“Not just through floorboards,” said Kleo, “but vegetation of all kinds, including roots, grass, and moss. You might think it unglamorous, but I’m sure it’s very effective.”
Despite the fact that it seemed old-fashioned, the twins were impressed. Was there no limit to the inventiveness of the Wardens? Or was it the Gifts? Jaide was confused now. Maybe later she would look it up in the Compendium.
“Eat your lunch,” Kleo told her. “Then off to school. The excitement is over for today … hopefully.”
Ari’s pink tongue darted out while no one was looking and scooped up a tasty-looking crumb from the many Jack had spat out. Kleo always added hopefully when she said something like that. Ari understood. With troubletwisters around, it didn’t pay to be too cocky.
Tell us more,” said Miralda, with a flutter of her eyelashes.
Jack rolled his eyes and slid even farther down in his seat. Jaide poked him. If he slumped any more, he’d fall to the floor. Stefano’s description of his hometown had started off well — Ravenna had been the capital of various ancient empires, invaded and conquered many times over — but once he had left the fighting behind, it had soon become boring.
“Well,” said Stefano from where he was holding court at the front of the class, a hand under his chin as he pretended to think, “Lord Byron lived in Ravenna for a while. He fell in love with a local woman, a contessa, but she was married so they were doomed to part. Later, T. S. Eliot wrote a poem about a pair of newlyweds he saw there. Oscar Wilde wrote a poem about the town itself.”
Striking a pose, Stefano recited:
O how my heart with boyish passion burned,
When far away across the sedge and mere
I saw that Holy City rising clear,
Crowned with her crown of towers!
Jack looked around the room. Half the girls and some of the boys had glazed looks he normally associated with people looking at pop stars. Even Tara was on the brink of succumbing. He could tell because the ball of her pen hung unmoving above a doodle of a flower with seven petals that she’d only half finished. Kyle was slumped over his desk, snoring faintly.
“Excellent,” said Mr. Carver, Jack’s unexpected ally in interrupting the monologue. “Thank you, Stefano, for that vivid picture of the town you live in. You may sit down now.”
A dozen pairs of eyes tracked the boy back to his seat at the front of the class. The girl sitting next to him looked as if she was about to faint. Jack kicked Kyle under the table, waking him with a snort.
Mr. Carver took Stefano’s place. He was dressed in shorts and a soccer jersey that looked five sizes too big for him, with the emblem of a team that Jaide was pretty sure didn’t exist anymore. His sneakers were brown.
“Tonight, for homework, I want you all to write a poem about Portland. Meditate upon the Rock and Mermaid Point, the river and the bay, the willows and the, um, fish markets, and conjure an image of our town for someone who has never been here. What’s special about it? What can you find here but nowhere else? But no monsters,” he added, specifically for Kyle. “We’ve had quite enough stories about them.”
“What about ghosts?” Kyle asked, now wide-awake.
“Ghosts, too,” said Mr. Carver. “Although I’m not aware that we have any.”
“My dad says there’s a woman in white who comes out on the full moon and —”
Kyle stopped in mid-sentence as though his throat had closed over. The only people who knew why were Jack and Jaide. The ghostly white woman was probably Grandma X in her spectral form, looking the age she was when she became a Warden. Kyle was forbidden to talk about anything to do with her in public, even if he didn’t know he was.
“Yes, well, the Portland Peregrinators are valued members of our community,” said Mr. Carver with a puzzled look, “and your father has a vivid imagination, but let’s please keep the imagery to the realm of the actual rather than the fantastical.
He clapped his hands, which made Jaide jump. “Now! To the oval! It’s time for the soccer tryouts.”
The class erupted into life. Mr. Carver led them outside and then, in a brisk, high-stepping jog through the playground, to the oval next to the school. Stefano was surrounded by a gaggle of admirers, answering question after question about what he was doing in Portland and how long he would be staying. He was charmingly vague on both points.
There was a mound of equipment in the middle of the oval, including a net full of soccer balls. Recent rains had made the turf lush and full, ready for the rip and tear of eager cleats. Two new goals had been put up in the last week, one with the banner of a sports company from Scarborough, the other the logo of Tara’s dad’s development firm.
Scarborough always won, Jack and Jaide had learned in the weeks leading up to the match. The competition was for who came second. Dogton, a nearby town of similar size, was Portland’s main rival. There were plans for tents and temporary stands, even a small farmer’s market on the Friday morning before the games started. It was going to be the biggest event since the Portland Players’ performance of Peter Pan, the twins were assured. That had seemed tame by city standards but had kept the small town buzzing for weeks afterward.
Instead of a whistle, Mr. Carver had a small flute around his neck. He piped it to get the class’s attention, but no one heard it. He blew harder, producing a strangled squeak that made nearby dogs hide under furniture.
“Now, children, if you’ll take a ball and form three lines, we’ll get started.”
