Wood Sprites

Jillian glared at her and then kicked at the seat in front of them. “It should be Dufae. Tim Bell is obviously Timothy Dufae, Leonardo’s father. Why is he going by the name Bell?”

“He’s hiding.”

“From whom?”

“Whoever killed Leonardo?”

They had just boarded the last train, switching off the feed from mini-Tesla and reactivating Tesla’s link with their parents, when Louise’s phone rang. She squeaked with alarm: had their parents caught them?

“Hello?” she said tentatively.

Jillian scowled at her; apparently she sounded guilty. Why had her mom picked her to call? Because she knew Jillian lied better?

“Are you still at work?” Louise added to explain her tone. Jillian leaned against her to hear the full conversation. “I thought you’d be at the Forest Forever event until late.”

“Louise! Is Jillian with you?” their mother asked, voice full of concern. “Are you two okay?”

“Yes.” They answered the first question in unison.

“We’re fine,” Jillian said as Louise examined the question for traps. They hadn’t done anything to warrant a phone call, so something must have happened elsewhere.

“Where are you?” their mother asked with sirens blaring near her.

Louise was glad she could stick to the truth since they were on the correct train to take them to Astoria. “We’re on the N train, heading home. We just left Queensboro Plaza. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” And then hesitantly, she added, “There was an idiot protester with a car bomb, but the police took care of it. It pushed our schedule back nearly two hours. I probably won’t be home until tomorrow. The company is paying for a room for me to sleep here tonight.”

“Okay,” Louise said. “But why are you asking if we’re okay?”

“According to a linked story, some of the protestors attacked a nine-year-old at Grand Central–42nd Street Station. Reports are conflicting. Some of them are saying it was a boy who was taken to a hospital, and others are saying it was a girl and she wasn’t hurt. I know you were nowhere near there, but I got worried and had to call to check on you.”

Louise winced. Since they’d taken the 7 train into the city from the cookie sales in Queens, they’d been at Grand Central–42nd Street Station earlier. It had been full of police, but Louise had been so focused on their mission that she hadn’t considered why. The N train connected to 6 local at Lexington Avenue, so they avoided Grand Central on their return. “We’re fine. We’re almost home.”

“I’ll call your father and have him meet you at the Astoria-Ditmars station.”

“Okay. ’Bye.” She hung up and stuffed the Chinese puzzle box into the small storage bin in Tesla’s torso. “Oh, God, that was close.”

Jillian was doing a little victory dance. “But we weren’t caught! We did it! We know all about our older sister, and we got something from our genetic donor.”

But they hadn’t gotten any closer to saving their baby brother and sisters. Maybe something in Esme’s mystery box would help them.

5: Puzzle Box

The Chinese puzzle box took them the rest of the day to unlock.

“Esme’s lucky we’re smart,” Jillian complained.

“Maybe if we weren’t smart, she didn’t want us to open it.” Louise spread out the contents.

There were six old-fashioned 2D photographs within the box and an odd rectangle of metal slightly bigger than their pinkies.

“What’s this?” Jillian picked up the mystery item and eyed it closely.

“I don’t know.” Louise watched as Jillian carefully pulled the object into two parts. One piece was a cap that fit over some type of socket at the end.

“I think it plugs into something.” Jillian eyed the pronged ending.

Louise picked up the box and examined it closely for hidden connectors. “This doesn’t have any place to plug anything into it.”

Jillian shook her head. “If I was going to leave something for my kids before getting into a spaceship and leaving Earth forever, I’d leave a hell of lot more. Like pictures of you and our parents, and copies of my movies and Fritz.”

Fritz was Jillian’s toddler-sized handmade quilt. Their Grandmother Mayer had made both of them one before she died. Louise abandoned her blanket in some long-forgotten period of time, but Jillian’s became a fifth member of the family. For years, Jillian never went anywhere without carrying Fritz. It was how everyone told them apart — a fact they used to their advantage often. By the time they were five and starting first grade, Fritz was tattered. Their mother sewed him inside a pillowcase. While they hadn’t actually seen Fritz for years, Jillian still slept every night hugging him close.

“Who are you,” Louise asked, “and what have you done with my sister?”

Jillian stuck out her tongue. “I know that Esme is still alive out there someplace, but it’s like she’s dead. She’s gone and never coming back, and that’s a lot like dead and buried. Taking Fritz would be like destroying him, too.”

“I would take him. I would want the company. My kid can get her own blanket.”