The Cerulean (The Cerulean Duology #1) - Amy Ewing Page 0,41

came from the inn, and Agnes took the dagger from her belt. Damn the consequences, she wasn’t about to let the girl be hurt—she would cut her free regardless of any threats. But just then, the inn door opened and two of Branson’s men came swaggering out.

“We’re to stay out here for the night,” one said. “Make sure nothing happens.”

Agnes subtly slipped the dagger back into her belt, cursing herself for her hesitation. The two men threw themselves on the ground at the edge of the open truck door, and Agnes retreated back inside to perch on a crate beside the girl, who was looking back and forth between Agnes and the men with alarm.

“Sorry,” she said. “Those guys are real jerks.” The girl looked confused. “Not nice people,” she tried to explain. The girl’s eyes narrowed, and she made a sound halfway between a growl and a purr.

Agnes had to laugh. “Wherever you come from, it’s got to be better than here,” she said.

The girl shrugged modestly.

“I’m Agnes, by the way,” she said, suddenly conscious that she hadn’t introduced herself. The girl gave a short but beautiful wailing word that Agnes took to be her own name.

“I wish I could understand your language,” she sighed.

The back of the truck was crammed with boxes and equipment, but there was a small square of floor exposed, covered in a layer of sand and dust and dirt from the long ride. The girl poked her fingers through the net and began drawing shapes in it. It was mostly squiggly lines, triangles or circles with slashes through them, and other strange markings Agnes didn’t recognize. When she ran out of space, she erased the symbols with a brush of her fingers. She tried again and a word appeared. A word with letters Agnes could read.

Sera.

“You can write?” she cried. The girl was staring at the letters, looking as shocked as Agnes was. “Sera—is that your name?”

She nodded eagerly. A strong gust of wind blew into the back of the truck, clearing the dirt and dust from the rudimentary chalkboard and making both of them cough.

“Well . . .” Agnes wasn’t quite sure what to say. “It’s nice to meet you, Sera. I mean, not nice given our present circumstances but . . . I’m glad to know your name.”

Sera said something back, and Agnes felt the girl shared her sentiments.

What a crazy turn of events. She had come all this way looking for sprites and ended up finding something even more unique.

The idea struck her like a thunderclap. She didn’t need the sprites to write the essay. She was sitting here communicating with a creature from . . . another world, as far as Agnes could guess. Surely that would count as a brave step in the name of science! She would need a token, though, something to prove that Sera was real. She couldn’t very well bring her over to Pelago and show her to the Masters. A fingernail clipping, perhaps, or . . .

“Sera,” Agnes said hesitantly, because she wasn’t a thief like her father or brother. She wasn’t going to take anything from this girl without her consent. “This may seem an odd request, but . . . might I have a strand of your hair? To study in my lab. I’m a scientist, you see, and I would like to know more about you, where you come from, that sort of thing. Would that be all right with you?”

Sera bent to scratch out more letters, but the dirt was gone. She made a plaintive wail and even though they did not speak the same language, Agnes understood her all the same.

“You just want to go back home, don’t you?” she said. Sera nodded, tears filling her eyes. “Well, I will help you as best I can. That much I promise.”

And she would if she could—she would try at least, even though she hadn’t the faintest idea of how to go about doing it. But she felt like she’d already let this girl down once.

Sera studied Agnes’s face for a long moment, as if deciding whether she could trust her.

“I won’t let anyone know I have it,” Agnes said, for she felt she needed to prove her sincerity.

Sera reached up and plucked a thin blue strand from her head. She looked at it for a moment, as if it was meaningful to her in some way Agnes couldn’t begin to guess, before poking it through the net. Agnes took a