the surface of the river, seeming to catch the twilight's soft sapphire hues and shimmer almost magically. The cry of an early-rising owl sounded eerily from one of the trees, and the water rippled in response, lapping gently against the shore.
"It's beautiful," she murmured, as she stepped reverantly onto the Brooklyn Bridge for the first time in her life. "So peaceful."
"I know," Mush agreed, smiling slightly. "Not fer long, dough."
Secret blinked quizzically at him. "Why...?"
"AAAUUUGH!!"
"Dat's why," Mush explained, laughing at Secret's stunned expression. Jack and David, having finished yelling off the bridge, joined in the laughter.
"Come on, Secret," Dave urged, having taken a liking to her, although they had only just been formally introduced. "Try it; it's fun."
"No t'anks," Secret replied with great dignity.
After taking a moment to admire the view, the four crossed the bridge, and Secret found herself confronted by a wild herd of boys. They were everywhere: swimming or wading in the water, swarming all over the docks, running and jumping and playing, chatting and shouting and laughing and fighting. Secret had to consciously refrain from covering her ears against the din.
"Welcome ta Brooklyn!" Jack announced, grinning at her.
As they passed the docks, many of the boys waved or nodded and shouted greetings.
"Hey dere, Kelly, ain't seen ya in a while!"
"How's it goin', Mouth?" (Secret managed to figure out that "Mouth" was David.)
"Mush, good ta see ya!"
There were also a great many whistles directed at Secret. She narrowed her eyes at every whistler she could pick out of the crowd. Mush looked none too pleased, either.
"Maybe I shouldn't o' ast ya ta come!" he said apologetically, speaking loudly over the commotion.
Secret rolled her eyes. "Flick toldja, da night we arrived, what would 'appen ta any guy dat touched eidda o' us!" she reminded him.
Mush remembered Flick's words, and if it had been Flick here, he wouldn't have been worried at all. But this was Secret, and despite her confidence and muscled arms, he just couldn't seem to picture Secret fighting. It was like picturing Flick hugging someone.
"Well, if it ain't a visitin' party from Manhattan!"
Secret started at the sudden appearance of a boy directly in front of them. Then she pulled herself together and stared.
He was certainly on the short side, maybe 5'1, yet everything about him demanded attention and respect. His golden hair was hidden under a dark grey newsboy cap. He wore a shirt of a checkered pattern, white and light grey, and...yes, bright red suspenders. There were those piercing blue eyes, that face that was tough, mocking, and mesmerizing, all at once. There was the wooden slingshot in his belt, the mysterious key swinging from a chain around his neck, and of course, the black cane clutched in one hand, with its intricate gold top. From Flick's description, it seemed to Secret that he hadn't changed a bit in the past two years.
"Heya Jacky-boy, Mouth, Mush," Spot was saying, spitshaking with each boy in turn. Finally, inevitably, his eyes found Secret. He raised his eyebrows.
"An' who might dis beauty be?"
Right, as if ya ain't guessed already.
"Dis's Secret," Jack answered, smiling almost proudly. "Din't any o' yer 'liddle boids' tell ya dat Manhattan's got a couple newsgoils now?"
Spot smirked. "Shoah, dey did. Dey told me a few odda t'ings, too, includin' da fact dat it wasn't e'zactly Jack Kelly's decision fer da goils ta stay."
Jack groaned, automatically touching the faded reminder of the bruise on his cheek. "Yeah, well, we's managed ta woik out most o' our dif'rences since den."
"Somehow I doubt dat'll last," Spot replied, eyes hardening slightly. Only Secret heard him mutter under his breath, "'Less Flick's changed since I met 'er." Then he seemed to remember that he had guests.
"So, youse goin' swimmin'?" he asked.
"'Course," Jack replied indignantly. He, Mush, and David were already headed toward the docks. Secret watched as they peeled off their suspenders and shirts and, one by one, dove into the water. Mush was the last to dive in, and before he did so, he glanced back at Secret, still standing unmoving beside Spot. Secret gave him a slight nod, and he nodded back, smiled, and splashed into the river.
Once they were alone, removed from the teeming docks by a few feet, Spot turned to Secret. She tensed; if she heard Flick's name again, she was out of here.
"Ya wanna borrow some clothes from one o' my newsies?" he suggested, smirking. "Or ya plannin' ta swim in dat?" He gestured at her dress.
Relieved, Secret shook her head.
"A couple o' da goils are back at da lodgin' house," Spot offered. "Dey'll lend ya sometin'."
"T'anks," Secret replied, and headed toward the distant shape of the Brooklyn "Newsboys" Lodging House.
"Heya!"
Entering the girls' bunkroom (for there were two separate rooms in the Brooklyn lodging house, unlike Manhattan), Secret was greeted by a girl with caramel-colored braids. The girl smiled cheerfully, spitting in her palm and offering it. "Da name's Mulberry. You a new goil or sometin'?"
"Nah," Secret replied, spitting in her own hand and shaking with Mulberry. "I'se Secret, from Manhattan."
