A/N: A brief passage is quoted from Missing May by Cynthia Rylant (Orchard Books, 1992) Page 4.

Chapter 12

On the other end of the phone, Phyllis's eyebrows shot up. "That other kid have a rare blood type, too?"

"A-negative," Techrat said. "Relatively speaking, it's not as common as some of the others, but I wouldn't call it rare."

"Don't suppose you have an address for him—how old is he now, anyway?"

"Twenty-two," Techrat supplied, "and I haven't got one handy. His uncle was living in Bayonne, New Jersey eleven years ago. Still is, but the last record I have for this Owen Flynn has him registering a 1985 Ford Econoline camper van. This was on June 28th, 1990—right as he was finishing high school. I don't show him at any fixed address, or any address at all after that date. He's off the map. Of course," he continued, "if you want me to work my magic, I enjoy a challenge."

Phyllis considered. "Don't bother. If he was easy to reach, I might have had a few questions for him, but even if he knows anything about Emma, it was eleven years ago, and she was a newborn." She hesitated. "Did he mention anything about her or the other boy?"

"Nothing," Techrat returned. "Nothing in the reports—and believe me, he had a lot to say—mentions him encountering any other children."

"Then don't waste your time digging. I doubt you'll turn up anything relevant to me right now. Thanks."

"Thanks?" Techrat repeated with a laugh. "You really have gone soft."

"Why did I say I'd do this?" Emma growled to her empty bedroom. "What makes me think I can write a song? I can't even read music, much less write it!" She also had an English essay due the day after tomorrow and she still hadn't finished reading the book, but that wasn't her fault, not exactly.

On her second day of class, Ms Kogawa had given her a two-page reading list and shown her the book case at the back of the room. "You can choose from any of the titles on this list," she said. "If there's a book you'd like that isn't on it, bring it in and clear it with me, first." She gave Emma another sheet. "In three weeks, I'd like to see a two-to-three-page essay from you that answers the five questions on this paper. See me, if you need any help."

Then she'd left Emma alone to make her selection.

"Ms Kogawa?" Emma heard a boy's voice behind her. "How come she has an extra week? It's not fair!"

"Emma wasn't here last week, when I gave the rest of you the assignment, Brian. Would it be fairer if she had less time?"

Emma stared at the wall of books. She didn't read very much; she didn't own any books, and whenever she moved to a new placement, she had to leave any library books behind to be returned. When she'd been very little, it hadn't mattered so much; picture books were short enough for someone to read to you at one sitting. Once she'd moved on to chapter books, though, it had been different. Three books left behind half-finished had taught her that it was better not to start something she wouldn't be around to read the end of. Hesitantly, she grabbed one of the thinnest paperbacks she could find, barely glancing at the cover. And then, for over a week, Missing May had lain undisturbed in her backpack, before Emma had accepted that she might actually be here long enough to have to do the essay.

And then, barely two pages in, she'd come across a passage that made her heart pound and her hands sweat.

…Before she died, I know my mother must have loved to comb my shiny hair and rub that Johnson's baby lotion up and down my arms and wrap me up and hold and hold me all night long. She must have known she wasn't going to live and she must have held me longer than any other might, so I'd have enough love in me to know what love was when I saw it or felt it again.

When she died and all her brothers and sisters passed me from house to house, nobody ever wanting to take care of me for long…

At that point, Emma had flung the book across the room. Only afterwards had she realized how lucky she was that she'd been facing a wall and not the window at the time, because she probably would have done more damage than just crushing the top corner of the book's spine. If she'd broken the window, Jerrica probably would send her away and Emma wouldn't blame her. Damn! Damn, damn, damn, damn! Why the hell hadn't she flipped through the book before she chose it?

Maybe she could have gone back to Ms. Kogawa the next day and asked if she could have more time and choose another book. But that wouldn't be fair. And what was she supposed to say? "The book makes me too sad to write?" No way would that work. And now, it was more than a week since she'd flung the book away. She still couldn't write this essay. She couldn't write a song. She…

There was a knock. "Emma?"

She was about to shout at whoever it was to go away, when she realized she knew the voice. It couldn't be, she thought. She slid off the bed and walked toward the door. "Who's there?" she asked, trying to keep the quaver out of her voice.

