“I should have realized Alcatraz would have an aura,” Bastille continued. “It was so obvious!”
“He only barely started using Oculator’s Lenses, Bastille,” Sing said. “You couldn’t have known he’d have an aura already.”
She shook her head. “I was sloppy. I just … have trouble thinking of that idiot as an Oculator. He doesn’t seem to know anything.”
I groaned and opened my eyes, discovering a bland stone ceiling above me. The something hard I was lying on turned out to be the ground. And no, it didn’t want to be friends with me.
“What happened?” I asked, rubbing my forehead.
“Shocker’s Lenses,” Bastille said. “Or … well, one Shocker’s Lens. They cause a flash of light that knocks out anyone who’s looking at the Oculator.”
I grunted, sitting. “I’ll have to get a set of those.”
“They’re very difficult to use,” Bastille said. “I doubt you could manage it.”
“Thanks for the confidence,” I grumbled. We were in a cell, apparently. It felt more like a dungeon than a prison. There was a pile of straw to one side, apparently to use for sleeping, and there didn’t appear to be any “facilities” besides a bucket by the wall.
It was certainly not a place I wanted to spend any extended period of time. Especially in mixed company.
I stumbled to my feet. My jacket was gone, as were Sing’s bag of weapons and Bastille’s handbag. “Is there anyone out there?” I asked quietly. The cell had three stone walls, while the front was set with more modern-style, cagelike bars.
“One guard,” Bastille said. “Warrior.”
I nodded, then took a deep breath and walked up to the front of the cell. I put one hand on the bars and activated my Talent.
Or at least I tried to. Nothing happened.
Bastille snorted. “It won’t work, Smedry. Those bars are made from Enforcer’s Glass. Things like Smedry Talents and Oculator powers won’t affect them.”
“Oh,” I said, lowering my hand.
“What did you expect to do anyway?” she snapped. “Save us? What about the soldier out there? What about the Dark Oculator in the room next door?”
“I didn’t think—”
“No. No, you Smedrys never think! You make all this talk about ‘seeing’ and ‘information,’ but you never do anything useful. You don’t plan, you just go. And you drag the rest of us along with you!”
She spun and walked as far from me as she could, then sat down on the floor, not looking at me.
I stood silent, a little stupefied.
“Don’t mind her, Alcatraz,” Sing said quietly, joining me at the front of the cell. “She’s simply a little angry with herself for letting us get caught.”
“It wasn’t her fault,” I said. “It was mine.”
It was mine. Not words I’d often said. I was a little surprised to hear them come out of my mouth.
“Actually,” Sing said, “it’s really not any of our fault. You were right to suggest following Blackburn—he was probably our best chance of finding the sands. But, well, this is how things turned out.”
Sing sighed, running his hand along one of the bars. I reached out and felt one too, noting now that Bastille had been right—the bar didn’t quite feel like iron. It was too smooth.
“There were a few Smedrys who could have gotten through these bars, Enforcer’s Glass or no,” Sing said. “Ah, to have a Talent like that…”
“I think your Talent is pretty useful,” I said. “It saved us down below, and that stumble you did to create a distraction was great. I’ve never seen anything so amazing!”
Sing smiled. “I know you’re just saying that. But I appreciate it anyway.”
We stood quietly for a moment, and I found myself feeling frustrated and more than a little guilty. Despite what Sing had said, I felt responsible for getting us captured. Slowly, the real weight of what was going on began to press against me.
I’d been imprisoned by the type of people who sent armed gunmen to collect young boys from their homes—people who included a man so evil, he left dark footprints burning on the ground. Blackburn obviously could have killed me if he’d wanted. That meant he had kept me alive for a reason. And I was growing more and more certain I didn’t want to know what that reason was.
It had been a long time since I’d felt true dread. I’d learned over the years to be a bit callous—I’d had to, with my foster parents abandoning me so often. In that moment, however, dread pushed through my shell.
Bastille was still sulking in the back, so I glanced at Sing, looking for some sort of comfort. “Sing? Our ancestors—could you tell me about some of them?”
“What would you like to know?”
I shrugged.