"Oooh." Mulberry arched her eyebrows knowingly. "Yer dat friend o' Flick's."
"Friend o' Flick's?" A head of unruly straw-colored hair poked out from under one of the bunks and spotted Secret. "Oh, hey! Hang on a second, 'kay?"
"Dat's Broom," Mulberry explained, while the girl wriggled out from under the bunk with great effort, dragging herself to her feet. Her dress was completely coated in a thick layer of dust. Dust motes were also tangled in her hair; she seemed almost to be made of dust. In one hand she clutched, naturally, a slightly wilted broom.
"Nice ta meet 'cha, Secret," Broom greeted, striding over to the two girls. She started to lift her palm to her mouth, then glanced at it and sneezed. "I don't really t'ink ya wanna shake dis, dough."
Secret laughed slightly. "Dat's okay. I jist came ta see if I could borrow some boy's clothes so I could go swimmin'. It's a bit awkward in a dress."
Mulberry nodded. "Shoah! Ya can borrow mine...we's all got a set o' boy's clothes fer swimmin'," she explained, going over to one of the bunks and beginning to search through the tangled covers.
"Speakin o' which..." Broom perched on the bunk she'd been sweeping under and grinned. "Is Flick still dressin' like a boy?"
"'Fraid so," Secret sighed, claiming a seat for herself on a nearby bunk.
"Ya ain't mentioned 'er name ta Spot, have ya?" Mulberry asked anxiously.
"'Course not," Secret replied indignantly. "She warned me 'bout dat."
"I'll bet she did." Broom laughed aloud. "I'll neveh f'get when she came ta Brooklyn two yeahs ago fer dat big pokah game."
"She kinda outlined what happened when she got back," Secret explained. "But she neveh really did go inta detail."
"Oh, it was great!" Mulberry seemed to have forgotten about looking for the clothes in her eagerness to tell a good story. "Foist of all, jist her showin' up caused a sensation."
"I'll bet," Secret chuckled, picturing her best friend...the short fiery hair, the flashing eyes, and of course, the clothes.
"So, once ev'ryone was t'rough gawkin' at 'er an' askin' her questions, an' once she was t'rough ignorin' 'em or threatenin' ta soak 'em, we got 'round ta playin' some pokah. An', as ya can prob'ly guess if she's yer friend, she proceeded ta suck up ev'ryone else's money like some kinda whoilwind."
"O' course," Secret muttered, rolling her eyes.
"Well, eventu'ly," Broom took over eagerly, "ev'ryone figuahed out dat she jist wasn't gonna lose, so dey stopped challengin' 'er. An' she was gettin' ready ta take all 'er winnin's an' head back ta Harlem."
"But at da last minute, she got one moah challenge," Secret supplied, remembering this part of the story.
"Dat's right," Mulberry confirmed. "Spot couldn't let some thoiteen-yeah-old goil leave Brooklyn wit all 'is newsies' money. His ego'd neveh recoveh."
"Oh, I t'ink it'd recoveh quick enough," Broom protested, eyes sparkling mischievously. "It seems kinda invincible ta me." Then she picked up the narrative. "Well, dey played, an' Spot ain't a bad playeh, but...he ain't Racetrack Higgins, an' he ain't Flick."
"So she won," Secret encouraged. Mulberry smirked.
"Oh, she won, a'right. Four of a kind, in Aces. I will neveh f'get da look on Spot's face."
"Well," Broom continued, "dat was too much fer Spot Conlon. So he..."
"...accused her o' cheatin'." Secret's face was hard. "Flick don't cheat."
"Maybe she don't, but I really t'ink Spot believed she did," Mulberry sighed. "Jist couldn't accept dat she'd beaten 'im on pure talent. So he accused 'er, an' Flick..."
"Flick," Secret predicted, "bein' Flick, flared up on 'im."
"Dat's one way ta put it." Broom nodded grimly. "In a second she was dis close ta him, face all red, eyes all dark, fists so tight 'er knuckles toined white, screamin' an' spittin' an practic'ly breathin' fiah."
"All da Brooklyn newsies was standin' 'round watchin'," Mulberry recalled aloud. "Like it was some kinda spectata sport. We'd neveh seen anytin' like it! An' let me tell ya," she added confidentially, "neidda had Spot. He was jist amazed...had no idea what 'e was gettin' 'imself inta."
"Well, o' course," Broom interrupted, "ya's prob'ly hoid o' Spot Conlon's tempa, Secret. So as soon as 'e gets oveh 'is shock, he flares right up ta match Flick, an' da two o' dem are screamin' at each odda, buildin' up all dis angah, an' ev'ryone's jist holdin' deyre breaths, waitin' fer da foist blow ta fall, when..."
"...when 'er friend from Harlem showed up an' practic'ly dragged 'er home," Secret finished in a loud rush.
There was a brief pause. The two Brooklyn girls stared at Secret for a moment. Then Mulberry shrugged and nodded.
"Yeah. Dat's what happened." She gave Secret an odd look. "Who was dat goil, anyway? Dat friend o' hers dat came an' took 'er home? It wasn't you..."
