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  Silently, Ryan held up his hand. Alison peered at it. “Cool. How’d it happen?”

  Ryan suddenly felt nervous with Alison staring at his hand and demanding answers. He looked down and felt his words sliding away. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.

  In his pocket, his phone vibrated. Ryan rarely left the ringer on—a sound that might come at an unexpected moment was too abrupt, too scary—but the vibration was all right. He checked it and found a text message from Alison.

  Tell.

  He snuck a glance at her. Her phone was out and she was waiting patiently. That was one thing he liked about Alison. She didn’t seem to care that he sometimes couldn’t talk. His thumbs jumped across the tiny keyboard.

  I found a silver string on my bedroom floor this morning. It jumped into my hand.

  Weird, Alison wrote back. You echoed what I wuz goin to say at breakfast too. How come?

  You didn’t say it. You stopped. I didn’t like that. It was like a bad haircut.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Alison said aloud.

  Ryan shrugged. It was obvious. Haircuts were awful—he couldn’t control what the barber did, and if it came out bad, chaos sat on top of his head like a demon for weeks. But he couldn’t put that into words, not even written ones, so he just raised and dropped his shoulders like he knew people did when they were confused or puzzled.

  Can you talk now?

  Ryan thought about it and raised his eyes to Alison’s. He had to think about making eye contact like other people. “I think so.”

  “You thought I was going to spill my milk,” Alison said.

  “You were going to spill it,” Ryan agreed. “Into my lap. I saw it. So I stopped you. I didn’t like that, but the milk mess would have been worse.”

  “Do it again,” Alison said.

  “Do what?”

  Alison gestured at nothing. “Look into the future.”

  “Okay. Bring one of the big jars with you. We’ll need it later.” Ryan walked out to the beach, walking carefully to avoid the fist-sized rocks scattered thickly over the sand. Alison followed with a jar in her hand. At the edge of the lake, he waited for a moment. The more he thought about his new power, the more obvious it seemed. It was as if he had suddenly opened a new pair of eyes. He couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t been able to do this before. Seeing the future was as simple as blinking. All he had to was want to, and he could.

  “A seagull lands on the water right there,” he said, pointing. “It puts its head underwater and flies away. I throw a stone, and it skips five times. You get a new pet today. Its name is Nox.”

  “A new pet?” Alison said. She set the jar on the sand. “Nice. Is it a birthday present from your family? I don’t even think my family remembered.”

  Ryan, who almost never forgot anything, felt shocked. “Your family has to remember your birthday. No one can forget your birthday.”

  Alison shrugged. “I’m in the middle of six kids. Sometimes I think they forget about me.”

  A white seagull landed on the lake and Ryan picked up a stone. It felt wonderful to pick it up because he had already seen himself do it. For the first time in his life, the world was falling neatly into place, and he felt good. The seagull dipped its head underwater and flew away again. Ryan flicked the stone sideways across the water. It skipped five times and sank.

  “Cool,” Alison said. “Just like you said.”

  Ryan grinned. “Now you want to know how far into the future I can see.”

  “How far into the future can you see?” Alison said, then laughed. “And quit that.”

  “I don’t know,” Ryan said seriously. “I can try to find out.”

  “Go for it, future boy,” Alison told him. “I want to see what you can do. Maybe we can win the lottery and I won’t have to live in a trailer anymore.”

  Rather than answer, Ryan turned and stared into the distance. He stared hard with his new vision. Abruptly, he threw back his head and screamed.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ryan became aware that he had stopped screaming and that someone was dragging him across the sand. Or trying to. The person’s hands dug uncomfortably into his armpits and kept dropping him. He heard a voice that alternately whimpered and growled. The hands dropped him again, and he curled up on the beach with gritty sand in his mouth. At first he couldn’t tell what the person was saying, but then his words finally came back enough for him to understand again.

  “Ryan, get up. I can’t carry you up those stairs. What am I going to do? Oh geez, Ryan, why did I have to ask you that stupid question? Ryan, please get up.”

