PROLOGUE
MAURA
16 years ago
“What the devil were you doing sitting under the table?”
My father drags me by the arm out into a hallway.
“I was drawing,” I mutter.
He scoffs and his face does that thing where it gets all red and his eyes roll up and I know he wishes he didn’t bring me to this stupid party.
“What’s wrong with you, Maura? They’re going to think I didn’t teach you how to behave.”
You didn’t, I want to tell him.My last two au pairs did.
I don’t really care that he dragged out of the banquet. I hate it when my father makes me go to these fancy parties, where I have to wear scratchy pink dresses and eat foods that give me a belly ache.
But being shouted at in front of people still makes my face get hot. The older ladies stare at us as he scolds me about “learning proper manners,” until I want to disappear.
Normally, he waits until we’re in the car to lecture me about all the reasons my behavior disappoints him.
I don't smile enough.
I keep fiddling with my hair.
I don't make conversation with the grown-ups.
I don’t actperfect.
He doesn’t care that the new medicine the doctor gives me makes me sleepy, or that none of the grown-upswantto talk to me.They’re here so they can feel rich and fancy, and talking to an almost ten-year-old doesn’t help.
My father pulls me down a hallway toward the kitchens, and the banquet guests turn into cooks and waiters. They act like they can’t see me at all, probably because they don’t want to get yelled at, too.
My father finds a room where they keep extra tables and chairs and moves me through the doorway, finally letting go of my arm.
“Stay here and think about how you should be behaving,” he demands, straightening his jacket and hair. “I’ll come get you when it’s time to leave. Don’t cause trouble, Maura.”
He clicks the lock on the door handle and leaves me in the quiet.
I plop on the floor and stare resentfully at the door. Tear prick at my eyes, but really, it’s not so bad being left here.
I’ve still got my notebook and colored markers in my purple-beaded bag. I’d rather draw by myself than sit with a bunch of boring grown-ups, anyway.
I open my notebook to the drawing I was working on earlier. It’s a girl and her horse, from a book I was reading. Drawing horses is really hard, but I have to practice if I’m going to get better.
“Hey,” someone hisses from the door.
My head snaps up, and I see a little dark-haired boy in a suit lingering in the open doorway. He doesn’t look stiff and uncomfortable in his fancy clothes like I do.
“How did you get in here?” I ask, confused.
He wiggles the handle. “The lock doesn’t work.”
“How do you know that?”
“My parents take me to dinners here all the time.” He shrugs, running his fingers over the woodwork in the door. “They let me explore when I get bored.”