"Jist a friend." Secret's voice was firm and final. Briskly, she rose from the bunk and held out a hand. "Ya eveh find dose clothes fer me?"
Night had really fallen now. The sky was a cool, shadowy blue, and a brilliant white gibbous moon glimmered from a gauzy throne of silver clouds. The moon cast a shimmering silvery track over the river. Chilled by the beauty of it all, and trying to tune out the ruckus all around her, Secret perched on the edge of the dock and slipped soundlessly into the water. She shivered with delight at the refreshing cold against her skin. Just donning Mulberry's shirt and pants, having never worn such clothing in her life, gave her an eerie and delightful feeling of being someone else for the night, someone lighthearted and rebellious. So different from quiet, slightly sarcastic, sensible Secret. [Author's Note: That sounds like a tongue-twister! Slightly sarcastic sensible Secret...slightly sarcastic sensible Secret...lol Flare's had too much sugar!]
Of course, in a moment her private tranquility was surrendered to the huge crowd of Brooklyn newsies she was sharing the river with. She was quickly surrounded, and streams of nonstop chatter were aimed at her from every direction; she was admired, questioned, teased, and finally, swept up in a lawless, free-for-all game of water tag so fast she didn't even know how it had happened.
Darting through the water, cutting across the wavering line of reflected moonbeam, Secret struggled to escape her pursuers, a tall black Brooklyn girl by the name of Bat and a sandy-haired boy called Mott. Her inky black hair fanned out on the surface of the water, lustrous in the tender moonlight, and her pale blue eyes, as bright as always, were also a great deal less icy. When Bat finally ducked underwater, popped up in front of her, and tagged her, she laughed out loud, immediately wheeling around to go after Mush. Jack and David were involved in a serious splash-fight, and Mulberry had finally come out to join the swimmers, though Broom remained at the lodging house. ("Still cleanin'," Mulberry had explained, shaking her head fondly.) Spot, to Secret's relief, was nowhere to be seen. His presence was something to be wary of, and might have spoiled her fun; and Secret could not recall having this much fun in a long time. God, Brooklyn's so beautiful. An' da newsies are great...real friendly an' playful, not at all da gang o' hardened fightas I was expectin'. A boy who had introduced himself as Goon, and seemed to be made entirely of bulging muscles, paddled over to the shore to exchange a few words with a tiny and apparently withdrawn newsgirl named Scrap. She giggled at whatever he'd said. So ya can be tough as anytin', an' still make friends an' have fun. Someone oughta tell Flick. (If she had known that while she was thinking this, Flick was hugging Race and Blink, she'd likely have passed out cold.)
Several more rounds of water tag passed in a blur of excitement before the event Secret had been dreading occurred. Spot appeared on the docks, seemingly out of nowhere, and beckoned to her. Biting her lip, she paddled over to him, with an apologetic shrug to her fellow tag players, and an impatient nod to her worried-looking Manhattan companions to let them know she'd be all right.
"Hey, Secret, can I tawk ta ya real quick?"
I take it yer gonna tawk ta me whedda I want ya to or not, so I may as well let dis convasation happen in private.
Reluctantly, she hauled herself out of the water and left the docks with Spot, to converse softly out of earshot of the others.
"Listen," were Spot's first words once they were away from the docks, "I'se real sorry 'bout what happened. If yer a friend o' Flick's, den ya prob'ly knew...well, I'se sorry."
Secret felt her whole body go rigid. She knew how her face would look now, cold and unreadable, wiped clean of every trace of emotion. "T'anks," she muttered warily, glancing wistfully over her shoulder at the water, and longing to be done with this discussion.
"Yeah, well..." Spot actually appeared slightly uncomfortable, though that was nothing compared to what Secret was feeling. "I hoid a lot o' stuff. A lot o'...rumahs. My liddle boids tell me ev'rytin' dey heah, an' dey hoid some t'ings dat were...well, ya prob'ly know what I mean."
Oh God...dis ain't happenin'... "What e'zactly did ya heah?" Cold, neutral, don't betray nuttin'...pretend yer Flick or Race, playin' pokah, don't let nuttin' show...
Spot's tone seemed to take on an edge of frustration, even anger. "Look, Secret, ya know what I hoid. An' I ain't askin' ya ta tell me if it's true. Maybe ya don't even know yaself. Da t'ing is, I jist dunno what ta believe right now. An' I'se tellin' ya, so ya can tell Flick, dat if anytin' happens in Manhattan..." His eyes were very, very dangerous.
"Like what!?" Not good, definitely not good, I'se comin' ta da end o' my control heah...
"Da** it, goil, ya know what I mean! An' deyre gonna find out soona or lateh. I can't be shoah what da truth is, an' dat's why I ain't gonna tell 'em...but dey'll find out, an' if it's true..."
What happened next, Secret would only remember in a blur. She was running, away from Spot, back toward the docks. He was running after her, reaching out to grab her arm. Her arm was shooting out in defense...and the next second, Spot was in the river.