‘They’re up to something,’ Himalaya said. ‘I bet you anything. There are a lot of them here. Look, I made a list.’
I looked over with surprise and embarrassment as she handed me a sheet of paper.
‘They’re listed by their Librarian sect,’ she said, somewhat apologetically. ‘Then by age. Then, uh, by height.’ She glanced at Folsom. ‘Then by blood type. Sorry. Couldn’t help it.’
‘What?’ he asked, having trouble hearing.
I scanned the list. There were some forty people on it. I really had been distracted. I didn’t recognize any of the names, but –
I cut off as I read a name near the bottom of the list. Fletcher.
‘Who is this?’ I demanded, pointing at the name.
‘Hum?’ Himalaya asked. ‘Oh. I only saw her once. I don’t know which of the orders she belongs to.’
‘Show me,’ I said, standing.
Himalaya and Folsom rose and led me through the ballroom.
‘Hey, Alcatraz!’ a voice called as we walked.
I turned to see a richly dressed group of young men waving at me. One of those at their lead, a man named Rodrayo, was a minor nobleman the prince had introduced me to. Everyone seemed so eager to be my friend; it was difficult not to join them. However, the name on that list – Fletcher – was too intimidating. I waved apologetically to Rodrayo, then continued with Himalaya.
A few moments later, she laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘There,’ she said, pointing at a figure who was making her way out the front doors. The woman had dyed her hair dark brown since I’d last seen her, and she wore a Free Kingdomer gown instead of her typical business suit.
But it was her: my mother. Ms. Fletcher was an alias. I felt a sudden sense of shame for getting so wrapped up in the party. If my mother was in the city, it meant something. She was too businesslike for simple socializing; she was always plotting.
And she had my father’s Translator’s Lenses.
‘Come on,’ I said to Folsom and Himalaya. ‘We’re following her.’
8
Once there was a boy named Alcatraz. He did some stuff that was kind of interesting. Then one day, he betrayed those who depended on him, doomed the world, and murdered someone who loved him.
The end.
Some people have asked me why I need multiple volumes to explain my story. After all, the core of my argument is very simple. I just told it to you in one paragraph.
Why not leave it at that?
Two words: Summarizing sucks.
Summarizing is when you take a story that is complicated and interesting, then stick it in a microwave until it shrivels up into a tiny piece of black crunchy tarlike stuff. A wise man once said, ‘Any story, no matter how good, will sound really, really dumb when you shorten it to a few sentences.’
For example, take this story: ‘Once there was a furry-footed British guy who has to go throw his uncle’s ring into a hole in the ground.’ Sounds dumb, doesn’t it?
I don’t intend to do that. I intend to make you experience each and every painful moment of my life. I intend to prove how dreadful I am by talking about how awesome I am. I intend to make you read through a whole series before explaining the scene in which I started the first book.
You remember that one, right? The one where I lay tied to an altar made from encyclopedias, about to get sacrificed by the Librarians? That’s when my betrayal happened. You may be wondering when I’m finally going to get to that most important point in my life.
Book five. So there.
‘So who is this person we’re following?’ Folsom asked, pulling the cotton from his ears as we left the prince’s castle.
‘My mother,’ I said curtly, glancing about. A carriage was leaving, and I caught a glance of my mother’s face in it. ‘There. Let’s go.’
‘Wait,’ Folsom said. ‘That’s Shasta Smedry?’