Free Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 20 by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant Page A

Maybe their mother is dead. Or maybe, like mine, she just got left behind.
    "You sure?” The older woman smiles and helps Jack out of a thick jacket. “—'Cause I'd like to get home and start dinner before your parents get home."
    "What's your name?” Jack asks. I am not sure what to answer. I am “my lord” and “your highness.” That name Mama used to call me is almost gone and it wouldn't go with the suit anyway.
    "What do you think it is?” I ask nervously. I risk a glance at the girl, but she is talking to the older woman.
    "I think it's Jack,” he says with a confident nod. “Like me. But Winnie says it's probably something posh like Emma or Helena."
    And suddenly they are looking at me and the older woman says, “You've met a nice young gentleman. Finally.” Winnie's face goes completely red like the maid's does whenever I catch her singing to herself in the hallway.
    My own face feels hot. Jack holds a magazine article up to me. He exclaims, “See! I told you the world is getting brighter. Haven't you noticed that nighttime isn't even that dark and scary anymore?” He rambles on in that high sing-song as he unpacks a soda and some crackers from his very neat backpack. “Soon I bet you won't even be able to see the stars anymore, but it's okay,” he says, suddenly serious. “They're still there. They're just on the other side of the world. You know, and outside the air."
    I try to remember what the stars do, what night looks like. All of that blue black stretched around and over and Mama pointing out shapes drawn in tiny pieces of light. I can clearly see the pale arc of her arm against the black, but not her face. It makes me dizzy so I sit down.
    "Winnie doesn't care about the brightness thing. All she cares about is superstrings like Dad. He's a physicist,” he says proudly and I wonder how it is spelled so I can look it up later.
    "Superstrings?” I ask. Winnie sits down next to Jack, once again regarding me suspiciously.
    "Yeah!” Jack jumps up from his chair, spilling his soda. “There are all these other tiny worlds rolled up inside our world with countries inside them. Right, Winnie?"
    "Not exactly,” she says, mopping up the soda. She doesn't explain what exactly superstrings are, though. “What's your name?"
    "Um, Jack?"
    Her eyes narrow again.
    "See, I told you!” The other Jack jumps up and down again until an employee shushes him.
    "Is that short for John?” she asks coolly and I shake my head, hoping that is the right response. I never find out because she stops talking and we sit there staring at each other for one of those seconds that stretches out too long, as my face gets even hotter. Maybe she is one of Lao's people, or Granddad's. This is probably some kind of test and she knows all about me. I decide I don't care if I fail. At least she and her brother look me in the eye.
    I finally look away to find Jack regarding me with a smile as he munches sloppily on the crackers, crumbs covering the table and the front of his bright red sweater. It is then that I notice the familiar, hard shadow in the corner of his eyes, gray and brittle, like the thin edge of dark that follows Granddad just under and behind, even in the perpetual light of the mansion. It is so much like that too-bright house and the first kind of darkness that steals and swallows. I can smell the rotting leather and wood of it, and I can feel him nearby, his hard, shining eyes watching me from every angle.
    I stagger to my feet, tripping over the chair. I mumble some apology and a whispered “I have to go."
    When I get home I find The Little Prince in my pocket, a nearly transparent receipt slipped inside the cover and, in uneven script, the words “I know what you really are.” I push it into the sneaky seam of dark under the mattress and try not to cry.
    I train with Lao in the back courtyard, sweating and straining in my dark wool suit as we go through the dance-like motions. It starts slow like always and I