CHAPTER 3 - MORNING BREAKS
Eleanor stirred as light spilled across her eyelids. Her body was comfortably warm, drifting up from rest in a slow but pleasant haze. She opened her eyes and had to squint against the first rays of sunshine, falling directly across her face. She looked instantly for Puck and found him sleeping right where she'd seen him settle last night. Puck's gentle pink glow pulsed with his breathing, a rhythm that had quickly become familiar to her.
She watched him snuggle deeper into his makeshift nest, wings twitching as he dreamed. His luminescence shifted to a warmer rose color which signaled his contentment, she'd begun to suspect.
The air held that special stillness unique to early mornings, where the whole day stretches golden and untouched, full of possibility. A time of day bursting with pure potential. Eleanor's mom had always loved mornings, she'd called them the 'first chapter' of the day, like each day was a wonderful book just waiting to be read.
Eleanor lifted her arms in a stretch, trying not to disturb her companion. Her muscles resisted, tense from all their explorations the day before. Her limbs burned pleasantly, relieving her of that stiff, icky feeling she got from sleeping someplace not meant for an overnight rest, and she couldn't stop her groan at the feeling.
Puck stirred at the noise, his glow brightening as he emerged from sleep. His wings unfurled like origami in reverse, each panel catching the light in a beautiful, prismatic display.
"Morning already?" His bell-like voice squeaked. He hovered up to eye level, antennae swaying. "Today sure came in a hurry."
Eleanor padded to the nearest window, bare feet silent on the rug. They had left it open after shaking the dusty covers out last night, the coolness of the night breeze a welcome change from the stagnant air inside the house. Fresh air rushed through the window now, carrying the scent of dew-damp grass and early flowers. Puck zipped past her ear to spiral through the incoming breeze, his joy visible in trails of brightening pink light.
"It even smells like sunshine!"
"You can't smell sunshine," she said out of scholarly obligation.
The revelation that he didn't have any memories beyond yesterday painted Puck in a new light. If he truly did feel brand-new then it was up to her to teach him how the world worked. It seemed like the kind of thing a good partner would do, after all.
She leaned on the windowsill, letting the morning air run through her sleep-mussed locks and closed her eyes, basking in the gentle sunshine. Somewhere in the trees a flock of noisy birds were calling to each other, their cries a distant counterpoint to the quiet room. She looked over at Puck who was hovering on a gust of wind, barely having to beat his wings at all for a change. She frowned as a thought occurred to her.
Puck was very small.
To a large enough bird he could be mistaken for a meal. She inched a bit closer to him and watched the sky with more cautious eyes. No reason in telling him about that danger just yet. If she'd learned anything from the bathroom incident, it was that Puck was a worrier. No need to trouble him unless it became something more worth troubling him about.
He performed a loop-de-loop, ending with a graceful landing on her shoulder.
"Of course you can smell sunshine, the same as you can smell rain." He wiggled his antennae at her meaningfully.
"I haven't got any of those," she said as she gestured at her head, "so no, I can't." Eleanor squared her shoulders, adopting what she hoped was a grown-up posture. "Never mind all that, we need to talk about what we're going to do next. This house feels wrong somehow."
"Wrong like ghosts?" Puck's glow shifted to a cautious yellow. He darted behind her ear. "Or wrong like ancient curses?"
"I'm trying to be serious here." She brushed her fingers through her tangled hair. "We need supplies, and—"
"What if the furniture comes alive?" Puck zipped over to a nearby armchair. "This one looks suspicious. See those claw feet? Definitely plotting something."
"Puck—" But a smile tugged at her lips as he circled the chair's legs, his glow warming to pink.
"And that grandfather clock!" He swooped toward the towering timepiece. "It could be a weapon in disguise, just waiting for an unsuspecting pair of partners to accidentally set it off. Or worse, it could have," he paused dramatically, "tiny birds inside."
