April had many talents. At least five. Maybe six, depending on how you counted them.
For starters, she was the best climber at any of the houses she had ever lived. She was the best at freeze tag and the least afraid of spiders. No one ever found her when they played hide-and-seek, and she was the most likely to remember things like what the combination was to the lock they kept on the refrigerator, even if she only saw her foster mother punch it in one time in the dark.
That night, April was grateful for all of her talents.
They were what let her sneak, light as a feather, through the living room and collect a pack of matches, a black hoodie, and a banana (because you should never do a heist on an empty stomach).
She’d paid careful attention at the museum and remembered exactly where the service entrance was and what code the guards had used to go in and out. She’d noticed the gap in the fence—too small for someone who wasn’t completely desperate to even think about crawling through.
But, most of all, April was completely desperate.
She was little and she was strong and she had absolutely nothing to lose.
The parking lot was empty when she got there. There were security cameras, of course, but they were the kind that moved, and that only happens if the cameras have blind spots, so April stood perfectly still for a long time, watching the cameras sweep across the dark lot. Really, it was just like dodgeball, and April was excellent at finding the place on the court where no one had an easy shot. Then she slid through the fence and across the parking lot and to the door that opened with a tiny click.
Inside, there wasn’t even a laser grid. No iron grates. Not even a single German shepherd roaming around, growling up at her as soon as she inched quietly inside.
It was dark, though, so April was glad she’d brought the matches and remembered the silver candelabra that was sitting with the Winterborne family dishes.
It only took a moment for her to light all the candles and then ease through the big, deserted room. Moonlight shone through the windows. The old gowns practically glowed, and April felt her heart beat a little faster. Her hands started to tingle, like her fingers didn’t want to work with the rest of her body. Like they knew they were getting ready to touch whatever it was her mother wanted her to find.
The room seemed different in the darkness. Maybe it was all in April’s mind, but it smelled different too. Almost like . . . the Hulk’s farts. And a gas station parking lot. (Which, really, is kind of the same thing.)
But she moved on until she was standing in front of the little jewel-covered chest. For a moment she just stood in the candles’ flickering light, breathing. Watching. She didn’t see any sensors. There weren’t any cameras on the walls.
There was a giant mirror, though, and when April saw a man behind her, she jumped. But it was just the statue of the Sentinel, standing in the atrium, keeping watch, and she realized that the only other person in the building was either a ghost or a legend, and neither one would be strong enough to keep her from finding out what was in that chest.
April stopped breathing, and her hands started shaking, and the key bit into her palm as she held it. Waiting. Wondering. Hoping and praying just a little.
Was it a letter? A map? Maybe the number for a Swiss bank account or a book at the public library—one that would have a code written on the back page in invisible ink and she’d have to use lemon juice and a hair dryer just to read it?
It was quite possible that this was just the first step. She might just be beginning her quest tonight, but that was okay. At least she’d be on her way.
So she put the key in the lock.
And took a deep breath.
And turned.
And absolutely nothing happened.
“It’s stuck,” April said, even though no one was there to hear her. She wiggled. She jiggled. She even spat on the lock, hoping it was just old and rusty and figuring spit had to be good for something.
But the key didn’t turn.
Which had to be a mistake.
She looked behind her, searching the room for some kind of solution. The Sentinel still stood in the atrium. A knife in his belt.
She could pry the lid open, April realized, whirling back around. But she’d put the candelabra on the case and hadn’t noticed the wobble. She certainly wasn’t expecting it to tip.
April absolutely did not intend for all five candles to go tumbling off the side of the case, falling to the floor.
“No!” she shouted, but it was too late. The long white gown had a train of delicate lace that swept all the way to April’s feet. She saw the candles land. Immediately, she leapt to kick them out, but the antique lace was like a fuse, and the fire was soon blazing down the train of the wedding dress and up the hem of every garment it passed—jumping from the clothes to the curtains. From the curtains to the wall.
April wasn’t sure when the alarms started blaring or the lights started swirling. Really, she wasn’t hearing too well. Or seeing too well. Or breathing too well, come to think of it.
She was thinking just well enough to turn back to the little chest and pull out her mother’s key.
It was far too late to stop the fire. The room was filling with smoke, and April felt herself stumbling. She had to get to an exit. She had to get outside. She had to get away, but—
She fell.
And the key tumbled from her hand, disappearing among the flames and the smoke and the terror that was stronger than anything that April had ever felt in her life.
There was a little more air down there, of course, and April was mad at herself for forgetting that smoke rises. She started scrambling and clawing, fighting against the smoke and fire and time itself as she ran her fingers along the floor, searching. Desperate.
The smoke was swirling now. The shadows were moving. It was almost like the Sentinel was alive. Like he was with her. Like she didn’t have to die alone. She could feel him sweeping closer and closer.
And closer.
And as her vision filled with stars and she drifted off to sleep, one thought filled her mind: I thought he’d be taller.