My tongue tastes like bile and Christopher George’s citrus cologne.

I feel like a she-wolf with her fur bristled.

Should I walk directly back to the George’s or try to go somewhere else and contact Judith? Is there even anywhere secure enough to make that kind of call around these parts?

I guess it doesn’t really matter, since there’s no way I’d be able to break away from my ‘chaperone’ long enough to find one. If Mrs. George went as far as getting Christopher to walk me home, it means they’re not willing to risk letting me out of their sight any longer. 

If I try to stray from my routine now, they’ll for sure know I’ve figured them out.

Are there any other Actaeons the Georges might have ties with around the city?

The only one I could think of is the blind man with the dog, but I’ve never known him to work with anyone but his snake…

Why does this feel like playing monkey in the middle?

I hate monkey in the middle…

And I kind of doubt I’ll be able to keep my life out of their hands long enough for Judith to find me.

The last time I had to escape my harbor givers, they’d made contact with the blind man by accident, and I just pretended to have a relapse to avoid leaving the house until they sent for Judith to come take me back to the Rookery. They were scared and disgusted but ultimately not dangerous. This time, I doubt I’d survive twenty minutes. 

Or at least…if I do, I’ll probably be far from Larksborough by the time Judith could get here.

Christopher George is still not looking me in the face, his eyes back to scanning the scenery in that skittish birdy way, though he’s addressing me more casually than he ever has up until now. 

Something about his voice makes me think he’s laughing though he isn’t quite laughing.

Does anyone else feel…or…hear…a strange sort of humming?

Am I hearing things that don’t really exist too now? 

“My mother was reminding me that you’ve been here for like 6 weeks, and I haven’t put in much of an effort to get to know you. Any effort at all, honestly,” he kicks the sidewalk, shrugging slightly but he keeps his hands in his pockets.

Does he have a weapon?

“I guess it never crossed my mind in all this time. Sorry about that,” He laughs aloud, a little nervously, and I feel that odd vibration again, like a melting sensation on my insides.

My muscles relax.

N-

What?

The blue eyes are looking directly at my face but I force myself to look at the ground quickly, though I’m not sure exactly why. 

My…brain feels foggy or…muddled.

And it seems to be playing tug of war with my body. 

There’s that humming again.

My eyes go out of focus for a fraction of a second, and I squint at the sidewalk to keep my vision steady…as a warm sleepiness creeps into my chest and lungs.

I want to yawn, but that would be rude, and I can’t afford to make him dislike me any more than he probably already does.

I shake my head, trying to shake off the drowsiness and focus on formulating a plan, but all I seem to be able to think about is the scuffle of Christopher’s sneaker soles scraping across the sidewalk.

I smell…royal purple dye and perfume.

A woman in a pair of purple high tops strolls past us quickly with her golden retriever, who yanks at the leash like he’s following a scent trail.

“On your right,” she says jauntily, brushing past my shoulder.

I almost stumble.

F…focus. Focus, Mora Glas.

But what is that humming?

Am I losing my mind again?

I glance over at Christopher George, who is staring at the sky, and try not to look too as I ignore my drowsiness and scan his form for some sign he’s getting ready to pounce.

“Ummm, so…” he laughs again a little more nervously this time as his eyes roll themselves in my direction, but his posture, head raised stance, remains more or less the same.

That’s almost weirder than not looking at me at all.

“Can we start over?”

I tilt my head at him, confused, as he shifts his backpack slightly, and holds his hand out toward me like he’s trying to shake on a business agreement.

My first instinct is to look toward his other hand to see if he’s hiding a needle or a gun, but he’s looking right at me, so my only good option is to shake his hand.

“Yeah…sure, I guess.”

I barely give him my fingertips.

He seems a little relieved, despite my coldness, but the uncomfortable sheepish smile returns to his face again and he immediately goes back to looking at the sky, his eyes upturned so far that the blue almost completely disappears from view.

On my part, I’m wondering why I’ve started shaking.

“So…,” he sighs again slowly, his shoulders heaving, “you already know my name, obviously, but, just to make it a little easier for me, if you don’t mind, I’ll just…reintroduce myself like new.” 

He looks at me now…sort of…his face more or less pointed toward mine but just slightly off center, his gaze glancing off of my left cheek. He’s holding his hand out again but this time the motion is more playful, like he’s rehearsing a hokey skit.

“Hi, my name is Christopher George. I know your name, but whatever. Sorry, I’m weird. You’ve probably noticed that already. And you are?”

I shake his hand again cuz I’m not sure what else to do, but for some reason, this time, I feel a fluttering sensation in my chest rather than a reinvigorated surge of anxiety, and that same release of tension ripples through my entire body.

“Mora Glas,” I smile vaguely.

A woman in a purple tracksuit jogs past us shouting “on your left,” a little loudly like she’s out of breath.

I can’t help but wince.