"It's Giselle. I came to see Jerrica and I thought that so long as I was here, I'd look in and see how you were doing. Can I come in?"

Emma opened the door to Giselle's warm smile. "It's you," she said flatly. She couldn't remember the last time someone from a previous placement had come to see her once she'd gone.

"I told you I'd pop in every now and then," Giselle reminded her. "How've you been?"

Emma was horrified to feel her face twist and her eyes were suddenly brimming and burning with tears. "Horrible," she said. "This is a great place and everyone's so nice, but my life still sucks! I thought… if I could just get a place where people cared, things would be great, but people care and they're not great and what if it's all me and—"

She felt muscular arms wrap around her tightly, pulling her close and she buried her head in Giselle's shoulder.

Jerrica paused outside Emma's room. She'd really meant to see how her newest charge was settling in long before this, but with nine other girls to look after, plus a recording company, and now a forthcoming benefit, there just weren't enough hours in the day. Had it not been for Mrs. Bailey, with occasional help from some of the older girls—including Deirdre and Krissy, who might always be her girls, even if they were no longer foster girls—she'd never have managed it. As it was, she should have made time for Emma long before this, certainly after the girl's aborted runaway.

She heard voices coming from the other side of the door, and was about to knock, when she realized two things: Emma sounded as though she'd just finished a good cry, and the other voice in the room belonged to Giselle. She listened carefully, making a conscious effort to focus on the inflexions and try to tune out what was actually being said.

After a few minutes, she moved on down the hall. Her instincts told her that if she knocked now, she'd be intruding on a private moment and, Giselle was a trained social worker. I'm not, Jerrica thought with a pang. After I lost my father, I had to drop out of school to keep Starlight House running, and then there was Jem. I'm good at what I do—both in the music business, and with these girls—but most of the time I'm winging it. Giselle's actually got the training.

Maybe, when things settled down, she'd see about finishing her degree. She shook her head ruefully. With ten girls in her charge, she'd never find the time to start. And really, for the most part, she did do all right. She'd always been the responsible, capable, older sister; the one who took charge and either got things done herself, or knew who to hire for the things outside her wheelhouse. Most of the time, that was enough.

All the same, she couldn't help but feel a pang that Emma had clearly needed someone to talk to, and she'd been busy with something else. Nearly a decade running a foster home and she still sometimes forgot that the children in her charge didn't always knock on her door when they had a problem. Sometimes, she had to intuit when things weren't right.

Thanks, Giselle, she thought to herself. I owe you one. And next time, she was going to make sure she didn't drop the ball.

John listened to the voices in the hallway, both cheerful as they approached the apartment door. "Why yes," Wendy was saying, "I did have a good time today. Perhaps we might meet again soon."

Tamara said something to that, which John couldn't quite make out, and then the two made their farewells. Wendy was smiling as she opened the door and stepped back inside, but her smile dropped at once. "She doesn't believe," she said angrily.

John frowned. "That magic is dangerous?" he asked.

"That it's real!" Wendy exclaimed. "Oh, she let me prattle on like a child half my age, indulging me, encouraging me, and then ending by saying how 'great' it would be if it were all real, though of course it can't be. I feel like such a fool!"

John clucked sympathetically and Wendy all but snapped, "Stop treating me like a child when I'm your elder sister!"

"I'm not," John said quickly. "And whether you like it or not, birth order aside, I am older than you are now, but that's not important. If you'll recall, you and I used to treat Michael the same way once we reached school age or thereabouts; it wasn't until the Shadow started coming to the nursery window that we began to take magic seriously." His eyes grew sadder. "Perhaps we didn't take it as seriously as we should have, though."

"Baelfire tried to warn us," Wendy said softly. "We didn't want to listen."

John removed his eyeglasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. "I know. Wendy… you have to convince her. For Michael."

Wendy flinched. And then her expression hardened. "If that's what Pan wants," she said slowly, "then he's going to have to help us."

"What?"

"If he wants Tamara to believe in magic," Wendy said firmly, "then she's going to need some sort of demonstration. Just like we did."

