Free The Real Boy by Anne Ursu Page B

boy for me.” The magician let go of the door frame and straightened himself up. “You are an odd little boy,” he said, speaking right to Oscar’s hollow places. “And it is acceptable to be an odd little boy down here in the pantry with only the cats to notice. But when you are minding my shop, you will not be odd.”
    As always, Caleb’s words sounded sure, themselves a charm. But now they hit Oscar like a punch. There was a warning in them, too, something that called up the void at the end of the world. Oscar tried the words for himself. You will not be odd. He tried to wrap his hands around them and squeeze. But there was nothing there; his hands were empty.

CHAPTER SIX
    The Deal

    T hat night, the shadows of the past revealed themselves to Oscar, as the Wolf in his head laughed. The truth had been there in his memories the whole time—he just hadn’t looked hard enough.
    Something was wrong with him—and down deep he’d known his whole life. Maybe the wards had even said something. (You are not right, boy.) Maybe the other children had. (What’s wrong with you?) Maybe it had happened while he watched one child after another walk off with a family from the Eastern Villages, with a merchant or a farmer. (You know no one will ever take you, right?) Maybe he’d even said it to himself.
    He remembered a feeling, too—vibrations and the sense that his whole body was charged with something, something unnatural, like his heart and brain were always spinning—and that nothing could take it away, not the sticks of the dons or the taunts of the other children or the bemused expression of the islanders who would ask him questions and then pass him by.
    Look me in the eye, boy.
    And another one: that grinding sensation again, deep at the core of him.
    You were the one who would never get picked.
    Yes, he had known.
    You are not right.
    A weight on Oscar’s chest, a steadiness—Crow, though it was not her routine. She purred loudly, as if to overpower the voices in his head. Slowly, his mind stopped chattering at him. There was this—rhythm and softness and nothing else.
    Shh, she said. Shhh.
    She melted into his chest, and he into his bed. He was so tired.
    Shh, she said.
    He could not protest. Crow was right. He had nothing left. He did not care what sleep might bring, as long as there was sleep to be had.
    Shhh, Shhh . . .
     
    Caleb was gone by morning. Oscar did his chores and ate his bread and most spectacular cheese, shook the tinctures and prepared a few envelopes, and then headed up to the shop. It was all up to him: He would be loyal. He would work hard. He would not be odd.
    Oscar tidied the shop; he straightened his white shirt and black pants, he smoothed his thick hair, he rubbed off all the dirt patches on his boots.
    And when it was time to open for the day, Oscar walked over like a good shop boy and unlocked the door. And there, waiting outside, was Callie.
    Oscar flushed and looked down, his guts burning. Callie pushed open the door, and he stepped to the side—she could just take what she needed and leave the coins and go without seeing him. His eyes darted to Caleb’s obscuring blankets, as if he could will one to fly to him now.
    Stillness. Oscar could see only the floor, but Callie wasn’t moving; he could tell that much. The quiet lasted several heartbeats. And then, an echoing beat—the fall of Callie’s boots.
    “Are you all right?” she murmured.
    Oscar swallowed. If only he’d found something for her in the library. He could hand her the spell, and she would know he was good for something besides making the shining girls laugh.
    “Oscar,” Callie said, “listen to me. Those City girls are mean. And horrible. I hope their dresses were ruined.”
    Oscar glanced up. “You do?”
    “Yes,” Callie said. “And their boots, too. Don’t think about it anymore. Is Master Caleb in today?”
    “No,” Oscar said. He straightened and smoothed down his shirt. “He’s away.”
    He