Free Before the fall: arrival (Embassy row # 0.5) by Ally Carter

M y eyes are closed, but I’m not really sleeping.
    I’ve been like this for an hour, maybe two, when the pilot tells us we’re about to make our descent and the plane starts to come awake around me. Seat backs are brought to their upright and locked positions. Tray tables are stored. Flight attendants tell us that they’re making one last pass through the cabin, but the people on the plane don’t really care about that. They’re too busy staring out the windows at the clear blue waters of the Mediterranean that are rippling beneath us. The people strain, trying to catch their first glimpse of the ancient wall that still rims the city of Valancia, a real-life wonder of the world.
    But not me. I lean back and let the woman in the middle seat have an unobstructed view out my window. I’ve seen it all before.
    “Isn’t that amazing ?” the woman says. I know the sun is rising in the east, casting the ancient city in its golden glow. To her, Valancia must look like something that emerged from the bottom of the sea centuries ago, conjured by magic, protected by dragons. But whatever power the Old World held for me ran out years ago.
    Three years ago, to be exact.
    “They say the wall is a thousand years old,” she says, her voice full of awe.
    I keep my gaze straight ahead. “That’s what they say.”
    “But parts of Valancia are much older,” the woman goes on. “I read in my guidebook that sometimes people even get to climb the wall and walk all the way around the city.”
    Finally, I turn to the window and feel the plane touch down. Without even trying, I recall the wind on my face, the voice of the boy shouting, Don’t do it, Gracie!
    I remember being free, flying.
    Falling.
    “Yeah,” I mutter. “Sometimes that happens.”
    But the woman smiles, unable to hear the things that I don’t say. She thinks we’ve just bonded, that in the five minutes it will take for this plane to taxi to the gate we are going to become great friends. I don’t have the heart to tell her that’s the last thing in the world she should wish for.
    “Have you been to Adria before?” she asks.
    I must mumble something like “uh-huh” because she throws her hands together and exclaims, “Oh, is this your home ?”
    She sounds so excited as we come to a stop. The seat belt sign goes off. People rush to fill the aisles. And this woman keeps on smiling as she stands between me and freedom, completely unable to guess the truth of what she’s asking me to admit.
    For a moment, I can’t help myself. I think about sand castles and merry-go-rounds and the way my mother would roll up her jeans to wade into the deep blue waves, hair blowing wildly behind her, laughter carried by the wind.
    “I don’t have a home,” I blurt then grab my things, anxious to be anywhere but here.
    *  *  *
    There’s not a jet bridge connecting the plane to the airport, so I have to carry my heavy duffel bag down the steep stairs and out onto the tarmac. For a second, I stop and wait for my eyes to adjust to the bright sun and clear blue sky. The air feels different here. It’s something I always forget until I smell it again, feel it again. Salty and clear, it fills my lungs and I’m not sixteen anymore. I’m a little girl, reaching for a hand that’s bigger than my own. Other passengers push ahead, eager to claim their bags and get through customs. There’s no one reaching back for me.
    I turn and look at the high hills in the distance to my right, the blue waters of the Mediterranean sweeping out to my left. I am five kilometers outside the great walled city. And a part of me has to wonder if the woman on the plane was right. Maybe I am home.
    “Grace!” A woman’s yell echoes across the tarmac. “Gracie, come on!”
    I spin, but I’m too late. The woman is already disappearing into the crowd, going against the current. I hear laughter, a distant, haunting sound that seems to be blowing on a breeze that smells like the