John gave her a quick jerky nod. "It makes sense," he said, "and I'll tell him, but… remember. This is his game. We're playing by his rules. And if we want him to make this job easier, he's going to set us a far harder task down the road. And that's if he even agrees."

Wendy swallowed. "If we fail, it's Michael's life," she reminded him. "If Pan's help comes at a price, it's one we'll have to pay later, but for now, if we're to succeed, we have to ask, John. We simply have to."

"All right," John acquiesced. "I'll tell him."

"What's this?" Ms. Kogawa asked, when Emma hung back at recess and thrust the envelope across the teacher's desk at her. The ink that spelled out Ms. Kogawa's name had smudged in her sweaty hand, and Emma winced when she looked at her fingers.

"Please," she said, "could you read it?" She and Giselle had worked on this last night, making sure that it explained everything Emma needed it to and didn't make her sound 'like a loser,' as she'd worried it might.

Ms. Kogawa smiled. "Would you like to go to recess while I do? You've still got another ten minutes."

Emma shook her head. "I'll wait." Then, belatedly, she added, "Thank you." There was no way that she was going to enjoy recess thinking of her teacher reading that note and wondering about what the reaction would be.

"All right then."

Emma watched Ms. Kogawa open the envelope, but she was too nervous to watch her reaction while she actually read the letter inside. Instead, she studied her fingers and wondered why she hadn't noticed how much dirt had accumulated under the nails. She'd cut them tonight, she promised herself. She'd—

"Emma?" Ms. Kogawa's voice startled her.

"Yes?"

"What kind of books do you like to read?"

Emma blinked. "I dunno," she mumbled. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had asked her that. Ms. Kogawa waited and Emma shuffled uncomfortably. "I guess… books about kids who find out who they are and where they belong. But not where they get passed around because nobody wants them or…"

Ms. Kogawa was already nodding. "I have one I think you might like," she said, already walking to the book case at the back and plucking one from the middle of the bottom shelf. "It's a bit longer, so I'll give you four weeks to read it and write the report, but on one condition."

Emma swallowed. "What's that?"

"That you come in here to work on it on your lunch break each day. You can start off by using that time to read it and come to me if you have any questions, either about the book or the report. It won't be enough time to get it all done; you'll still need to work on it at home, but this way, if you run into any problems, we can work on them together. The book is a little more challenging, but I think you'll enjoy it." She held the title out to Emma.

Emma took it. "The Witch of Blackbird Pond," she read aloud. "Is it about magic?"

"No," her teacher smiled. "Would you like one that is?"

Emma shook her head. "It's okay. I was just wondering." She winced. The book was probably twice as thick as Missing May, but it was also a second chance, and she didn't get those very often.

"Do we have a deal then?" Ms. Kogawa asked, smiling as she held out her hand.

Emma hesitated for a moment before she clasped it. "Deal," she confirmed, smiling a little, too and promising herself that she was going to call Giselle tonight and thank her for suggesting this approach.

"I hope you don't mind that we left Stormer and Kimber behind tonight," Craig said. "We've been joined at the hip for the whole tour, and I wanted us to have one night to ourselves before we get back to Los Angeles."

Aja smiled and absently tucked a lock of blue hair behind her ear. "Well, you've left it 'til the last minute then," she observed. They'd played ten concerts in twelve days and after tomorrow's gig here in San Francisco, they were practically going to be sprinting for the airport to catch their flight to LA.

"I know," Craig nodded. "And I'm sorry. I didn't want this to be rushed. Actually," he looked around nervously, "I pictured having a live band in the background and I'd have it all arranged."

"Sorry," Aja said, "what?"

"They'd strike up 'Love Story', or 'Can't Help Falling in Love' or…" He shook his head. "We never really found our song, did we?"

"Kimber and Stormer write our songs," Aja said in confusion. "I thought… I think they're great at it."

"They are," Craig said at once. "No, I mean… you… me… our song. I mean," he reached into his pocket and set a small box on the table. "Here. Please. It's for you."

Aja's eyes widened. Hesitantly, almost reverently, she lifted the box, opened it, and gasped at the marquise diamond sparkling from a white gold band. "It's beautiful," she breathed. She carefully slipped it onto her finger.