  The voice belonged to Alison. She was half crying, half cursing as she tried to drag him toward the staircase. Ryan wanted to talk to her, but his vocal words hadn’t come back yet. He did manage to uncurl a little. Alison tried to lift him again with her hard little hands.

  “Come on, Ryan,” she begged. “You’re too heavy.” Then she dropped him again. “Oh! I’m an idiot! Where’s my cell phone?”

  She yanked it from her pocket and thumbed the numbers. “Mrs. November? I’m down at the beach. Something’s wrong with Ryan. He’s—”

  Out of the lake rose a pale woman. Water rippled and ran from her hair and dress. She seemed to be actually made of the water she stood on. Little waves spread gently across the lake from her feet as she glided serenely toward shore. On her shoulder sat a seahorse with bright eyes the color of noon sky reflected in the lake.

  “Perhaps I can help,” the woman said in a heavy, watery voice.

  Ryan stared in complete shock. Alison’s mouth dropped open and her eyes went wide and round, so Ryan decided she was feeling the same way he did, though he wasn’t completely sure—sometimes people with wide eyes were angry or scared.

  “Alison?” Mom demanded in a tiny voice from the phone. “Alison, what’s going—”

  Alison clicked off. The woman was beautiful. Her face was perfect, her every movement fluid and graceful. She reached the beach and in moments glided to Ryan’s side. A shiny line of water trailed behind her like a stream, connecting her to the lake. She smelled of seaweed and springtime. Alison continued to stare, entranced. Ryan didn’t like the woman. Women weren’t made of water, clear and cold as glass. They were made of skin and hair and muscle and blood. Their faces had flaws—wrinkles or zits or moles. This woman broke every rule Ryan knew about people. He wanted to run away from her impossible beauty. But her shattering presence frightened him again, and the familiar paralysis took over. He couldn’t speak or scream or even move, though his heart was pounding hard enough to shake his shirt and he was panting softly.

  “Who are you?” Alison breathed.

  “An ally,” the woman said. “You use the dreadful word fairy. Your friend is connected to us now.”

  “That circle?” Alison asked. She pointed to Ryan’s hand, which lay, palm up, beside him on the sand.

  The water woman stared at Ryan’s palm for a moment, her expression rapt, almost … hungry? Ryan didn’t know what to think about her, couldn’t even form thoughts about her. His brain couldn’t accept what was happening. When Ryan was younger, he had thought that everything on TV and in books really existed, even the big-eyed, purple-haired Hoshi from Flashcard Battle Brawl. It had taken Mom and Dad months and months to teach him how to tell the difference between a story on the news and a story in a book. To Ryan, words and truth were the same thing. Mom had made him read dozens, maybe even hundreds of fairy tales to help him understand that words could lie.

  Finally he’d gotten it. Words weren’t orderly like numbers. Words were chaotic. They could be friend or enemy. The only thing you could trust about words was that you couldn’t trust them. He had finally accepted that fairy tales were absolute, utter, complete lies, but now he was seeing a real fairy. The paradox shut most of his brain off.

  The little seahorse on the woman’s shoulder abruptly changed shape. It blooped into a watery glob, then flowed into the shape of a seagull, tho
ugh it still looked like it was made of water. The gull pecked the woman sharply on the ear. She stopped staring hungrily at Ryan’s hand, and she shook her head.

  “The circle,” the fairy repeated. “Yes. It connects me to your friend. I can help him. I need to help him.”

  “Need?” Alison said. “What does that mean?”

  But the woman had already knelt next to Ryan on the sand and was putting a hand on his forehead. Her gooey touch felt awful, both weird and watery. He tried to flinch away, but his body wouldn’t obey. A little moan escaped from his lips.

  “You see?” the fairy said. “He’s already getting better.”

  Alison shot the fairy a hard look. “Listen,” she said, “I’m sure you’re good at … whatever is you do and all, but I think we should probably get Ryan’s parents down here.”