Eleanor bit her lip, fighting back a giggle. "We really should make a plan—"
"Duck!" Puck dove behind a curtain. "The clock is starting to rattle. The birds are waking up because we're being so noisy! We'll have to hide and be quiet!"
Eleanor froze, caught between her need to be mature and have a plan, and her desire to play pretend with someone as interesting as her new friend.
"We really should talk, Puck," she began, but she stopped when he seemed to collapse with disappointment. Suddenly desperate to chase away the melancholy blue color he now sported, she offered a tentative, "but I suppose it does look like a suspicious clock."
"See? And that umbrella stand?" His pink glow brightened as he peeked out. "Definitely harboring rebel umbrellas planning an uprising. I think they're in league with the birds."
"They could be secret swords in disguise." Eleanor crept toward the umbrella stand, playing along now.
"Exactly!" Puck looped joyful circles around her head, trailing sparkles of bright rose light. "We'd better check behind all the furniture. For safety reasons, of course."
"Of course." She dropped to her hands and knees, peering under a sideboard. "Can't be too careful with rebellious furniture about. Any one of them might be hiding birds."
BOOM
A thunderous noise shattered their laughter. Eleanor's heart seized as the sound reverberated through the room. Puck's glow snapped from joyful pink to sickly yellow in an instant, his tiny form darting behind her hair.
Another crash echoed from below and the floorboards vibrated beneath her palms. Eleanor scrambled to her feet, blood rushing in her ears. The peaceful morning light now felt harsh and exposing through the open window.
The grandfather clock's pendulum rattled. Dust motes scattered as something massive happened on the floor below, each impact growing louder.
BOOM
More deliberate.
BOOM
Whatever made those sounds was powerful, rhythmically shaking the house with the force of its blows. With a final cracking sound of something large and wooden giving way, the booming stopped. Footsteps echoed from the floor beneath and the distant sound of muffled voices carried up through the carpet beneath her feet.
Eleanor's muscles coiled tight. She pressed herself against the far wall and watched the door, trying to make herself smaller. Puck trembled against her neck, his breath barely stirring her hair.
The footsteps — more than one set — soon began to climb the stairs. The gallery filled with the muffled sound of doors further down the hallway opening and closing, drawing inexorably nearer.
The chandelier swayed overhead as the door next to the gallery was slammed forcefully open. Eleanor's breath came in sharp, shallow gasps that she struggled to control. Her eyes darted around the room, marking possible escape routes. The window? They were too high up and although Puck could fly, she couldn't. The other door? It led to the room strangers were currently rummaging through. That left the door to the hallway, but surely she would be noticed exiting now.
Eleanor's fingers curled into fists as she edged toward the settee where they'd slept. Their makeshift nest of dustcovers still lay rumpled on the velvet, a peaceful scene from just moments ago that now felt like a neon sign pointing out their location. If they couldn't run, should they hide? Surely it would be obvious they were here. This was the only room where they'd removed dust covers from the furniture.
The sound of shattering porcelain erupted from the room next door. Eleanor's heart hammered against her ribs as heavy footsteps approached their sanctuary, and the opportunity for hiding passed as the doorknob began to turn with agonizing slowness.
Puck's glow dimmed to almost nothing, but she felt him press closer to her skin, a gesture of solidarity that made her throat tight with emotion. She wouldn't let anything happen to him. She couldn't.
The door creaked open.
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Peters entered first, leading with his shoulder and scanning the corners in practiced sweeps. The gallery's high windows cast harsh morning light across covered furniture, except for two pieces with their dust covers askew. His hand tensed.
"Contact," he murmured warningly.
"Clear left," Hawthorne confirmed from behind, moving to cover the right side. "Wait—"
They both froze. A small figure pressed against the far wall, hands balled into fists. A child. Female, approximately seven years old, light-brown skin and dark features. Not at all what surveillance had indicated.
"Hawthorne?" Peters kept his stance neutral but ready.
