My sister Emma went missing at nineteen minutes past two o’clock.
Monterran time.
I remember the exact time because I’d just noted the hour on the tall Gothic clock tower at the far end of the train station. We arrived late due to a bovine Sig Alert when an obstinate cow sat her butt on the train tracks, daring it to stop. If you ride the El to work every day like I do, nothing makes you blink twice.
But here it’s different.
Monterra is fairy tale country.
Their tourist brochure boasts you’ll find more castles here than any country its size, along with weather that promises you an apple-round sun and raindrops as fat as blueberries. Mist-laded paths that lead you to a fairy’s lair.
And the peace and quiet of an angel sleeping on a cloud.
No wonder Emma and I spent hours holding hands and staring out the window of the express train from Paris, racing over the countryside like a mythical, iron-clad creature. Huffing and puffing and taking us on a journey inside a book of dreams. Opening up its dazzling pages to us when we crossed the border through a long tunnel from Switzerland into Monterra. I knew then we were in a special place. The land was so green and the flowers so perfect, our eyes hurt when we looked at them.
Something changed. In me, in Emma.
I saw the glow in her eyes, felt the tremor in her body when she squeezed my hand. I felt shaky inside, too. We’d never been anywhere outside Philly but the Jersey Shore, eating pink cotton candy and gathering broken seashells. Now I was on my way to give a command performance on the aerial silks before Their Royal Highnesses, Prince Nico and his beautiful American wife, Princess Katerina.
Until a cow mooned us.
“Emma, Emma, where are you?”
No answer. So much for fairy tales. And to think I was still pinching myself that the Monterran Cultural Arts Committee tagged me for this gig. Seems the royals saw my video online and were so taken with my “Princess on the Silks” routine, Princess Katerina insisted on adding me to the festival lineup.
Music, magic, and Monterran cuisine.
A festival celebrating the artistic and epicurean achievements of performers and chefs from around the world. This year’s theme was Fairy Tales & Magic. I couldn’t believe that I, Afton Lane, was getting my shot on the international stage. A chance to fly my way into the history books as the first American aerial artist ever invited to perform at the weeklong event.
I was on the U.S. team and invited to room with four other American girls in a hostel within walking distance from the festival grounds. Like going to college and joining a sorority for a week. I never had the chance to go to college, but I was okay with that. I have my art.
The silks.
Fabric suspended from rigging nearly fifty feet off the ground where I perform dips, twirls, splits, and flips. It takes a lot of body strength to do aerial arts. “Ballet in the air,” they call it, a daring display of agility and grace while suspended high above the ground. I also perform on the lyra—aerial hoop.
And I do one arm swing-overs. Nobody does that old-fashioned circus trick anymore, but when I heard that Princess Katerina loves circuses, I wanted to add something special to my act. Besides, I have a nostalgic attachment to the trick best kept to myself.
Up there, I’m a storyteller. I can be anything I want to be.
Even a princess.
That didn’t help me now. Guilt weighed on my shoulders like a wet sandbag, dragging me down. It was my fault my sister was missing. When the van from the festival office didn’t show up—or left because we were late—I became distracted. Trying to figure out how we were going to find our way to the hostel. I should have acted more like the brown-spotted cow when she wouldn’t get off the tracks until her calf had safely crossed over to a greener pasture.
We have a lot in common, that cow and me.
How well I understood her maternal instinct. That need to protect her charge in spite of any obstacle that got in her way. Even a high-speed train. I felt the same way about Emma. She was my responsibility since our dad died. She has no one else. Our mother left us high and dry when we were kids. I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to my sister because I wanted to follow my dream.
It was so stupid of me. I took my eye off her for two minutes to get my bearings when we got off the train. Now I was paying the price. Emma isn’t like other girls. What can I say? It’s hard to explain when your heart is in your throat because your sister’s missing, but I’ll try.
She refuses to speak and lives in her own world. A world of silence.
So you can understand why I could barely breathe when she disappeared. It happened so quick, like she’d grabbed onto a fairy’s wing and was swept away. I had no way of contacting her in our digital world.
She doesn’t have a cell phone. I tried getting her one, but she was always misplacing it. Letting it slide down under the seat in Dad’s old armchair or shoving it into the back of the linen closet. Once I found it in the coal chute.
So much for the family plan. Besides, Emma hates texting. It sprains her fingers, she told me in sign language. I know it’s an excuse, but she works magic with those fingers, designing and sewing my costumes better than any wizened gnome, spinning silk into gold, so I gave in and let her have her way. I know how much she was still hurting inside after that horrible night when Dad died, why she stopped speaking, and I wasn’t going to make her suffer any more than she had already.
Somewhere along the way, I became more than her big sister. A guardian, protector. I wondered if I was too protective, but that didn’t help matters now. As if I wasn’t already mad crazy, I had no cell signal when I tried to call my Monterran contact from the festival office, Signor Alfredo Vigo. The little bars weren’t doing a happy dance. Frustrated, I glanced up. A tall mountain towered over the station like an ornery giant, blocking phone reception. Now what? Bracing myself for the dreaded do-I-dare-try-my-lousy-Italian-and-call-the-local-911, I looked around for a yellow payphone.
Don’t panic. Nothing bad ever happens in Monterra.
This is the land where dreams come true.
But I was desperate. My insides jumped with nerves. The control freak in me was about to lose it. Dragging our suitcases, I looked everywhere for her.
I bolted inside the station, checked the waiting room, the unisex toilet, the cloakroom, and then got down on my hands and knees and looked under the polished wooden benches. I went back outside, my pulse racing madly, sweat pouring into my eyes. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I had every detail planned down to the last sequin.
Then I lost my focus, something I rarely do, and now I prepared myself for the worst. Imagining Emma dragged off to a secret location, her bright blue eyes wide and scared, her throat tight as she tried to call out for help, but she couldn’t. Her vocal cords straining to remember how. No wonder I didn’t see the steps until it was too late. Only three, but it was enough to send me off-balance, my ankle turning at an odd angle.
I wobbled like a puppet with its strings cut, my breath coming hard and fast as I tried to get my coordination on, but I couldn’t. Dragging two big suitcases did me in. But good. Only one was on rollers. The other was a big, old-fashioned case with leather straps that were worn and coming loose. In a moment of what I can only call a total disaster, I let go of the luggage and flung out my arms, praying I didn’t crack my head on the stone steps. Teeth clenched together, my knees buckled and down I went.
Bam!
I braced myself for the worst when I heard the suitcases make a loud, whopping sound. I didn’t move. Thank God they didn’t fall on top of me. Still, a stabbing pain jolted through my leg and I crunched my face up into a mass of pain. My chest hurt really bad, like I’d depleted every oxygen molecule in my lungs. Worse, I couldn’t see. My pony tail had come loose and my long hair covered my face, making me look like an Old English Sheepdog.
An eerie quiet surrounded me. Like the stress of everything that had me on edge exploded like a balloon and I was floating off in a dream.
Then something so unexpected happened, it shifted my whole being into a new gear and sent my heartbeat into a wild scramble. Big, strong hands grabbed me around the waist and pulled me up to my feet.
Oh, God, was I being kidnapped, too?