There is nothing more difficult than trying to force yourself to sleep on those long, long nights when your mind refuses to be quieted. Unless, of course, you count swimming the English Channel while wearing iron underpants. Or training octopi to darn socks. Or winning at backgammon against my cousin Bartimus.

Bartimus is very good at backgammon.

All right, there are many things more difficult than trying to force yourself to fall asleep on those long, long nights when your mind refuses to be quieted, but that fact does not make the hours pass any more quickly.

On the night before Jocelyn’s thirteenth birthday she found herself, once again, caught in the grip of insomnia. She tossed and turned in her too-pink bed, too excited to sleep.

After lunch that day, Jocelyn had slipped off to the carriage house, where she and Roger spent the afternoon reading a thrilling history of Ferdinand Magellan. His was a wonderful tale full of shipwrecks, exploring uncharted lands, mutiny, marooning, even murder. In the end, Captain Magellan was stabbed to death by angry natives wielding bamboo spears. His body was never recovered.

Jocelyn’s heart pounded with longing for such a thrilling life, though she could do without the murdered-by-stabbing bit. However, if that was the price required, she was sure she’d gladly pay it, at least twice. Finally, unable to stand it any longer, the girl pulled back her bed curtains and crept across the room. If she could catch a glimpse of the sea from her window, perhaps it would calm her enough to drop off to sleep.

At least that was the lie that she told herself. In truth, Jocelyn knew it was too dark to make out anything of the distant waves—unless there were lights on the water.

The kind of lights that might be on her father’s ship.

She held her breath to keep from fogging the glass and stared as hard as she could in the right direction, but saw nothing. The only lights outside her window were stars.

No matter. So, her father wasn’t coming tonight. She still must do something; the thought of returning to bed was unbearable. Jocelyn’s whole soul filled with mutinous desire. The window was already open a little. She eased the sash up the rest of the way, grabbed a limb of the cherry tree, and swung herself out. From there it was no difficult feat to climb down.

When her slippered feet touched the dewy grass, the girl felt, for the first time in months, completely free. The night wrapped about her, alive and mysterious. A full moon shone, illuminating the garden. A warm breeze ruffled Jocelyn’s hair. She closed her eyes and pretended to be a great explorer, standing on a foreign shore.

Her imaginings were interrupted by the sharp crack of a twig snapping. Something was moving through the nearby shrubbery. Jocelyn had an abrupt vision of Magellan, torn and bleeding at the edge of a lonely sea. She scanned her surroundings for a weapon—a stick, a rock, anything—but the ground was bare.

More rustling came from the thick hedgerow. There was definitely something, or someone, moving her way. In desperation, Jocelyn pulled off one of her slippers and held it out in front of her.

“Who’s there?” she whispered.

No answer came.

“I know someone is there,” she said. “Be warned, I am heavily armed.”

All was still. She moved toward the shrubbery, wielding her slipper. There were more rustling sounds; then something burst from the bushes and ran straight for her. Jocelyn jumped and threw her weapon at it.

It was only a cat. A great ugly cat, but still, nothing but a cat. Her slipper connected solidly with its body—though sadly, being only cloth, it did no damage. (Have I mentioned I do not care for cats?)

The ugly beast yowled and shot into the night. Jocelyn tried to catch her breath. Once her heart slowed to a near normal pace, she crossed to retrieve her slipper. As she stooped to pick it up, she heard a whisper: “Nice arm.”

The girl whirled around, slipper once again at the ready—only to find Roger, doubled over with silent laughter. “Don’t hurt me,” he gasped. “I’m unarmed.”

Jocelyn hurled her slipper, smacking him in the forehead.

Roger fell to his knees and laughed even harder. “I’m s-s-s-sorry.” He could hardly speak. “It’s ju-just that…seeing you there…with your sl-sl-slipper at the ready…” That was all he could get out.

Jocelyn tried to be angry, but Roger’s laughter was infectious. She couldn’t help but join in. “What about you?” she asked. “Incapacitated by hilarity? Perhaps that was my plan all along.”