Predictably, the longest line formed where Stefano chose to go, requiring a reshuffle before the groups were equal and they could begin. First they practiced ball skills, like juggling, passing, and blocking, and then they practiced running around and between orange cones Mr. Carver had laid out across the oval. Singly and in pairs, students ran up and down the field, taking potshots at the goal while randomly chosen goalkeepers did their best to knock the balls away. Mr. Carver threw balls to see who could head the best, and then divided the class in two, ignoring the pleading of those desperate to be on Stefano’s team. A scrimmage ensued, the conclusion of which was obvious to anyone who had been watching.
Stefano was easily the best player in the class. He handled the ball with easy grace, passing it smoothly to the teammates around him and snatching it with blinding speed from those who got in his way. His long, tanned legs took him up and down the field without any sign of exertion, zigzagging, nutmegging, and pinching at every opportunity. Once, he performed a bicycle kick, a move that Jack had never seen in real life before, kicking the ball backward over his own head. Kyle, acting in a defensive position and theoretically responsible for stopping the ball, could only stare in amazement as it whizzed through the goalkeeper’s outstretched hands and into the top right corner of the net.
“Score!” said Mr. Carver from the boundary, both arms shooting up into the air before he composed himself and pulled them back down. “Um, that is well played, Stefano. It’s not whether you win or not but that we all do our best. Gather round, children. I think I’ve seen enough to make my decision.”
Jaide was feeling confident as the class clustered around their teacher. She had gotten in a few good kicks, not once by using her Gift, and she had hopes of being a striker. Jack, she was less sure about. He had spent too much time watching Stefano’s moves and trying to copy them, and had missed some critical shots. He wasn’t the worst in the class by any means — several balls had vanished into the backyards of homes on neighboring Crescent Street, kicked clear off the oval by eager but inexpert feet — but that might not be enough for him to make the team.
Surprising no one, first Mr. Carver offered Stefano a center midfield position. From there he could roam wherever he wanted to go and do whatever he wanted to do.
“You will still be in Portland this weekend, won’t you?” asked Mr. Carver, fiddling nervously with his flute.
Stefano bowed. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving.”
“Then I think we can co
unt you as a student,” he said with a relieved grin. “Dogton won’t know what hit them. I mean, your contribution to the team will be gratefully appreciated. Next …”
He made Miralda captain, which made sense only in the light of the obelisk funding request that had recently gone before the town council a third time. Jaide was named a striker, and Kyle goalkeeper. Jack waited for his name to be called, and forced himself not to be too disappointed when he was listed in the reserves with Tara.
“So that’s our team,” Mr. Carver concluded, rubbing his hands together eagerly.
“Do we have a mascot?” asked Jaide.
“Of course. The Portcupine. Short for the Portland Porcupine.”
All the new students goggled at him.
“I, um, inherited it from the previous teacher,” Mr. Carver explained, scratching his neck where the synthetic material of his soccer jersey was making his skin itch. “Let’s return to school. It’s almost time to sing the Song of Parting. I’ve added an extra verse and I want us all to practice it.”
“Great,” said Jack, falling back as the class moved off. Jaide and Kyle were at the front, discussing tactics, while Stefano held court in the center of a large group, describing his favorite moves. Tara didn’t seem unhappy about not being selected, but she dawdled with Jack, too.
“Thinks he’s the bee’s knees, doesn’t he?” she said.
“And the ant’s elbows.” Jack forced a smile. “Grandma hasn’t even put him on the dishwashing roster.”
“Perhaps you should do that for her.” She smiled back at him. “We went to Italy once for vacation. It’s really nice. The food is amazing, except for all the stinky cheese …”
Jack was only half listening to her story. He had just had a thought: Being on the soccer team would mean training and practice games, which would cut into their studies for the Examination and everything else that was going on. They still didn’t know anything concrete about the Catastrophe or the Warden of Last Resort, nor had they made any progress tracking down Lottie’s past. While Jaide was off defending Portland’s honor on the soccer field, someone had to help save the world.
* * *
It was a strange and largely silent dinner for Susan that night. Grandma X had the twins and Stefano practice their silent communication, which she called “rapporting,” but Stefano referred to as “teeping.” It was common troubletwister slang, he said. Hadn’t they heard of it? No one who was anyone called it rapporting anymore.
If Stefano was able to hear the words Jaide directed at him then, he didn’t react.
The twins found it very hard to get even a single word through, straining until they were pink in the face. Finally, Jack managed to ask Stefano to pass the salt, and Jaide told Grandma X that she’d like the sauce. As was often the case with their new troubletwister skills, it seemed much better to do things the normal, easier way.
“Sometimes you can’t do things the easy way,” their mother piped up when they complained out loud. “That’s why jobs like mine exist. If doctors didn’t learn how to heal people when they were sick because most of the time we’re perfectly well, where would we be?”
Jack could accept that point, but it didn’t help him ask for seconds.
++Alfred tells me you did well this morning,++ said Grandma X. ++I’m pleased. The second Examination will take place tomorrow night. Stefano, you’ll be Examined, too.++
The older troubletwister’s mental voice was a scratchy whisper on the edge of hearing.
++Do I have to?++
++Yes. You’ve had extra time, so I expect you’ll do well.++
He hung his head.
++What’s wrong?++ Jaide tried to ask him. ++What do you know about it?++