“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, again…ish, Miss Mora,” he laughs, then suddenly his eyes brighten and he points to his face. “Oh, look, we both have blue eyes. That’s pretty cool…”

“Yeah, I guess it is,” I laugh slightly.

I’m just entirely confused at this point. Unsettled but unnaturally calm at the same time.

Has nobody ever taught this man how to carry a conversation? 

Is that all this is?

“They’re really pretty, Mora,” he adds suddenly and unabashedly as if he thinks it’s totally normal to call random girls pretty without any segway.

I’m just dumbfounded. 

“Thank…you?” I push out that same uncomfortable laugh, but it’s not uncomfortable this time.

This is a very very very bad sign.

But my mouth keeps on moving, despite what my brain tells it to do.

“I personally find their color pretty spooky because they’re so pale. In bright light the blue washes out and they just look white.”

“Well, pale blue is nice too,” he shrugs casually, “My mother’s Fangsbane used to blossom pink, but she put eggshells around where they grew to turn them this whitish-blue color.”

Again with the Fangsbane. 

I try for the millionth time to make myself focus, but I know I’m failing a little more with every attempt.

Come on. Take this seriously. If he knows where his parents might have gotten them…I could get him to spill, possibly…

“What exactly is Fangsbane?” I smile sweetly as if I don’t already know, “Your mother mentioned it to me yesterday, but I don’t know a lot about botany...”

“That makes two of us,” he laughs dismissively. “They’re just some flowers my mother got from friends she used to have. Something like irises I think.”

Rats.

Well, that gets me nowhere. 

Anyone could have befriended a phant at some point without even knowing it, but that doesn’t tell me where the flowers came from.

Did other people live in Iris Wood before Grammy and Grandpa and the Rayfords did? 

I thought The Sanctuary set that location apart for phants about the same time Grammy was pregnant with my mom.

“When I was younger, my mom's friends would bring some random seed or rhizome from their gardens almost every time they came to visit and my mom would just toss it out the window. She never planted anything, because she thought it would mess up the environment, so she just left the plants to do their own thing, and “whatever grew was meant to be.” I guess everything thought it was meant to be, cuz we practically live in a botanical garden. You’ve never been out to the field or the woods yet, but I’ll have to take you some time. They’re so pretty.”

I realize that I’m staring at him when he looks at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Am I rambling too much?” He laughs and winces at the same time.

“Not really,” I shrug-smile, “It’s just that I’ve heard more of your voice in the last 15 minutes than I’ve heard in 6 weeks. It feels weird.”

But it’s surprisingly not distasteful.

That’s probably the trick. 

Did they really think they could make me drop my guard just by sending me home with a cute guy my age?

I inadvertently frown, and Christopher George’s smile falls a little.

“Sorry,” he sighs, scratching his hair a little absentmindedly. “I’m not much of a talker. As you can probably tell my mother and father are a lot more sociable than I am. To be honest they’re kind of chatterboxes. Drives me coo-coo,” he laughs, motioning ‘crazy’ with one finger, but the sound is half-hearted. We round the corner silently and decide to take the shortcut through the grocery store parking lot.

“When I was younger, I hid in a closet to try to avoid being part of a party my parents were throwing once,” Christopher says to break the silence. “I got found out, but I did try. I think my mom is part drug-sniffing dog.”

Ahh, if he knew what it was like trying to hide from my Mom.

I start to laugh, but then I see Judith’s truck in the grocery store parking lot and dread pours over me like hot water. I freeze dead in my tracks.

“Hey! Watcha thinking about?” Christopher George waves his hand in front of my face when I don’t respond to him calling my name for the second time.

“Nothing!” I bark, and he steps back quickly like I tried to bite him.

“Sorry,” he raises both his hands hurriedly, as if pleading innocent, but his gaze immediately falls to the ground again.

For some reason, I feel guilty, though I don’t really have to apologize.

“I didn’t mean to snap-,” I start to defend myself, but he shakes his head before I can finish.

“No, it’s fine. It’s my fault. My parents said we’re not really supposed to ask you questions, but I forgot about that. Sorry.”

He bounces his shoulders along with the apology as if to shrug it off, and I notice for the first time how weirdly normal and casual his speech is, despite the freaky mannerisms. 

He seems honest.

Which is more than I can say for myself, even if we are both just acting.

I’m starting to requisition everything for the millionth time. Though Judith tells me it’s always better to believe in danger than to doubt it. 

I bite my fingernail and try to feel heartless again. Selfish and unfeeling.

As we arrive at the intersection that leads toward the mall, or toward the George’s if we turn left, I notice a middle-aged couple walking down the street bickering about dinner reservations. The woman is wearing a royal purple dress and the man a matching tie.

I can’t explain the way my heart plunges into my stomach when I see them.

I’m not sure whether I hope the Georges are innocent or guilty. Either way, I don’t think this is gonna end well for them.