Free The Named by Marianne Curley

Matt the truth, blowing our cover.
    ‘As a teacher, Isabel, and as a friend,’ he goes on, ‘I can only advise. Ethan Roberts is a distracting influence. A C student can’t afford distractions.’
    I can’t help my head shaking ’cause now I’m confused. One minute Mr Carter is coming down hard on Ethan, the next he’s covering up for Ethan spending time with me.
    He looks at me piercingly, and my spine prickles all the way down to my tailbone. ‘Do you think I’m too hard on Ethan?’ he asks.
    ‘Well, yes.’
    ‘Isabel, I’m not hard enough.’
    ‘I’m a little confused,’ I say.
    ‘That’s understandable. But one thing you must remember: trust no one, no one but yourself.’
    Who is he warning me against? It sounds like Ethan,but Mr Carter’s natural dislike for Ethan could cloud his judgement there. Just what is he trying to say? This conversation is too weird. I get down off the desk, eager to leave.
    ‘Do you hear me, Isabel?’
    I nod, backing towards the door.
    ‘If you ever need someone to talk to, remember, you can count on me.’
    At last I’m outside and take a deep cleansing breath. What was Mr Carter on about? Was he warning me against Ethan? And why would he tell me I can count on him , when he just finished telling me to trust no one, no one but myself?

Chapter Thirteen
    Ethan
    Arkarian meets us outside the entry to his chambers, welcoming Isabel with open arms and a warm embrace. ‘It’s so lovely to meet you at last, Isabel,’ he says. ‘Ah, all is unfolding exactly as it should.’
    Isabel’s face turns beetroot red. She swallows hard and licks her lips, eyes fixed on Arkarian’s bright-blue hair. Today it hangs loose around his shoulders, enhancing its vivid colour. I laugh at her reaction. ‘You’ll get used to Arkarian’s cryptic chattering, and his blue hair – eventually.’
    ‘How you flatter me, Ethan,’ he says drily while waving his hand towards the rock wall as if annoyed it hasn’t read his mind and disappeared already. Obediently it opens to allow us entry into his domain. When I first walked into this dark hallway, softly lit with torches hanging from brackets on the polished rock walls, I was too young to take it all in. I can recall no feelings other than awe at the rock wall disappearing before my eyes. Isabel’s eyes take in every detail of wall and ceiling as if memorising the position of each hair-line crack.
    We get to the main chamber, which resembles a workstation you’d find at NASA headquarters a hundred years from now. The room, octagonal in shape, is lined from floor to ceiling with technical equipment that makes no sound except the occasional soft beep with a corresponding flash of light. The centrepiece is what naturally seizes Isabel’s attention. She walks over and lifts a hand as if she can touch the palace that lies within the 3-D holographic sphere with the image of London at its centre.
    Arkarian motions with his hand, and the whole 3-D sphere rotates so that now Isabel has a magnified image of the inside of the Palace of Westminster, specifically the Great Hall, where at least a hundred or more are gathered as dinner is bustled away by hardworking servants. A man dressed in bright clothing gathers the crowd’s attention; sitting before them on a stool, he starts reciting a musical poem which soon has the audience in stitches.
    ‘Geoffrey Chaucer,’ Arkarian explains. ‘On cue and on time. Good, good!’ He rolls his hand again and this time the magnification is reversed considerably. Now we can neither see nor hear the goings-on inside the palace.
    ‘Th–this history is happening now?’ Isabel asks with a stammer.
    Arkarian produces three hand-carved stools, and their sudden materialisation has Isabel softly gasping. I point to the stool in front of her with an open hand and she quietly sits, the three of us forming a triangle.
    ‘This is the time period I’m monitoring at the moment. There’s trouble brewing.’
    ‘That’s