Free Daughter of Chaos by Jen McConnel

like they’d been disturbed, but something thumped behind me and I spun around.
    The huge book was sitting on top of the log cabin quilt my grandmother had made for me when I was born. It hadn’t been there a second ago; I was sure of that. I would never have missed such an obvious, visible location.
    I picked it up, ready to return the text to its place on the shelf above my desk, but something about the book seemed odd. It felt lighter than a two-thousand-page book should, and I cracked the cover open, wondering what was different about it.
    There was strange, spidery handwriting all over the page.
    At first, I was pissed. I know it sounds dorky, but I love Shakespeare. It helps knowing he was the greatest Green Witch in recent history, but the man had a serious way with words. I love reading Lear if I want to get depressed or Midsummer if I want to laugh my ass off. And someone had messed with my book. I don’t even dog-ear the pages of my books, let alone scribble notes in the margins, and I had no idea who would sneak into my room to deface one of my treasures. My blood started to boil at the thought, but then I looked at the page more closely.
    The handwriting was spidery and golden, and the letters seemed almost fluid, like the ink wasn’t dry yet. The words didn’t stay on the page, but the text scrolled like a teleprompter. I flipped to another page: same situation. Glancing around my bedroom, I checked to make sure I was alone. As far as I could tell, I was, but given the past few days, I didn’t trust my appraisal of the situation. I considered for a moment and grabbed the flashlight off my dresser. Taking the book, I crept into my closet and shut the door.
    I sat on a pair of crumpled shorts, the smell of sand and surf filling the small space. I flicked the flashlight on and opened the book. Right away the golden words began scrolling again, but this time I concentrated on the text and I was able to read the loopy writing.
    “Darlena,” it began, “pay attention. Everything you read will be erased as soon as you read it.”
    I paused and looked back up the page. The words were gone. I’d seen weird magical objects before, but this book took the cake. Who would use magic to write in one of my books? Mom and Dad wouldn’t bother; they’d just tell me whatever they wanted to say. Clearly, somebody didn’t want to say something out loud, and I was intrigued. I closed my eyes for a minute and willed my short-term memory to kick in.
    I opened my eyes and looked at the book. The gold script appeared and started moving again, but more slowly than before. It was almost as if it knew I needed to take my time with this information. I leaned forward eagerly, trying to decipher the next line.
    “I am not supposed to tell you any of this. Make sure you do not tell the Queen, or else things will be much worse than you can imagine.”
    The ominous words vanished, and despite the threat, I relaxed. Whoever had written in my book wasn’t Hecate, which made me inclined to trust them. Right now, I’d even take Pele over Hecate. I continued reading, ignoring the tingling sensation in my arms.
    “There is so much you need to know. I try not to get involved with the Reds anymore. But Helen was dedicated to me, and her failure haunts me. I’ll try to remedy that now.”
    I looked up into the darkness of my clothes overhead. Helen? Who was that? And why should she matter to me? But whoever she was, she had something to do with Red magic. I gripped the book tightly; this might be my only chance to figure out how to control chaos.
    I kept reading. My eyes grew wider and wider in the dim light of the flashlight, and my pulse started to race. I didn’t notice when the golden words started to blur: I had to keep reading. I had to know what I had become when I pledged to follow the Red path. And the mysterious author certainly seemed to know about that.
    Two hours later, I crawled out of the closet carrying the book. There was