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She’s always writing to her little brother and sister. Probably her parents, too.
My mom expects me to call every week, and my dad gets on the line for at least part of the time. He’s genuinely curious about Kingmakers. My mom’s questions are mostly intended toreassure herself that nothing horrible is about to happen to me here.
As Anna and I walk down the gentler slope toward the town, I find myself following along behind her again, so I can watch her without her knowing.
I watch her smooth gait, her long legs striding down the hill. Her sheaf of silver-blonde hair swinging back and forth like a pendulum. The edge of her face in profile as she glances back at me.
For one brief moment, I remember the dream I had about Anna during our first week at school. And then I stuff that memory back down inside of me, like I’ve tried to do every time it pops up in my brain.
We’ve barely stepped foot on the main street of the village when we bump into Ares coming out of the post office. He’s got a couple of letters in his hand. When he sees us, he stuffs them into his pocket, not caring if they get crumpled.
“Hey!” I say. “I thought you were studying this morning.”
“I finished.”
“I think you were just trying to get out of hiking.” I grin. “I don’t blame you. Chasing Anna up the cliff is brutal. Not everything has to be cardio you know, Anna.”
“Everything should be, though,” she says, smiling.
“You’re a masochist.”
“What does that makeyou?” Ares says.
“A hedonist.” I grin. “I’ve been dreaming about fish and chips all the way down the hill. You want to come?”
“I just ate breakfast . . .” Ares muses. “But hell yes, I want chips.”
We wait while Anna buys her stamps, then head over to the tiny restaurant that barely looks bigger than a phone booth from the outside. There’s no tables or chairs to sit down at once you’ve got your order. You just take your hot, greasy packet, wrappedup in newspaper, and it’s up to you to find a comfortable rock or curb so you can attack the food.
We order from the local who always scowls at us like he’s in a terrible mood, but still gets our order out in less than five minutes, in hot, crispy perfection every time.
“He doesn’t look like a magician…” I bite into a golden-brown chunk of bass. “But he’s doing some kind of sorcery back there.”
“His apron’s always clean,” Anna says. “And so are his hands. I bet his kitchen is perfectly organized.”
“Do you think the locals hate us?” Ares asks, in an undertone. “Sometimes I feel like they’re glaring at us.”
“The village couldn’t exist without Kingmakers…” Anna shrugs. “Most of the people on the island work for the school in one way or another.”
“Who cares,” I say. “As long as they keep cooking for us.”
Ares attacks his fish and chips like he hasn’t had breakfast in months, let alone an hour ago. He’s filled out a little since we’ve been at school, but he’s still lean. Apparently he’d need an IV drip of pure butter to actually get chubby.
Anna douses her chips in malt vinegar until my eyes are watering.
“What’s wrong with ketchup?” I ask her.
She says, “I like ‘em this way.”
“It’s the European way,” Ares informs me. “Vinegar is better than ketchup.”
“Oh yeah?” I say. “What about fry sauce?”
“What’s fry sauce?” Ares looks concerned.
“Mayo and ketchup mixed together.”
“No.” He rejects that at once. “Only Germans put mayonnaise on fries.”
