“Ready,” Apollo confirms right after.
“Remember—we want to get caught,” I say, and Drako lets out a loud laugh, already fully committed to the idea.
“This is my moment,” he jokes, and I can’t help but laugh too.
Orpheus’s expression sours immediately when he realizes we’re nearby, and he turns his head in several directions, searching for us. My friends and I exchange one last look before bumping our fists together and nodding.
“Are the cookies safe?” I ask Apollo, and he nods, running a hand over his stomach, where we tied the bundle Rosa made. After we decided what to do, we snuck back into the kitchen and stole it. “Then let’s go. On three.” I warn them. “One. Two. Thr—”
Mid-word, Drako bursts out from behind the wall, laughing as he runs. He’s enjoying this.
I glance at Apollo in disbelief and take off after him. Orpheus exhales sharply when he spots the three of us sprinting toward him and shoves a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, pulling out his damn baton. I knew he wouldn’t have left it behind.
“Stop running! NOW!” he shouts—though I don’t know why he bothers. By now, Orpheus should’ve learned that doesn’t work on us.
“Or what?” I taunt, stopping beside the fire alarm and extending my hand toward it. The caretaker’s sunken eyes widen when he realizes my threat, and the color drains from his face. Damn. Drako was right—thisisfun. This isveryfun.
“Don’t you dare!”
“Or what?” I repeat, and the rush of seeing Orpheus’s expression when he realizes I’m going to do exactly what I’m about to do is incredible. Maybe I’ll let myself get caught more often from now on. I pull the lever.
The sound floods the corridors seconds before people do—and a full minute before water starts pouring from the ceiling. Orpheus opens and closes his mouth like a fish, and we run.
Against the flow of people. Colliding with other children, guardians, and orphanage staff.
Orpheus chases after us, shouting that it’s nothing, that there’s no fire, yelling for people to stop us—but of course, no one does. Everyone is far too worried about being trapped inside the old parish house while it burns.
“Get them! Get them!” Orpheus yells, and Drako, Apollo, and I laugh as we get closer and closer to our final destination. The caretaker is so stupid he doesn’t even realize the path we’ve chosen makes absolutely no sense.
Like clockwork, the witch’s office door swings open, and she steps out, her face pale with worry. Not for the people running, I’m sure—but for the fact that her precious party is being ruined by a supposed fire. The moment she sees us, her expression transforms into a pit of rage.
“STOP! Now!” she screeches, and pretending we have no other option—since the corridor ends and there’s no exit in sight—we stop, panting and soaked, right in front of the witch.
Her dark hair is dripping and plastered to her forehead, her makeup is smeared, and the puffed sleeves she thought were a good idea for a dress look like they’re melting against her body.
It takes effort not to laugh until my stomach hurts, but now I go serious, pretending I’m deeply upset about being caught. Drako lets out a small giggle, then whines. Apollo must have stepped on his foot on purpose.
“You—” she starts, then stops, closes her eyes, and clenches her fists at her sides. “You—” she tries again, then stops once more. Ah. She’s furious. If I’d known this would be her reaction, I would’ve made this our plan from the start. The witch exhales sharply and opens her eyes again. She turns to Orpheus, who stands behind us, panting like a ghost. “I can’t deal with you right now. Orpheus! Lock them in the third-floor bathroom!” she orders, then turns back to us. “And don’t even think about trying to escape, or I swear to God that I—” She doesn’t finish the threat. She lets it hang in the air, like she always does.
Her unfinished threats mean she can always do worse. Worse than pinching. Worse than slapping. Worse than a beating with a belt. Worse than days without food or water. Worse. It can always be worse.
I pretend my shoulders slump, and the witch marches past us, heading back the way we came, leaving us alone with the caretaker.
Orpheus brandishes his baton and strikes each of us three times as he shoves us toward the stairs. We go limp, pretending not to be heading exactly where we’ve wanted to be all along, until the caretaker opens the door and pushes us into the tiny third-floor bathroom.
The light lasts just long enough for me to see Atlas’s wet, stunned face before the door slams shut, locking the four of us inside a space no wider than a meter and a half.
Soaked and squeezed together, we stay silent, listening to Orpheus’s satisfied footsteps until they fade away.
“What are you doing here?” Atlas asks first.
“What do you mean, what are we doing here?” Apollo replies with another question. “It’s Christmas!”
“Someone had to bring your cookie! Duh!” Drako adds.
“And Rosa gave you more than one because you were locked up. We figured we deserved more too—so here we are,” I finish, and it takes only a couple of seconds before Atlas lets out a booming laugh.
“You came here just to get more cookies?”
