Free The Hidden Boy by Jon Berkeley

eyes of her clan. It was the paleness of the eyes in particular that gave her stare such an unnerving intensity. Her hair was tied behind her head in a tight bun and she had a thin scarf wrapped several times around her neck. She walked silently up to where Bea and Phoebe stood, and looked at each of them in turn. Bea found it hard to meet her gaze, and even Phoebe’s defiant stare seemed to wilt a little. The woman spoke in a voice like a rusty nail. “You’re new here,” she croaked. “Who came with you?”
    â€œCaptain Bontoc,” said Bea. She knew this was not what the old woman was asking, but she felt compelledto give an answer, and she hoped that this one would give nothing away.
    â€œFool,” spat the old woman. It was not clear whether she was referring to Bea or to the captain. “Any more children?”
    â€œNo,” said Phoebe, which was at least half true. “What were you doing at the windows of the Millers’ house?”
    The woman glared at her. “Neighborhood watch,” she said. She looked from one to the other again. Bea felt exposed under her gaze, as if she were in the middle of a field in a thunderstorm, wearing only her underwear.
    At that moment the Millers’ front door swung open and Mr. Miller’s voice called, “Who’s there?” through the gloom.
    The intruders vanished in a moment. As Bea watched they simply slid away between the trees, all except the old lady and the boy, who was extracting himself from the thornbush, and disappeared from view.
    The old woman leaned closer, until her nose almost touched Bea’s and her eyes seemed to merge into one pale disk with a black hole in the center. She smelled strongly of mothballs. “There’s more,” she croakedquietly. She turned and strode silently past the house. “Ike,” she said in a low voice as she passed the boy in the thornbush. Ike freed himself with a final push. He ran clumsily after the gray-haired woman, and Bea thought she heard her say, “Idiot boy!” as they slipped away among the trees.

Tattoo
    â€œC ouldn’t sleep, eh?” said Mr. Miller, leaning over the rail of the verandah. He turned his head and said, “Ladder,” and this time the ladder unfolded itself smartly, aided by a sharp tap from Mr. Miller’s foot. Bea and Phoebe climbed the ladder and sank onto two of the cane chairs. “You can join me for breakfast,” said Mr. Miller. “I like to make an early start.”
    He disappeared into the living room and came out a few moments later with a large breakfast tray. The eggs and toast scattered themselves onto plates in a considerably less tidy way than Mrs. Miller had managed the night before. “Oops,” said Mr. Miller. He poured the coffee by hand.
    â€œPlumegranates,” said Mrs. Miller, appearing on the verandah in a silk dressing gown. She carried a bowl offat red fruit. “Try them. Very sweet.”
    Bea took a bite of the strange fruit. It tasted like raspberries and honey, with a hint of marzipan.
    â€œThere were some strange people trying to look in through your windows when we came back,” she said, wiping juice from her chin. She was carrying too many secrets already, and she was sure this was something their hosts should know.
    Mrs. Miller put down the bowl with a clatter. Her hand flew to her mouth and she looked at her husband with wide eyes. “The Ledbetters !” she said.
    â€œDid you leave the back ladder down when you went out?” said Mr. Miller sharply.
    Bea shook her head. “Phoebe pulled the ladder back up, and then jumped down.”
    â€œThey were standing on one another’s shoulders,” said Phoebe with admiration. “They were pretty good at balancing.”
    â€œThey said they were neighborhood watch,” added Bea.
    â€œWhich windows?” asked Mr. Miller.
    â€œI don’t think they reached any of them,”