collect from the postbox. Nick rose even earlier to cut them up, and eventually they had stopped coming.
Nick wondered if this was a picture of the letter girl. He picked it up and looked her over more closely, but he couldnât see anything special about her. The letters had been more than a year ago. Why should Alan still keep her picture? He flipped it over and looked at the back. TONYâS PHOTOS was printed there in gray, but over that in a black sprawl was the name âMarie.â
Nick heard Alanâs limping step up the stairs in plenty of time to put the photograph back where he had found it, and when his brother came into the room, he saw Alan look at the shelf in alarm.
There was no innocent explanation, then.
Alan had not forgotten that the picture was in the book. He had not bought a book with a picture already inside it. He had deliberately hidden this girl, this Marie, away from him.
Nick remembered the girlâs smiling face and scowled, staring at the floor. He felt intensely uncomfortable. It seemed wrong that this girl should matter to Alan, when Nick didnât even know who she was. What was so important about her, that he had to hide her from his own brother?
Nick planned to find out.
Â
That night Nick slept on the kitchen floor in their new home. The cork tiles were curling up at the edges like pieces of old bread, rough against his stomach when his T-shirt rode up, and he hadnât brought down a pillow because he didnât want to be comfortable. He dozed uneasily, feeling like a guard dog unable to rest because he had to be on the alert for dangers outside.
But it wasnât anything outside that he was waiting for.
He was in one of the dark places between sleep and simply having your eyes shut when he heard the sound of the front door clicking softly open. His body moved before he thought: He crossed the hall in two swift strides, fast and soft as a predator. He always found it easier to hunt than think.
When he launched himself at Alan, he did think: He remembered to strike on Alanâs left side. They went tumbling into the grass of the front yard, and Nick landed crouched beside his brother. Heâd been careful not to hurt Alanâs leg, not to even touch it, and now he felt so angry he wished heâd done it after all.
âYouâre not leaving,â he snarled.
Alan lay flat on his back, looking up at the sky. The full moon caught his glasses and made the edges flash brief silver. âIf they can track me,â he began, âitâs not safeââ
Nick laughed harshly. âWhen have we ever been safe?â
How safe would Alan be, he wanted to demand, by himself and with a demonâs mark? Maybe he would be all right; Alan could take care of himself, but Nick wasnât about to take that chance. Nick wasnât about to let him go.
Nick was breathing fast and his vision was blurred a little, turning the edges of the night hazy and pale. He felt as if heâd been exercising too hard. He was just angry at the thought that Alan could leave, so easily, for any reason at all.
Alan sighed and sat up, drawing his good leg up to his chest and linking an arm around it. Nick knew this look from the days when Mum had her screaming fits, or when a teacher wanted to talk about Nickâs reading. Alan looked tired and unhappy, and the expression fit on his face too comfortably, as if he was used to feeling that way and didnât let it affect himtoo much. He was too busy being concerned about what other people might feel.
âNick,â he said gently, âit isnât that I want to go. It wouldnât be for very long. Just until the next Goblin Market, just so that you and Olivia would be safe.â
Mum was the one the magicians were after, the one theyâd always been after. Mum was the one whoâd caused all this, and in spite of everything, Mum was the one Alan was worried sick about.
âIâll leave
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