  “No need, my dear.” The fairy held a hand up to the seagull on her shoulder. It changed into a plover, a small brown wading bird which nipped twice at her finger with its sharp little beak. Two clear drops of blood welled up from the wounds. The plover snapped up the first one and drank it. The second drop pooled on the woman’s skin. She pried Ryan’s mouth open with her other hand. Her fingers were as cold as autumn water on his face, and he groaned again at the wrongness of her touch. He wanted to run, but his legs still wouldn’t work. The woman held her bleeding finger over Ryan’s lips and the clear droplet rolled toward his open mouth like a bit of mercury. Ryan whimpered in terror.

  Alison smacked the woman’s hand aside. The droplet flew, glittering, through the air and landed on the beach. It boiled on the sand for a moment, then vanished in a tiny puff of steam.

  “What—?” the woman burbled, and the plover changed into a startled-looking starfish. The woman whirled on Alison. “You! How dare you interfere!”

  Alison folded her arms. “You were going to hurt him. I’ll hurt you next.”

  Relief flooded Ryan, and he felt his brain and body loosen. He could move and speak. But the water woman hissed like a steam kettle and revealed sharp, icicle teeth. She wrapped her arms around Ryan, snatched him up, and whirled toward the lake. The starfish popped back into its plover shape, peeping like a tiny cheerleader. Alison shouted something Ryan couldn’t hear. Panicked, Ryan bit and clawed at the woman as she followed the water trail inexorably back toward the lake, but her grip was strong. It was like fighting a river.

  “Let me go!” he yelled, but the woman ignored him. “Alison! Help!”

  Alison snatched up a piece of driftwood and swung like a baseball player. The wood passed right through the woman. Ryan thought that was unfair—why should the woman be able to keep hold of him but let a chunk of wood pass through her? The horrible creature was only a dozen steps from the lake, and no matter how Ryan fought, he couldn’t get free. His eye fell on the wet trail that connected the woman to the water. Alison was winding up for another useless strike with the driftwood.

  “Hit the water trail!” Ryan yelled. “The water trail!”

  Alison didn’t ask questions. She smashed the silvery trail. Water splashed, and sand burst upward in a little shower.

  “Stop!” the fairy screeched.

  She swiped at Alison, but Alison ducked and struck at the stream again, and a third time. Her last blow severed the water trail. The woman dropped Ryan with a jarring thump to the beach and let out a high-pitched scream. Her fingers and hands trickled away, then her arms and legs, leaving her body hanging in the air. The plover fell off her shoulder and fluttered about on the beach as if its wings were broken.

  “I curse you!” the woman screamed as her torso evaporated beneath her. “I curse the both of you! Your words about the fair folk will evaporate just as I do, and none but you shall hear them!”

  The last of the woman thinned and disappeared.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  “The plover!” Ryan said. “Catch it! Catch it in the jar!”

  The watery little bird with bright blue eyes was fluttering around on the sand as if its wings were broken. Alison snatched up the jar she had brought down to the beach at Ryan’s insistence and scooped the creature into it. It peeped weakly at them. The bird’s body was melting, losing shape.

  “It’s dying,” Alison said. “What do we do?”

  “It drank the fairy woman’s blood,” Ryan said. “Feed it! With your jackknife.”

  Alison stared at Ryan. “Are you crazy?”

  “You have to!” Ryan said. “If you don’t, it’ll die.”

  “Maybe it should. It was that awful woman’s pet.”

  “It’s an animal,” Ryan said. “Fluffy is an animal.”

  The little bird was steadily dissolving into a puddle. Its legs and lower body were gone, and its wings were little blobs. It peeped piteously and tried to pull itself together without success.

  Alison looked at it for a moment longer, then reached into her pocket and drew out a jackknife. She snapped open the main blade and poked the tip into her finger. She didn’t even flinch. A single drop of blood fell into the jar just as the little bird lost all shape. Ryan held his breath. The blood stained the water, mixed through it, then cleared. For a moment, nothing happened. Then a spout of water shot out of the jar. Alison yelped and dropped it. Ryan jumped back. The waterspout flung itself into the air and sucked itself into the form of a liquid gray swallow with bright blue eyes. It fluttered down to land on Alison’s shoulder. Alison didn’t move.

