The Ivory Tower

Chapter One

I stopped counting and opened my eyes. Silence amplified the shuffling of the leaves and the harsh caws of the crows.

"Ready or not, here I come," I called, assessing the empty forest around me. Nothing stood out from the overgrown underbrush, just variegated greens splashed with the occasional bright red dots of salmonberries. After a quick glance down at my scratchy burlap tunic and olive green leggings, worn thin around the knees, I smiled. I blended into the forest perfectly, a ghost among the neglected trees. With a quick crack of my fingers and a tug on my ponytail, I began.

"You'd better have a good hiding spot this time," I taunted, hobbling away from my starting point. One step in, and Christine already had an advantage. I leaned against the nearest tree and shook a few small pebbles out of my flimsy left boot.

Soft strands of sunlight fell on me through the patchy canopy, warning of winter's quick advance. The cold season's bitter winds wreaked havoc on our camp, but here in the forest, scattered leaves painted the floor in a mosaic of colors. Discarded leaves from the maple trees crunched beneath me as I began my search. I altered my steps, slipping my toes beneath the curled tips of the leaves, minimizing the noise I made as I ran.

I'd learned nuances like that over the years. I also knew from the leaves falling around me that winter would swoop in close behind mid-fall. Maybe that's why I slowed my steps, letting the game play out longer than usual. Whenever Christine hid, the game ended quickly. But not today. I wanted to push the limits and extend the game, even if it meant sacrificing a bit of my pride and losing.

I shouldn't make it obvious, though. No one appreciated pity. I slowed my steps, pretending to miss the broken branches marking the edges of the game trails, and hid my smile at the blur darting away at the edge of my vision. I could lose, but not by enough for Christine to sense the deception. That would devastate her, and devastating her would ruin me.

For me, manipulation was commonplace in the cabin with the other orphans. She followed the rules to a tee, priding herself on honesty and integrity, and she held me to those same unrealistic standards. We didn't have much but our word, she cautioned. So, I became good at pretending. So good that sometimes Mrs. Booker, our minder, shot strange looks at me in the evenings if I forgot to drop the act. Just like Christine, Mrs. Booker could detect manipulation—only she called it bullshit and slapped it out of me if it lasted too long. It had happened so many times that I referred to them as love taps. And Mrs. Booker sure loved me.

This time, I didn't have to fake too much. My scrappy leather boots needed repair, and even though I'd already dumped out a pile of pebbles, new rocks had taken their place, jabbing my feet as I climbed through the woody debris. I pressed on, tucking my hands into the cuffs of my sleeves. The farther into the forest I went, the darker and more oppressive the weather turned.

"Come out, come out," I said, cursing silently when I saw my breath.

If Christine noticed, she'd jump out of her hiding spot, common sense getting the better of her. Stories of people stumbling over frozen bodies after the winter thaw convinced most campers into staying out of the forest, especially when the weather turned. It was the same here as in camp—external influences dictated my actions. I ignored my cloudy breath and trudged forward, the end of the game encroaching.

"You can't hide forever," I said. I slid through the game trails, mimicking the smooth movements of deer, weaving between brambles, dormant hives, and traps. In my haste, I missed a dark patch of mud, gasping as cold guck slipped through the hole in the bottom of my boots, sending shivers down my spine.

I jerked my head up at the misstep and caught her gaze. Fear flashed in her eyes before she turned and became a blur of red. I'd caught her. My fingers deftly unclasped the steel container tied to my belt as I kept a watchful eye on the swaying branches in the distance. I trained my ear to the forest, hearing the trampling of bushes, skittering of animals, and a loud thump as she fell. Despite her natural grace, Christine fell apart at the first sign of danger.

My steps announced my slow, deliberate approach. I couldn't stretch it out any longer. The sounds of crunching leaves, shuffling rocks, and cawing crows filled the air. Then I sped up. Over the rocks and around the trunks, my mind humming with triumph and my heart beating a victory tempo. Shades of green blurred together as I narrowed in on my target.

Carefully pulling out a small bag, I rolled the golden coagulated paint in its plastic pouch. I tossed the package between my hands, careful not to squeeze it too hard. Belly down on the ground in her crumpled cranberry sweater, Christine looked up at me. Broken branches and patches of dirt covered her clothes. A pang of guilt touched me as I lobbed the ball of paint. It didn't last long.

"Got you!" I exclaimed. The bag popped, and gold paint coated Christine's back. Her cranberry sweater was flecked like corroded rust, and small golden dots speckled her tangled auburn hair.

I jumped down, half-expecting to be ambushed. Nothing happened. I tilted my head, questioning the silence. "Christine?" I asked, poking her from behind.

Christine twisted around, her blue eyes wide with terror.

"What is it? What's wrong?" I scanned the forest.

Christine's jaw trembled. Pushing herself up, she pointed back into the woods.

Nothing seemed odd or out of place. I took a quick inventory of our surroundings—the grayish-brown bark of the old cedar trees, bright berries, and a white trunk. My gaze jumped back to the pale trunk. I looked up. "The ivory tower," I murmured.

"We have to go," Christine whispered behind me.

I froze, barely feeling her insistent tugging on the cuff of my shirt.

I'd never been this close to the edge of camp before. We had run the small stretch of woods in the back of the camp near the cabin for years but never ventured to the outer boundaries. I focused on the barbed wire camouflaged against stacked brambles and woody debris. Rust and moss grew around the sharp teeth of the corroded metal. Beyond it, what I'd taken for a white tree revealed itself as the brick base of a tower.

The tidy stacks of bricks had worn down over the years. Above dilapidated mortar and piles of bricks at the base, white paint flecked off the sides, leaving exposed gaps in the facade. Tendrils of dried thorns and wilted roses clung to the crumbling walls. At the top, the tower widened. A row of shattered windows looked out toward the camp. Squinting, I glimpsed writing on the dangling threshold marker. Faded charcoal letters described the tower with one word.

"Restricted," I whispered, my breath clouding the air.

Christine's cold fingers pulled at my sweater as I moved closer. "Simone, this isn't safe." She grabbed my arm. "We shouldn't be this close to the edge."

Her words fell on deaf ears. I was captivated. She tugged again, drawing me away from the discovery. Twisting around, I shot her an annoyed look and brushed the bangs out of my face. "What?" I demanded.

"I want to go," she said, tears brimming in her eyes.

I looked at my friend, and then back at the tower, searing the image into my mind. A new sensation gripped me, a seductive blend of fear and curiosity. In sixteen years here at camp, I had never felt that rush. I didn't want it to end.

"Simone."

I relented with a sigh, feeling the lure of the tower break.