"Rufflet reported movement but nothing specific about..." Hawthorne's voice trailed off as he consulted his telegram. "No mention of a kid, just notes on The Professor's home showing signs of activity and one of the upper windows being opened sometime last night."
"Miss?" Peters took a measured step forward. The girl's eyes darted between them, then to the window. "We need you to stay calm. A dangerous man lives here, and its important that you follow our orders so we can keep you safe."
The girl's lips moved, but the sounds were incomprehensible. Not Galarian or Unovian or Paldean. Not any language Peters recognized. He pulled a large metal box from his back and swung a long apparatus towards his face. Without removing his eyes from the girl he flipped a switch, making the whole machine hum to life.
A genuine portable radio. One of the first of its kind.
"Command, we have an unexpected civilian. Juvenile. Possible language barrier." Peters kept his voice level while maintaining visual contact. "Requesting translator support."
"Negative on translator. Maintain position and secure the objective." Static crackled through the speakers strapped to one side of his hip.
Hawthorne shifted his weight, checking his belt and running his fingers across the pokeballs he stored there. "Sir, the Rufflet reported seeing one human and one 'mon, early this morning on the second floor. There should be—"
"I know." Peters watched the girl's micro-expressions — fear, determination, calculation. She was looking for escape routes. "Miss, we need you to cooperate. Galarian? ¿Paldéal?"
More unintelligible sounds. The girl's shoulders tensed.
"This complicates things." Hawthorne's fingers drummed against a pokeball, unwilling to escalate things without orders. "If we take her with us—"
"Focus on the present situation." Peters took another careful step. "Miss, please remain still. Still." He held up his palm in what he hoped was a universal gesture.
The girl's gaze locked onto his radio as it crackled again. Her posture shifted subtly — recognition? But of what? Surely not the radio. Technology like this was science-fiction as far as civilians were concerned.
Peters' jaw tightened as he studied the girl's defensive stance. Something wasn't adding up. Children didn't just appear in secured locations, especially not ones who couldn't understand basic Galarian and had skin dark enough to be from the distant Alolan Islands. His hand drifted to his belt, fingers brushing against a worn blue and white ball mounted there.
"Command, requesting permission to employ alternative measures."
The radio crackled with static.
No response.
Hawthorne shifted his weight, boots creaking against the floorboards. "Sir, timeline's getting tight. They say he's a slippery bastard."
"I'm aware." Peters kept his voice low but couldn't mask the edge creeping in. His shoulders squared as he took another step forward, no longer attempting to appear non-threatening. "Last chance, miss. Where is The Professor?"
The girl pressed herself further against the wall, her eyes darting between them with increasing frequency. Her hands trembled slightly, but her chin lifted in defiance.
"Check the room." Peters jerked his head toward the disturbed dust covers. "Someone else was here. Deploy S.C.C.'s and be ready."
Hawthorne moved with efficiency, hand dropping down to grip the first pokeball clipped to his belt.
With a practiced flick of his wrist the ball spun towards the ground at his feet before exploding open in a burst of brilliant red light. The girl let out a cry of surprise before falling silent, her eyes so large you could see the entire white of them, jaw hanging open as she gaped.
Boltund shook his long, yellow body in the manner of all dogs, head whipping back and forth as his whole being quivered. He then sprang to Hawthorne's side with professional efficiency, dark wet nose testing the air and a low rumbling growl spilling from his muzzle. Together the two swept the area while maintaining line of sight on both exits. His boots left clear prints in the dust, revealing patterns of smaller footprints underneath.
"Two sets, sir. One human, one... likely aerial. Could be dealing with a flier, possibly in the 'tiny' weight class."
Peters' expression hardened. The mission brief had mentioned a companion, but finding a child instead of their target threw everything into question. His fingers drummed against his belt as he evaluated options, each passing second adding to the pressure building behind his eyes.
"Sir?" Hawthorne's voice carried a note of warning. The timeline was slipping.
