Shadow Days by Andrea Cremer, now you can read online.
One
Home wAs A word witHout much meaning for me, but Portland was the closest I’d come to knowing one. That ended with a phone call, like it always did.
“Morning, Seamus, my boy,” Uncle Bosque said, his voice crackling through the static.
Since I’d turned eighteen at the beginning of the month, I didn’t appreciate that he insisted on still calling me “boy.” But considering that it was Bosque, I had to accept that he likely saw anyone who didn’t possess a stock portfolio worth at least five million dollars as less than a real man.
I rolled over in bed, blinking at the clock. 7:00 a.m. On a Saturday.
Bosque was one of those workaholic types with an unhealthy com-mitment to productivity.
“Hey, Uncle Bosque,” I croaked around the morning frog lodged in my throat.
“Exciting news,” he said. “I’m taking you home.”
I sat up, rubbing my eyes. “I’m sorry?”
“Home, dear nephew. We’re finally going home.”
“What are you talking about?” I rolled out of bed, stumbling toward a laundry basket. I found a clean pair of jeans and pulled them on with one hand while holding the phone to my ear with the other.
“You want to take a trip to Ireland?”
This was the only possibility I could dredge up. Ireland was as much home as anyplace else: I’d been born there.
“No, no.” Bosque’s laugh was indulgent, as if I’d just asked if he was taking me to meet Santa Claus at the North Pole for Christmas.
“We’re moving to the family estate.”
The phone dropped from my hand. I swore under my breath.
“Shay?” Bosque’s voice sounded tinny from where the phone lay.
I scooped it up. “Sorry, I’m here. We have a family estate?” This was the first I’d ever heard of it.
“Of course.” Bosque’s tone implied that us having an estate was akin to keeping a family photo album.
“Where is it?” Now that I was beginning to wake up, I felt the too familiar discomfort, like a rock had landed in my gut. Another move. He was talking about another move.
“Colorado.”
I closed my eyes. “When?”
“You haven’t asked where in Colorado,” Bosque said. “I think you’ll be quite pleased.”
“Where?” I forced myself to be polite.
“Vail.” I could hear the self-satisfaction in Bosque’s reply. “Think of all the rocks you can climb there. They have these rather large ones called the Rocky Mountains.” He laughed at his own poor joke.
When Bosque had learned a couple years ago that bouldering was a favorite hobby of mine, he’d regarded me with amusement, asking if I planned to try lion taming next. My uncle had no interest in my outdoor hobbies. His only close encounter with nature had been indulging my request for a pet rabbit when I was four. I’d had to give up floppy when we moved from Oxford to Mumbai three weeks later.
“Vail. Great,” I said quietly.
“Excellent school,” Bosque said. “Quite a pleasant town. We’ll have a fine life there.”
He threw around the word we easily, but I was betting I’d be in Vail and Bosque would be globe-trotting as usual.
“I’m sure it will be great,” I said. “So . . . when?”