Free Emily Windsnap and the Land of the Midnight Sun by Liz Kessler Page A

them, like white fluffy islands in the sky.
    Aaron was beside me. “I thought the reflection was supposed to be different,” he said. “Neptune said it wouldn’t be the same as the reality.”
    I turned in a circle, examining the mountains, then looked back down. That was when I spotted it.
    “It isn’t!” I breathed. “Look.” I pointed at the reflection in the water. “See the two mountains there with all the snow — and then that huge tall one in between them?”
    Aaron followed where I was looking. “I see it,” he said.
    I turned and pointed up toward the mountains. “Now look,” I told him.
    Aaron gasped as he gazed where I was pointing. The two mountains were there, snowcapped exactly the same as their reflections in the lake. But there was no third mountain between them.
    “But that’s —”
    “Impossible?”
    “Exactly.”
    The third mountain — the one we could see clearly reflected in the lake — it didn’t exist.
    Which was when I knew without a doubt that we were in the right place.

I stood at the water’s edge, looking down and trying to figure out how the reflection of the third mountain could be possible. The fact was — it
wasn’t
possible. And yet, it was here in front of our eyes. Not only that, but it had been predicted, too. Neptune had told us we would see this.
    So now what?
    Aaron was beckoning me over. “Em, you have to look at this.”
    I went to see what he was staring at. He pointed into the water right in front of us. “Look at my reflection,” he said.
    I followed his finger. His reflection was pointing right back at him.
    “What about it?” I asked.
    “Watch my eyes.”
    I looked at his eyes in the water. They were darting here, there, everywhere, looking around at the mountains, staring up from the lake into the blue sky above us, glancing this way and that.
    “Stop looking around so much,” I said.
    “But that’s just it. I’m not.”
    I turned to face him, and I watched him as he looked down into the lake. He was staring straight down at his reflection. I looked back at the Aaron in the lake; the eyes were still darting around everywhere.
    “But I don’t understand,” I murmured.
    “You try it,” Aaron said. “Try to look into your own eyes.”
    I looked straight down at myself — but I couldn’t meet my own gaze. My reflection’s eyes were darting all over the place, just like Aaron’s.
    “Remember what Neptune said about the lake?” Aaron asked. “He said you have to meet your own eyes.”
    “But we can’t,” I said.
    Aaron hesitated. Then he mumbled, “What if we hold hands?”
    Suddenly I was angry. “Have you done this?” I asked.
    “Done what?”
    I pointed at the lake. “This. It’s some kind of trick. Probably one that Archie taught you. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but if you think you can make a fool of me again, you can forget it!” I snapped.
    “Emily! Listen to yourself. You’re being ridiculous. Of
course
this isn’t a trick.” And before I could stop him, Aaron had reached out and grabbed my hand. I tried to pull away, but he held on too tightly.
    “Look,” he said. With his other hand he was pointing at the lake.
    Our reflections were shimmering, as though the water had been disturbed, ripples blurring the edges of our bodies. Nothing else in the lake moved.
    “Meet your eyes,” Aaron said.
    I looked down at myself. My image looked right back into my eyes. I stopped struggling against Aaron’s hand and turned to him. “Now what?” I asked.
    Aaron shrugged. “I don’t know. Why don’t we try doing it together? We each look into our own eyes at the same time?”
    “OK.”
    I met my eyes, staring down at myself, knowing Aaron was doing the same, and trying to ignore the feeling of a thousand butterflies fluttering in my chest. Within seconds, the eyes staring back at me turned black.
    “Aaron!”
    “Keep holding on,” he said firmly. “And keep looking.”
    I stared into the black holes where I