Peters abandoned pretense, closing the distance to the girl with deliberate steps. His shadow fell across her face as he loomed overhead, radio forgotten at his hip. "Where. Is. He?"
The girl's breathing quickened, but her eyes sparked with something beyond fear — rebellion? Understanding? The possibility that she comprehended more than she let on twisted his professional demeanor into something darker.
Peters shifted his weight, intentionally leaning into her space and using his body to cast deeper shadows on the spot where she stood. The morning sun through the bay windows stretched their silhouettes into dark giants across the wooden floor. His hand hadn't moved from his belt.
"Hawthorne." His voice carried the weight of unspoken orders.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
"Sir." Hawthorne moved with deliberate casualness to cover the second exit, boxing her between them and the wall. Boltund's claws clicked against the floorboards as he took position, forming a triangle of contained space.
The radio crackled again, this time with sharp bursts of static that made the girl flinch. Peters adjusted a dial without looking, his eyes never leaving her face. The static cleared to reveal fragments of voices:
"...timeline critical... secure the package... authorized for...at all costs…"
The rest dissolved into white noise, but something in Peters' expression shifted. The professional mask slipped just enough to reveal steel underneath. His boots scraped against the floor as he took another half-step forward, forcing the child to crane her neck to maintain eye contact. She looked half gone with stress, already.
"Command has authorized alternative measures." His words carried the hollow echo of rehearsed phrases, meant for records rather than communication. "Note the time."
"Noted, sir." Hawthorne's hand drifted to a second pokeball, smaller than the first. "Civilian presence logged. Proceeding with containment protocol."
Sunlight glinted off the metal radio box, casting abstract patterns across the girl's copper skin. The air grew thick with intent as both men settled into practiced stances — nothing overtly threatening, but balanced on the edge of action.
"Last opportunity to cooperate." Peters kept his tone neutral, but his fingers had stopped drumming against his belt. They now rested with purpose on a specific spot. "The situation can still resolve peacefully."
The word 'peacefully' hung in the air like smoke, its meaning twisted by the predatory stillness that had settled over the room.
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Eleanor perched on the edge of the cushion, spine rigid against the worn seat. Her feet barely brushed the floor, making her feel even smaller than usual. Seated not more than a few steps away was the great, yellow dog the man had summoned from his pocket in a flash of crimson light.
Eleanor felt like her head was spinning from everything that had happened in the last ten minutes.
From the moment she'd first laid eyes on the men, every horrible tale she'd heard about white men on the Reservation came flooding back. Suyape, her mother's people called them. The "ones with the upside down faces".
Mom had plenty of rules about them. Never go near them. Never buy anything from them. Always run to find a cousin if you see one and I'm not with you. They are not safe.
They are not safe.
Her heart had rocketed into her throat, and felt like it was going to beat so fast it might simply stop. It was only worse when they opened their mouths and started talking, theirs words a messy jumble of sounds that meant nothing to her terrified mind. It almost sounded like English, but it wasn't English, not really. She couldn't point to a single word in any of the sentences that sounded familiar, no matter how much the sounds of their vowels and the cadence of their speech tickled her brain.
"I can't understand you," she tried to tell them. She watched the realization that a language barrier existed ripple over both of them. Eleanor felt Puck jerk against the back of her neck, making the tiniest sound of surprise.
"You can't?" he whispered.
She didn't dare answer him, afraid to draw attention to his hiding place. She was focused on the men and their argument, their strangely large radio and the jewel-like metal balls displayed prominently on both of their belts.
"I…I can understand them, Eleanor." Puck revealed in a shaky voice, and he'd begun to translate in tiny whispers that got swallowed up by her hair, traveling no further than her ears.
Through Puck she came to understand that the men were looking for someone they called "The Professor". Her mind immediately leapt to Dad, to his astronomical observatory at the end of the hall, to her burning questions about the painting of him as a child, about where he'd gone and why she was alone. If these men were looking for him, she would not be complicit.