"Uh, in case you were wondering, remember last month, when Mary asked if she could borrow one of your rings to complete her look? I might have put her up to it so she could pass it to me to take to a jeweler and make sure I was buying something the right size." He looked up anxiously. "It is the right size, right? Because if it's not, we can modif—"

Aja pressed her lips firmly to his, wrapping her arms about his neck and stifling the rest of his sentence. Craig kissed her back fervently.

"I take it that's a yes?" he asked, when they parted.

Aja nodded. "It's a yes," she said, smiling and pretending she didn't hear the loud whispers of approval coming from the other restaurant patrons, nor the matching smiles on their faces. "It's a yes."

"I can't," Emma said apologetically when Casey asked. "English."

Casey groaned. "How much longer do you have to take lunch with Ms. Kogawa?"

"Until I've got the paper done," Emma sighed. "The worst of it is I probably would leave it for the last minute if she wasn't giving me time now."

Casey sighed. "I'd hate that. Having her breathing down my neck all the time."

"Nah," Emma replied. "She doesn't do that. She just sits at her desk and has lunch. She usually asks me how it's going or if I have any questions or stuff, and when I tell her 'no', she leaves me alone."

"Do you have questions?" Casey asked her.

Emma shrugged. "I dunno."

"Well, are you liking the book?"

"It's okay," Emma said. "I wish I could just read it without having to do the report. I mean, did you see the questions? 'Did you like the book? Why or why not?' I just like it. Like, do you like strawberry ice cream, why or why not? It either tastes good or it doesn't. Why do you have to pick it apart?"

"Because otherwise you won't get good marks?" Casey suggested, absolutely deadpan.

Emma laughed. "Did you read it?"

"No, I did A Little Princess."

"Is that like, some kind of fairy tale?" Emma asked skeptically.

"No… but it's kind of got a Cinderella in it," Casey said. "I think there's another copy on the reading shelf, if you want to try it."

Emma thought about it. "Maybe I better finish the one I have first."

Casey nodded. "That's okay." She thought for a minute. "You know, Stephanie and me, sometimes when we're stuck on something, it kinda helps if we try to explain it to each other. If you want to do that tonight, we can."

Emma started to smile, but then she shook her head. "You're always helping me," she said. "I… I feel like I'm mooching. I'm not good at any school stuff."

"Yet," Casey said. "And you're not mooching. Because you're going to help me decorate the common room for when Kimber and Aja get back next week. I told Jerrica I would, but… there's a lot to do and I don't know if I can get it all done on my own. Okay?" she added anxiously.

Emma's smile was back and wider than it had been the first time. "It's a deal," she said, shaking on it. And this deal sat a lot more easily with her than the one she'd made with her teacher last week!

Wendy had another visit from Tamara the following afternoon and while she was away, John entertained a guest of his own.

Wendy enjoyed the company. It had been a long time since she'd had another girl to talk with and she barely minded that her new friend was several years her senior and already a young lady! Her nervousness hadn't been feigned when Tamara had suggested they go for a walk about the neighborhood; she was not used to buildings that towered overhead and seemed to be built entirely of darkened glass, nor to the horseless carriages that seemed to speed past when the streets were clear and emit deafening trumpet blasts when they weren't. She missed the thrushes and chaffinches she'd used to see in Kensington Gardens, but while she hadn't seen any of those on the excursion, she'd cried out with delight at the sight of a large bird that Tamara identified as a hawk.

"I think it might be a red-tailed one," Tamara had said. "At least, I think they're pretty common here. I don't really know my birds all that well," she admitted.

"It's so majestic!" Wendy exclaimed, and Tamara nodded. Different though the wildlife might be in this new place, it was still more familiar to her than all of these glass-and-metal constructs, the bitter tang in the air, the dry heat, and the inventions that everyone else seemed to understand.

"If you like birds that much," Tamara suggested, "there's a sanctuary in Griffiths Park. It's about an hour away by bus," she made a face. "I don't have a car, sorry. Maybe we could go there some weekend."

"That sounds heavenly," Wendy breathed. "And I'm just as glad you don't."

She returned home to find John waiting for her with a serious expression.

"I've spoken with Pan," her brother informed her. "He agrees with your idea. Give him the time and the place and the Shadow will strike."