Keeper of Reign

3. THE SOUND OF TROUBLE

NEXT MORNING, JULES couldn’t have thanked his lucky stars more when his mother agreed—after much arguing on his part—to allow him and his four siblings to play in the backyard.

“Since you’re already going out, watch for more precious stones. I need those aquamarines so I can buy some trout from Mr. Saul.” Tippy jumped up and down and clapped her hands. “Fish!”

The thought of flaky white fish melting in his mouth made Jules’s stomach rumble. He’d almost forgotten the texture of fresh trout, baked with butter and sprinkled with chopped cilantro. A whole fish would mean a feast for at least three days. This was one advantage of their size, since practically every other animal had not altered with the curse.

“Daydreaming again?” His mother’s sharp voice rose.

“The blue stones seemed pretty scarce there. But I can get embers and moonstones easy enough.”

“Whatever you can get your hands on. But be back before supper. I’m making potato soup and hazel cream butter.” She nodded at him and he rushed toward the front door, his mind on the flash that ripped the sky.

Was it a stray bomb from the war? Since his father had left for the war, he was expected to be man of the house. Take care of his four younger siblings.

Bitha, his ten-year-old sister, yelled from behind. “Wait up, Jules.” She pushed her jet-black hair away from her pixie face.

Their home under the oak was narrow but long, the kitchen situated at the back end, the dining room sandwiched in the middle and the living room to the front where the only entrance to the home stood. Supposedly his father’s ancestors who built the home considered this a necessary secu- rity feature.

Jules turned and waved at Bitha as he stepped off the porch and shrugged into his cloak. It still smelled fresh from the pine soap Mother used and didn’t give her clues that he’d sweated in it trying to run away the night before. He heard his mother’s muffled voice from the kitchen and wanted to say good-bye but reconsidered. She might change her mind and keep them in again. Paranoia.

Behind him Bitha said, “Don’t worry, Mom. Jules is with us.” She flicked her long black hair over her shoulders, and winked at Jules, her emerald eyes sparkling.

Jules scowled and rushed down the path, pine needles crunching under his swift feet. Just then several acorns dropped, narrowly missing his head.

“Whoa!” What’s with the acorns? Death by acorn will not look good in my obituary.

He scanned the branches above. For a split second he considered warning his mother, but what if she stopped them from leaving? So he brushed aside the urge.

His three sisters, Bitha, Tst Tst, which sounded like Sit Sit, (she’s otherwise, also known as “Miss Big Words!”) and Tippy, scrambled to keep up, but he just turned and gestured with his head for them to hurry, his dark blonde hair flopping on his forehead with each quick jerk.

Jules had just rounded the corner where the marker spruce stood tall when another acorn dropped close to him and he hopped back. What the...? Was someone up there?

“Wait up, Jules!” Ralston, his thirteen-year-old brother, hollered as he tucked a sheath of papers he’d meticulously handbound into a sketch pad into his khaki green cloak.

Jules couldn’t help but shake his head when Ralston finally caught up. Mr. Slow himself. “If you keep lugging your sketch pad everywhere, you’ll always be last.”

“You have your stone collections, and I have my art.”

“You can buy things with my gems. Grandpa said it’s a worthy pas- time.” He nudged Ralston and rushed down the pebbled path pushing stray grass that had encroached onto the pathway with his arms.