Despite their posturing and their threats, all they'd done so far was place her on this couch and continue their search of the house. Sounds of their forceful methods carried back to the room as they looked.
The strangest moment by far was the arrival of the large dog.
It was all yellow and black and white, in patterns so bold that its fur coat had to have been painted or dyed that way. It was larger than most dogs she'd met, with triangular ears that pricked up, and a long muzzle with gleaming rows of sharp, white teeth. The scariest part of the dog were its unsettling, observant eyes.
And its arrival.
It had come out of a ball, no bigger than a baseball, in a blinding flash of light. It wasn't there until the man called Hawthorne threw the ball, and then suddenly it was.
The one called Peters had left to carry on investigating. Hawthorne had returned, and he stood guarding the door to the hallway. But the dog never left, refusing to walk away from her or look at anything else. It remained seated on the floor nearby, so large that it was still eye level with her.
Eleanor was confident they didn't know about Puck, and she intended to keep it that way. Relatively alone for the first time since their capture, Eleanor finally dared to begin whispering back to him.
"What did they say right before they split up?"
"They're looking for someone," Puck's bell-like whisper tickled her neck. "They think you know where he is. If they can't find him, they're going to take you somewhere else away from here, a place that commands the center of things, or something like that."
Her fingers dug into the fabric, but she kept her face blank. Across the room, Hawthorne's boots creaked as he shifted his weight. The dog's ears twitched at the sound, nose lifting to test the air again.
"The big one was getting impatient," Puck murmured. "Something about a timeline."
Sweat beaded at her temples. The morning sun through the bay windows had seemed friendly earlier — now it felt like a spotlight, exposing every twitch of her face. She forced her breathing to stay even as the dog's yellow fur bristled, its dark eyes fixed on her with unnerving intensity.
Hawthorne cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the tense quiet. His hand hadn't left his belt of shiny metal balls since Peters left the room. The spheres gleamed dully, and Eleanor instinctively understood that it was a reminder of power held in check. For now.
"They have orders to contain the situation," Puck continued, explaining the radio chatter he'd heard. His voice quivered slightly. "Eleanor, they're not going to just let us leave."
She wanted to nod, to acknowledge his warning, but didn't dare with Hawthorne watching. Instead, she let her gaze drift to the window, as if bored or confused. Inside, her heart hammered against her ribs while her mind raced through possibilities. The door stood open, but Hawthorne's stance made it clear — any sudden movement would trigger a response.
The dog's claws clicked against the floor as he shifted.
Eleanor jumped as the surface of the settee shocked her with static electricity, making the tips of her fingers tingle. She rubbed them stubbornly against her leg and tried to tilt her face in such a way that Hawthorne wouldn't see her lips moving.
"We're going to need to cooperate with them, for now. They still don't know about you so at the very least…if something bad happens, you can fly and get away from them."
The back of her neck grew hot, as if something heated was being held close to her skin, and an angry red glow began to shine out from her hair where Puck hid.
"No!" Puck didn't control the volume of his voice enough, and Hawthorne twitched, looking towards the two of them on the couch.
Eleanor slapped both hands against her hair and prayed that it was enough to smother the light. Hawthorne looked confused, but after a tense moment passed he looked away again. In front of her the yellow dog stared, missing nothing.
"Puck!" she hissed. "Stay hidden."
"I won't leave you." Puck's voice was an angry, muffled hiss.
They shared a tense moment of silence.
"Why do they want my Dad?" Eleanor breathed, having already shared her suspicions about the 'Professor' with Puck.
"I think..." Puck hesitated. "They mentioned something about research. About holes between places. They sounded upset while they were talking about it."
Eleanor's stomach dropped. The study flashed in her mind — Dad's sketches of twisted spaces, the empty stand, his obsession with the stars.
"My Dad. They're looking for my Dad." She was sure of it now.