“Well,” Sing said, rubbing his chin. “There was Libby Smedry—she was quite the capable one. I’ve often wished to have a Talent half as grand as hers.”
“And it was?”
“She could get impossible amounts of water on the floor when she did the dishes,” Sing said, sighing slightly. “She single-handedly ended the drought in Kalbeeze during the fourth-third century—and she did it while keeping all of their dishware sparkling clean!”
He smiled wistfully. “Also, I suppose everyone knows about Alcatraz Smedry the Seventh—he would be about sixteen generations removed from you. The Librarians weren’t around then, but Dark Oculators were. Alcatraz Seven had the Talent to make annoying noises at inappropriate times. He defeated enemy after enemy—you see, he distracted the Dark Oculators so much that they couldn’t concentrate hard enough to work their Lenses!”
Sing sighed. “Thinking about those kinds of Talents always makes tripping seems so bland.”
“Breaking things isn’t all that great either,” I said.
“No, Alcatraz. Breaking things—now that’s a real Talent. One of the great old Talents talked about in the legends. I know I shouldn’t really complain about my power—I should be happy to have anything. But you … it would be a true shame to speak ill of a Talent like that. And it couldn’t have been given to a better Smedry.”
A better Smedry …
Sing smiled at me encouragingly, and I glanced away. I’m getting too attached to him, I thought. To all of them—Grandpa Smedry, Sing, even Bastille.
“Come on,” Sing said. “Don’t look so glum.”
“You don’t really know me, Sing,” I found myself saying. “I’m not a good person.”
“Nonsense!” Sing said.
I leaned against the bars of the cell, glancing out—not that there was much to look at. A simple stone wall stood across from the cell. “You don’t know the things I’ve done, Sing. The … breaking. The pain I’ve brought to good people—people who just wanted to give me a home.”
Sing shrugged. “Actually, Alcatraz, Grandpa Smedry spoke of you sometimes. He talked about the … mishaps that happened around you. He said he thought it might be related to your Talent, and turns out it was. Not your fault at all!”
Why did you burn down your foster parents’ kitchen? Grandpa Smedry had asked. It seems like a perversion of your Talent.…
“No,” I said. “It was my fault, Sing
. I didn’t break simple, ordinary things. I broke the things that were the most valuable to people who cared for me. I made them hate me. On purpose.”
“No,” Sing said. “No, that doesn’t sound like something a Smedry could do.”
“Every family has its black sheep, Sing,” I said. “I’m a … broken Smedry. Maybe that’s why the Dark Oculator didn’t kill me. Maybe he knows that I’m not noble like the rest of you. Maybe he knows that he might be able to pull me to his side. Perhaps I’d be better there.”
Sing fell silent. I waited for him to look horrified or betrayed.
After a few moments, Sing raised a hand and put it on my shoulder. “You’re still my cousin. Even if you’ve done bad things, that doesn’t make you a Dark Oculator. Anything you’ve done, you can fix. You can change.”
It’s not that easy, I thought. Will Sing be that forgiving when I accidentally break something precious to him? His books, perhaps? What will Sing Smedry do when he finds all that he loves broken and mangled, discarded at the feet of the disaster known as Alcatraz Smedry?
Sing smiled, removing his hand from my shoulder, apparently thinking that the problem was resolved. But it wasn’t, not for me. I sat down on the stones, arms around my knees. What’s wrong with me lately? Sing seems determined to like me. Why am I so concerned with making certain he knows what I’ve done?
I turned away from Sing and, for some reason, found myself thinking about days long past.
I have trouble remembering the first things I broke. They were valuable, though—I remember that. Expensive crystal things, collected by my first foster mother. It seemed that I could barely walk by her room without one of them shattering.
That wasn’t all either. Any room they locked me in I could escape without even really trying. Anything they bought or brought into the home, the curious young Alcatraz would study and inspect.
And break.
So they got rid of me. They hadn’t been cruel people—I’d just been too much for them. I saw them once on the street a few months later, walking with a little girl. My replacement. A girl who didn’t break everything she touched, a girl who fit better into what they had imagined for their lives.