Discord's Apple

“Mab, it’s okay. He’s okay. Please.” She felt silly pleading with a dog, when she ought to be commanding her. But somehow she couldn’t talk like that to Mab, their guardian.

While Evie was holding her head, Mab managed to slink her body around so she stood between her and Alex.

This wasn’t working. Evie reached across Mab’s body and took Alex’s hand. She maneuvered around the massive dog until she stood side by side with him.

“Mab, it’s okay, he’s a friend.”

The dog stopped growling, but continued staring at Alex with uncertainty. He offered his hand. She smelled it—distantly, without letting her nose make contact. But her tail wagged a few weak swipes across the porch.

Evie led Alex in through the front door. Mab stayed on the porch, watching them.

“A very devoted animal,” Alex said.

They were still holding hands. She dropped his quickly and took a step away, turning toward the door to the basement.

She could see part of the living room from here. Her father wasn’t there. She almost called for him, then decided against it, not wanting to explain Alex and all that had happened that afternoon.

Downstairs, Evie switched on the light, found the flashlight, and opened the door to the Storeroom. She had no idea what she was looking for. She thought of the woman’s dark eyes, her poise, and her desire. What could she want? Evie panned the flashlight over shelves and boxes, a rack of quivers filled with arrows, a bundle that looked like a rolled-up carpet, a Middle Eastern–style oil lamp, an obsidian knife, a dried-up ear of maize.

“This was your idea,” she called back to Alex. “What am I looking for?”

From the next room, Alex said, “I’m trying to remember the mythology and what was associated with Hera, any items that were particularly he

rs. Or rather, something that she wanted that wasn’t hers.”

There, something tickled the back of her mind. Something the woman wanted, but not hers, or Evie could just have given it to her. She went to a chest of drawers, beside the wardrobe with all the shoes in it. The top drawer held crowns and tiaras.

Alex hadn’t entered the Storeroom. He waited outside, framed by the doorway.

“Can you come here, see if any of this reminds you of anything?”

He glanced up the stairs, then back to her. “I can’t go in there.”

She went back to the door. “Why not?”

He was fidgeting, picking at his sleeves before shoving his hands in his pockets. His face looked tense. “I can’t cross the threshold. I shouldn’t even be in the house.” He drew one hand from his pocket and reached, and flattened it like he had touched a physical barrier at the threshold. It was almost exactly what the woman had done at the front door. “This house—that room—you. You all exist to keep people like me out. To keep us from taking what’s in there. Your dog was right to keep me away.”

“But I invited you in. If I—”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ll wait out here.” He moved to sit on the steps.

What was he feeling that she wasn’t? She’d always felt safe in the house—and they probably never had to worry about thieves. She returned to the chest of drawers, to follow that nagging in her mind.

The second drawer held jewelry boxes, rings, lockets, pocket watches. The third drawer held papers: old parchment, vellum, even a few fibrous sheets that must have been papyrus. Some had maps drawn on them, weathered pirate maps with X marks the spot; some letters with foreign postmarks; poems written in illegible hands in exotic languages. That drawer was filled with whispers tugging at the edge of Evie’s hearing.

The bottom drawer held fruit. One apple there might have been real once, but was now a shriveled, petrified husk with a single bite taken from it. Several apples seemed to glow, but were too light to be made of gold. Two were made of solid gold. They rolled heavily on the wood base of the drawer when she opened it. When she tried to touch them, they skittered away from her, slipping against her skin, like they didn’t want to be held. She needed two hands to catch them, trapping them and lifting them one at a time. One was a plain gold apple. The other, she studied closer.

It seemed to be cast in solid gold, complete with stem. It was cool against her skin, heavy in her hand. Her thumb touched a rough spot. Turning the flashlight to it, she found a design stamped into the gold—five shapes, figures made of the lines and squiggles of ancient writing:

Who do you belong to?

She felt an answer; then the answer faded. No one.

But it was here to be kept safe. That was true of everything here.

Who did you belong to? she asked, holding an image of the striking woman in her mind.

No, not her. Close, but not her.