"The tall one said something about 'containment' earlier, like they were expecting to have to contain something. But they seemed to keep talking about 'time', about 'running out of time'."
Eleanor's fingers dug deeper into the cushion as a terrible connection occurred to her. Time. The hourglass drawing. Dad's instruments. The dust covering everything. A horrible suspicion began forming in her mind.
"How long do you think this house has been empty, Puck?"
"I don't—" Puck cut off as Hawthorne shifted position. They waited in tense silence until he settled again. "I don't know. But Eleanor... they said The Professor disappeared twenty years ago."
The blood drained from her face. Twenty years? But that was impossible. She'd seen Dad just yesterday, hadn't she? In the desert, with his telescope...
The yellow dog's ears suddenly pricked forward. Its dark eyes locked onto hers with an intelligence that made her skin crawl.
"You're right to be afraid, little one," the dog spoke in a low rumble that made both her and Puck go rigid in shock. "But not for the reasons you think."
Eleanor's breath caught in her throat. Her wide eyes darted to Hawthorne, but he showed no reaction. Somehow, impossibly, the dog was speaking.
"Your father was not a good man," the dog continued in that same low rumble. "The things he researched, the boundaries he pushed — they were never meant to be touched."
Eleanor's throat closed up. The words pelted her like stones, each one striking deeper than the last. Her hands curled into fists in her lap.
"You're lying." Her voice came out as a whisper. "You don't know him."
"I know enough." His dark eyes held no malice, only a deep sadness that somehow made it worse. "The Professor's work created ripples. Dangerous ones. Things that shouldn't exist found ways to slip through."
Eleanor's chest felt tight, like someone was squeezing her heart. She thought of the study upstairs — the frantically scrawled notes, the twisted sketches that hurt her eyes to look at. The empty stand that seemed to pull at something deep in her mind.
"But he's my Dad," she said, hating how small her voice sounded. "He takes care of me. He shows me the stars."
"When was the last time you saw him, truly?"
The question hit her like ice water. She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again. The desert. The telescope. But something felt wrong about the memory now, like trying to hold onto smoke.
"Yesterday," she said, but uncertainty made her voice shake. "In the desert. We were in Oregon. He was showing me..." The details slipped away the harder she tried to grasp them.
The dog's expression softened further. "Time isn't always what we think it is, little one. Especially around The Professor's work."
Eleanor's eyes burned. She blinked hard, refusing to cry in front of these strangers. One question burned brighter than all the others, forcing its way past her lips:
"Will I see him again?"
The silence that followed stretched like a physical thing, heavy and dark. The dog's ears drooped. Before he could answer, boots thundered in the hallway.
Peters was returning.
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She'd clammed up, refusing to speak with the dog and it had signaled the end of civilities.
"Hawthorne!" The dog had yelled. "Hawthorne! Come here!"
Hawthorne had come over and searched her, and Puck's hiding place had been discovered near instantly. Peters returned to the room empty handed and a conversation ensued between the two men, one that Puck had openly translated in quick little murmurs from his seat in her lap.
The men were convinced that Eleanor was connected to the Professor somehow (true), and that Puck was important to their investigation (probably not true). They intended to capture Puck in… "something". But Puck didn't know the word for it and the translation fell apart.
"A pokeball," the dog supplied cautiously from his spot near the men. He hadn't spoken to them since revealing Puck, and Eleanor glared at him fiercely. "They're going to capture you in a pokeball and take you both for psychic processing."
Eleanor and Puck shared a confused look while the men argued in the background.
"What's a pokeball?" Eleanor adopted the role of mouth piece, still feeling a bit bruised over Puck being discovered.
The dog cocked his head to the side, considering them both, but he didn't answer.
The only other interesting thing Eleanor and Puck had gleaned from the men was that they couldn't speak to the dog.
Whenever the dog opened its mouth and spoke, Eleanor understood it perfectly. But the longer her and Puck watched the men interact with the dog, the more they began to realize the men must either not hear the same thing, or perhaps just not understand English like her and Puck did. How the dog spoke English and the men didn't, Eleanor couldn't begin to understand.