  “Is it going to bite me?” she asked.

  “No,” said the swallow.

  Alison gasped and raised a hand to swat the bird away, but Ryan stopped her. “Don’t!” he said, but the sparrow streaked off anyway.

  “Freaking weird,” Alison said.

  Before Ryan could reply, ice crawled over his left hand. He spread his fingers with a gasp of pain. A blue wavy design filled in precisely one quarter of the circle on his palm.

  Very good, my prince, said a voice in his head. Very, very good.

  “Who is that?” Ryan said. “What’s going on?”

  “Who is who? What is that design? I don’t understand any of this,” Alison said.

  A great noise thundered on the wooden staircase. Mom, Dad, Aunt Ysabeth, and Aunt Zara rushed down the steps to the beach together, their faces set in identical expressions of worry.

  “Ryan!” Mom called, hurrying across the sand. Ryan backed up a step, afraid she might try to hug him, but she made no move to try. Instead she asked, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “What happened?” Dad asked. “We got Alison’s call. Is anyone hurt?”

  “No one’s hurt,” Alison said distractedly. She peered at the sky, and Ryan knew she was looking for the little bird.

  “Then why did you call?” Aunt Ysabeth sounded a little exasperated. “Indeed, indeed?”

  “A woman came out of the lake and tried to hurt me,” Ryan said. Or he tried to. What he actually said was, “Acchhhh.”

  “Honey?” Mom said.

  “Gllrrrggg,” Ryan said. It wasn’t quite the same as when his words locked themselves away. The words were there—he just couldn’t say them.

  “Alison, sweetie, tell us what happened,” Aunt Zara said. “My, my.”

  “Nnnnnnnblug,” Alison replied. Then she coughed hard. “Um … sorry. Uh … Ryan freaked out a while ago, like he sometimes does. I don’t know why. So I called for help. He got kind of better a few seconds ago, but I guess he still can’t talk much.”

  The adults asked Alison more questions about what might have set Ryan off, but she only shrugged and in the end, they gave up.

  “Hm,” Mom said. “Well, it’s not the first time.”

  “And it won’t be the last,” Aunt Ysabeth added. “Indeed.”

  “Long as he’s all right,” Aunt Zara finished. “My.”

  “Still,” Dad said, “I think we should go back to the Cottage for now.”

  They all trooped back up the stairs to the Cottage. Only Ryan and Alison noticed the little swa
llow with bright blue eyes zinging through the air after them.

  “There might be a use for autism after all,” Alison remarked. They were in Ryan’s perfectly tidy room, and Ryan felt a lot safer. “It got us out of having to explain anything.”

  There was a tapping at the window. Pecking at the glass was the little swallow. It was still clear as water, and its bright blue eyes were alive with interest. Alison made a happy noise and flung the window open. The swallow flittered into the room, changed into a seagull, and landed on Ryan’s bed. The quilt, hand-sewn by Aunt Ysabeth, had twenty-four rows of twenty-four patches, or 576 patches in all. 576 was divisible by a lot of numbers, including twelve, but Ryan didn’t mind because all the factors made the quilt soft and pliable, and anyway, he didn’t have to walk on it.

  “You better not poop on my bed,” Ryan warned.

  “Won’t,” the seagull said, clearly miffed.

  Alison sat down and stroked the seagull’s feathers. “Wow,” she breathed. “You said I’d get a new pet today.”

  “Not a pet,” the gull huffed.

  “Then what are you?” she asked.

  The seagull cocked its head. “Me.”

  “Okay,” Alison laughed. “Do you have a name?”

  “No. It washed away.”

  “Because of my blood? Wow. That means I get to give you a name, right?

  “Name him Nox,” Ryan put in quickly. “You have to name him Nox.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I saw you name him Nox.” Ryan was getting upset again. “You have to name him Nox or everything will be wrong. It’ll be wrong!”

  Alison set her mouth. “Geez, Ryan. Everything doesn’t have to go your way. You think everyone has to do what you say so you don’t freak out. But he’s my … whatever he is, and maybe I want to name him Rocky or Bubba.”