Roger took a shuddering breath and tried to regain control. “It was a rousing success,” he said. “I may laugh myself to death. Such dangerous footwear…” He lost himself to laughter again.

The children lay side by side in the grass, giggling as quietly as they could manage. The lateness of the hour made everything seem far more humorous than it otherwise would have been. Their sides ached and tears burned their eyes. Every time one managed to calm down, the other started up again.

After what felt like a very long time, Jocelyn finally recovered her wits enough to whisper, “What are you doing out here?”

“Magellan,” Roger replied. “You?”

“The same. There was no way I could stay in bed.”

They lay there, sprawled on the lawn, in companionable silence for a time. “You know,” Jocelyn said, “tomorrow is my birthday.”

“Is it? I’d forgotten.”

“Oh. You did? Well, that’s no matter. It’s not that important, really. It’s merely…”

Roger propped himself up on an elbow and looked intently at Jocelyn. “Merely what?”

“I suppose it’s that I’ll be thirteen tomorrow. I’ve been stuck here for nearly a year, and…I don’t know. Sometimes I can hardly stand it. You know, that feeling—”

“That there is some great adventure out there, just waiting to be had?” Roger interrupted.

“Precisely. Uncharted seas, exotic ports of call, jungles filled with wild beasts—”

“Man-eating plants and cannibals. Things we can only dream of…I know.”

“Oh, Roger, I’ve read all the books we have. Many of them more than once. I’ve learned to fight. I’m ready. But instead of doing heroic deeds, I’m stuck here. Making pincushions.”

“The world does need pincushions.”

“And you need another slipper thrown at you.”

He smiled his special, just-for-Jocelyn smile. “You’ll have your chance one day, Jocelyn. We both will. I’m sure of it.” Roger lay back on the grass again and they fell quiet, gazing at the stars. “Look up there,” he said, pointing. “See that star? The bright one, second to the right of the Big Dipper? That’s the North Star. One day, you’ll find yourself following it into a great adventure.”

Jocelyn fixed the star firmly in her memory.

“Unless, of course, your adventure begins in the daytime,” Roger went on. “In that case, you’ll be out of luck.”

Jocelyn giggled and nudged her friend with her elbow. “You’re horrible.”

“I know. So are you. And Jocelyn?”

“What?”

“Did you really think I could forget your birthday?” He sat up and reached into his pocket. “I was going to wait until tomorrow, but…” He dropped something small and metallic into her outstretched hand.

Jocelyn sat up to get a better look at it. By the light of the moon, she recognized a small brass compass.

“That isn’t your actual present,” Roger said. “It’s more of a loan. I do want it back one day. It was my dad’s—my mum gave it to me before she died—but I thought you might like to hold on to it for a while. That way, you won’t lose your direction, even if you can’t see the stars.”

“It’s beautiful. Thank you. I’ll take good care of it.”

“Now, for your actual present.” He looked right into Jocelyn’s eyes. “I don’t have much, but I can give you a birthday promise. One day, hopefully soon, we’ll use that compass together and set sail for a great adventure. I don’t know when or how, but I am certain we will. You have my word on that.”

The night was unseasonably warm and scented with lilacs. Crickets played their minuscule violins. Up above, those wicked, wicked stars twinkled down on a boy and a girl sitting ever so close together, alone in the dark.

Jocelyn leaned toward Roger, parted her lips, and—

You know, if they had been a few years older and more interested in that sort of thing, this is the part where they might have kissed. I’m so glad they didn’t. It would have ruined the whole story.

As it was, Jocelyn leaned toward Roger, parted her lips, said, “Thanks,” and then punched him on the arm.

He said, “You’re welcome,” and pulled her hair.

After that she was forced to throw her slipper again.

Later, as she climbed the tree to her window, Jocelyn replayed their little adventure in her mind. She was so glad to have Roger as her friend. How terrible it would have been at school without him.

Preoccupied as she was by such happy thoughts, Jocelyn didn’t notice that her room was far too quiet. Prissy’s usual snoring was missing.