Stranger still was that neither of the men seemed to understand Puck, at all. They acted as if they knew the dog was trying to speak with them, but that they couldn't understand it. Whenever Puck spoke, they didn't react at all. She was allowed to hold him in her lap, but Puck himself was dismissed almost immediately. It was bizarre, especially when Puck resumed translating their words right under their noses.
Too preoccupied with escape to dwell on the mystery of their various language barriers, Eleanor had allowed herself to be pushed through the house and propelled towards the ruins of the front door. As long as they weren't taking Puck away from her, she'd bide her time and wait for the right moment to flee. Her and Puck were partners, after all. She hadn't forgotten how strongly Puck seemed to react to being alone.
She wasn't about to let the men hurt Puck by taking him away. She wouldn't let the dog do that either, for that matter. She glared at the dog bitterly, but it ignored her as they walked.
The front door was in several pieces, strewn on the ground beside its frame. It was likely the source of the loud booms they'd initially heard. Beyond the empty doorway lay a jungle of overgrown rosebushes that had consumed the mansion's grounds.
Eleanor's shoes crunched on broken slate tiles as the taller man gripped her shoulder, steering her down crumbling steps. His partner followed with the dog close on his heels.
Eleanor didn't know why they were leaving until Puck began to speak again.
"Keep your head down and walk." Puck's voice trembled, his glow throbbing a sickly yellow. "They're taking us to something called 'the car'. It sounds dangerous, Eleanor. We'll have to run sometime before we reach it."
The dog's ears twitched at Puck's words, but the men showed no reaction. Eleanor's heart skipped — they truly couldn't understand him. The dog's nose worked overtime, and he seemed to be watching their movements with predatory focus now. Eleanor hadn't relinquished her grip on Puck, fearing their separation, and she tried not to hold him too tightly.
Thorny branches snagged Eleanor's clothes as they pushed through the untamed garden. Ancient stone cherubs peered through curtains of ivy, their weathered faces frozen in eternal smiles that felt more like grimaces. The shorter man cursed as a rose thorn caught his sleeve.
A sleek black car that looked like one of those old-timey models, the kind Eleanor saw in museums or in black-and-white movies, waited beyond the rusted gates. The taller man reached for the back door handle, revealing a red and white sphere rolling loose on the leather seat.
"No, no, no." Puck's glow flared vivid, toxic green and he began to vibrate against her fingers. His tiny form pressed against Eleanor's thumbs, trembling. "Don't let them put me in that thing. Please."
Eleanor's chest tightened at the raw terror in his voice. She didn't understand what the sphere's did, other than summon strange dogs, but an idea began to form in her mind. If you could shrink down a dog and put it in one of those balls, did they mean to put Puck and her in ones as well? Was this the 'pokeball'?
It didn't matter what their intent was, Puck's reaction told her everything she needed to know. If he needed help, she would help him.
Her eyes darted between the thorny roses and the crumbling garden wall, searching desperately for an escape route as the men argued over something in their harsh language.
The dog's hackles rose and it seemed coiled to respond to the slightest twitch. A warning rumble began somewhere deep in the dog's chest. Eleanor felt Puck's wings flutter against her skin, his glow pulsing between yellow and green as he fought between flight and freeze responses.
"Don't even think about it, kid. If you run, you won't like who chases you. I'm Secure, Combat, Contain. They'll send Retrieval after you and….you won't like her. No one likes her."
The man called Hawthorne turned toward the dog and made a sharp noise and gesture, before turning back to his superior. The dog fell silent at the command, but he continued to watch them with a burning intensity.
"They're contacting the Center for Commands and then they're going to put me in that thing, oh Eleanor, please, I don't want to, I don't want to, help—" Puck was becoming a mess in her hands.
Time was running out, she had to act.
