Free Adam of Albion by Kim McMahon, Neil McMahon

was
mistaken.
    “I
kept it in my duffel so I’d have an extra, just in case,” Adam bluffed. “Good
thing I did—my other one got torn up when we dumped the bike last night.”
    Barry
gave him a suspicious glance, wondering how Adam had managed to keep it hidden
from him. But his attention stayed on the pack as he checked it out, somewhat
jealously. It was pretty cool looking.
    “What’s
the brand? I’ve never seen one like it,” Barry said.
    “I
don’t know,” Adam muttered. “My dad bought it for me.”
    To
his relief, Barry tossed the pack aside, bored with it as quickly as he’d
gotten interested.
    “Come
on, I’m starving,” he urged, not that Adam needed any pushing—the breakfasts
here at Blackthorn Manor were great.
    The
two boys half-ran through the long stretch of hallway, then down the stately,
curving main staircase, which seemed five times as big as it needed to be, like
everything else in this house. It made Adam feel like a dwarf, and with the
grownups gone on their drive along the coast, it was even emptier than usual.
On Sunday mornings, the cook set out breakfast and then took the rest of the
day off, and so did the butler and Reg. The only one left was Sophie, the
kindly maid, who would stay long enough to clean up and then go home, too.
    The
morning was foggy and chilly, and the huge stone fireplace in the drawing room
was lit with a roaring blaze. They hurried on past it to the dining room, where
a sideboard was loaded with thick slabs of bacon and sausages called bangers,
fluffy scrambled eggs with cheese, scones and crumpets, and tea with sugar and
rich cream.
    And
there at the table sat Artemis, picking at a bowl of fruit and cereal. She
looked as calm as if this was just like any other ordinary morning, and she was
going shopping or to school.
    “Hullo,
Barry—lovely to see you again. And you must be Adam,” she said, offering her
hand politely. Her regal manners clashed somewhat with her repeat of last
night’s outfit, black ripped up skinny jeans and long tee.
    Adam’s
own manners weren’t so refined, and things were a lot different in Montana than
in England, but his mother had taught him the basics. He took her hand, bowing
slightly, and told her it was nice to meet her.
    Barry
watched it all with an expression of disdain—but Adam noticed that he wasn’t
making any snide remarks about Artemis to her face. After seeing her in action
last night, it was easy to understand why—she’d verbally skewer Barry so
thoroughly he’d end up like a pincushion, and no doubt he knew that from
experience.
    Adam
noticed that Artemis not only ate like a bird but she seemed to be a
vegetarian. But the two boys piled their plates high with the luscious food. He
wasn’t just starving—he was dying to get breakfast over with so he and Artemis
and Orpheus could pick up where they’d left off last night.
    Then,
as they slid into their chairs, they realized that the morning’s local
newspaper was spread out in front of their places.
    Violence
Erupts at Watching Druids Concert, the main headline read, and beneath that, a subhead: Several injured in
Dearth-head near riot—rumors of gunfire.
    The
headlines were circled in red ink, and accompanied by a stern note from
Artemis’s father, Lord Geoffrey: “Hope this makes it clear to you lads why you
weren’t allowed to attend this debacle. Bunch of hooligans—shameful! High time
for you to learn that adults aren’t always wrong.”
    Adam
worked on swallowing a lump in his throat that was becoming familiar. At least
Geoffrey wasn’t here to lecture them in person—the note was plenty bad enough.
Barry scuttled into his seat and started eating, keeping his gaze on his
plate—probably afraid that Artemis would see right through him.
    “I
think that’s rather unfair of Daddy—of course you two never even went near that
place, now did you?” she said innocently.
    “How
could we?” Barry muttered through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.