Eleanor dove sideways into the rose thicket.
Thorns ripped through her sleeves, but she tucked Puck close and rolled deeper into the undergrowth. The dog's barking yells split the air.
Peters' commanding shouts cracked like a whip and she heard the distinct sound of booted feet, crunching quickly across the gravel.
She scrambled through a gap between bushes. Old stone cherubs guided her path — left at the crying angel, right at the broken harp player. The thorns tore at her clothes, but the thick growth slowed her pursuers more than it hindered her small frame.
The dog crashed through the bushes behind her, more tenacious and lower to the ground than the men. Eleanor's heart hammered as she squeezed through another gap, emerging into a narrow path between hedgerows. Footsteps pounded on either side of the green walls.
"They're trying to trap us," Puck whispered, his glow pulsing yellow-green. "The dog's herding us toward the gate."
Eleanor dropped and rolled under a half-collapsed trellis. Rose petals showered down as the ancient wood groaned. She held her breath as boots thundered past her hiding spot.
Hawthorne's voice carried from somewhere ahead.
Peters voice snapped back.
Puck seemed beyond translating for her, consumed with a fear that left him gasping and clinging to her skin.
Eleanor inched backward, deeper into the shadows of the overgrown garden. The cherubs' empty eyes tracked her progress. The dog's growl grew closer, accompanied by the snap of breaking twigs.
Puck trembled against her collarbone. "The wall," he breathed. "There's a gap behind the laughing angel statue over there."
She spotted it — a weathered statue of an angel bent in eternal mirth, its wings creating a shadowy space between its base and the garden wall. Eleanor counted her heartbeats, waiting for the right moment.
The dog's nose appeared around the corner of the trellis. Eleanor burst from cover, sprinting for the angel. The dog's cry sent Peters and Hawthorne converging on her position, but she was already diving for the gap.
Eleanor squeezed through the gap behind the angel, its stone wings scraping her shoulders. Puck clung to her shirt collar as she wiggled free. The space was tighter than it looked — perfect for a tiny nine-year-old girl, impossible for grown men or a large, talking dog.
The dog's yells echoed off stone, warning her to turn around, to come back. She emerged on the other side and scrambled to her feet, slipping on wet grass. The wall stretched away into darkness on both sides, but ahead lay freedom — a dense line of trees barely visible in the morning light.
"They're going around!" Puck's wings buzzed against her neck. "The gate — hurry!"
Eleanor's legs burned as she sprinted across the overgrown lawn. Behind her, boots pounded on gravel. The men's shouts grew closer. The dog's growls sent chills down her spine.
Twenty yards to the trees. Her lungs screamed for air.
Fifteen yards. The men rounded the corner of the wall.
Ten yards. The dog's panting grew louder.
Five yards. Peters bellowed commands.
The first tree branches whipped her face. She ducked under a low-hanging limb. Jumped a fallen log. Dodged around a thick trunk. The sounds of pursuit grew muffled as the forest swallowed them.
"Left!" Puck tugged her collar. "The ground slopes down!"
She veered left, half-running, half-sliding down the gentle incline. The forest floor was soft with decades of fallen leaves. Her bare feet burned, but managed to find purchase on exposed roots and rocks.
The dog's cries grew distant, swallowing his angry warnings, promises of how they'd be sorry soon enough. The men's voices faded.
Eleanor's pace slowed as the slope leveled out. Her chest heaved. Sweat plastered her shirt to her back despite the cool morning air. But they weren't safe yet — they needed to keep moving.
"You okay?" she whispered to Puck between breaths.
"I'm okay." His glow had settled to a pale, timid pink. His tiny voice shook with adoration. "You saved us."
"We saved each other." Eleanor managed a wobbly smile. "Partners, remember?"
She kept walking as fast as the thick underbrush would allow, staying alert for sounds of pursuit. The forest stretched endlessly ahead, full of shadows and unknown dangers.
But they were together, and they were free.