THE NEXT MORNING, I decided I wasn't going to waste time on pleasantries. Sebastian was sitting by my window in his owl form, preening his feathers in that slow, deliberate way of his. The faint morning light caught the edges of his wings, turning them to ribbons of gold and brown. But I wasn't admiring his feathers—I was brimming with questions, and the night's sleep (or lack thereof) had done nothing to cool my curiosity.
"What are they, Sebastian?" I blurted out before he could even greet me. "What are the men in black? What do they want? How many gifted beings are there? Are they all like you? Where do they come from? Do they—"
He gave me a look—or whatever the owl version of one is—blinking once, slowly. "One question at a time, Miss Alice."
That wasn't going to happen. My mind was too restless. "But you didn't answer last night! You just vanished!"
"I did not vanish," he said in that clipped, British tone of his. "I simply left before your dear mother could notice me perched in the middle of her daughter's bedroom."
The way he said it made me pause. Yes, it was absurd. But then again, so was the fact that he could speak, shift into a humanoid form, and apparently fight off men in black suits. My mouth opened again before my brain could tell it to stop.
"So? The men, who are they? Why were they after me?"
Sebastian sighed, the sound less like breath and more like wind sweeping through old wood. "I have told you—twice, perhaps thrice—that they are dangerous. Dangerous enough that even the foolish avoid them."
"That's not an answer," I insisted.
He stared at me for a long moment, as though weighing whether I deserved the truth. Then, with a slow, almost reluctant movement, he hopped down from the windowsill and shifted into his humanoid form—into that tall, cloaked in fabric that looked almost like an overcoat, with rough, poor-looking clothes beneath. His head remained that of an owl, but somehow his gaze felt sharper and more human.
"I have," he began, "spent years—years, mind you—wandering across this country. Every day searching, every night hiding, looking for gifted like me. Others." His voice had dropped lower, heavier. I found myself leaning forward despite myself.
"And one day," Sebastian continued, his voice low but carrying a certain weight, "I came across it—a massive house tucked away where no road dares to go."
I leaned forward slightly on my bed, resting my elbows on my knees. "No road?" I repeated, trying to picture it.
He nodded once, his amber eyes catching the faint lamplight. "At first, I thought it was abandoned. The windows were shuttered, the garden silent, and there wasn't a sound—not a bird, not even the wind."
His tone slowed, almost as if he was seeing it again in his mind. "But then, I saw some people."
My grip tightened on the blanket draped across my lap. "People?"
"Yeah," he said. "They wore white clothes and they move through the grounds like shadows that knew where they belonged. They weren't just normal people, Alice. They were gifted. All of them. But unlike me, most of them look ordinary. And all of them live there together, hidden from the rest of the world."
I imagined the scene—silent figures in pale clothes, walking in some secret garden no one else knew about. It almost sounded peaceful, but something in his voice told me it wasn't that simple.
My brow furrowed. "Was it a safe house?"
"In a manner of speaking." His beak tilted slightly as if in hesitation. "I observed it from afar for some time. Days. Weeks. I watched them eat together, train together. Children and adults alike. But there was something…" He paused. "Something weird. They never left the house, Miss Alice. Not once. Not to fetch food, not to walk beyond the gates. I mean apart from that one guy there with a mustache. It was as if the world beyond that place didn't exist to those kids and teens—or perhaps, wasn't allowed to exist."
A chill prickled the back of my neck. "Who runs it, then?"
"That," Sebastian said, "is the very reason I never entered. A man—tall, sophisticated, always dressed in a suit. He moved among them like a shepherd among his flock, and yet… I could never see him directly. Not once."
I blinked. "Where is this place?"
"They were hidden behind the valley, Miss Alice. It's kinda far. But if I am not mistaken, it's somewhere around Willowmere."
"Willowmere," I said.
It sounded ridiculous. And yet, after everything I had seen in the past few days, I couldn't dismiss it entirely. "But if you're constantly running and hiding, why not take the risk? Even if something felt off, wouldn't it still be safer than—" I gestured vaguely at him— "wandering around?"
His feathers shifted, almost bristling. "Because safety is an illusion, Miss Alice. I have learned that the hard way. Doors that look solid can be paper-thin. Walls meant to keep danger out can keep you locked in. And besides, if it were safe there, I still want to have my freedom. Seeing the kids trapped there makes me want to stay away from that area."
I didn't know what to say to that. My entire life had been behind walls—lavish, gilded ones, yes, but still walls.
Sebastian's tone softened unexpectedly. "But you know, Miss Alice, I do envy. Even with my suspicions, I envied them. Imagine, Miss Alice—nights without fear, mornings without wondering if you'll live to see the outskirts of the valley. That is what they have. Or at least… what it appears they have."
I swallowed. "And you want that?"
"I want to stop running," he admitted. "But running is all I know."
Something in my chest tightened. For all his oddness, I realized Sebastian was lonely. Desperately so. And as much as I wanted to pry further, I felt the weight in the room shift—the kind of quiet that tells you you've pressed too far.
So I didn't ask anything else. Not then. I just sat there, trying to process everything Sebastian had just told me. Gifted beings, a strange house where no one left, a man in a suit—his words swirled around in my head like autumn leaves caught in a gust. It was too much and yet not enough, every sentence leaving more questions than answers. I could still see him in my mind—his tall, strange figure, the way the faint light had caught on his feathers as he spoke.
I didn't even realize how quiet the house had become until something creaked.
The sound of the front gate creaking open cut through my thoughts like a blade. My body stiffened. Gates opening here usually meant someone important was arriving—like dad's friends, politicians, wealthy acquaintances, and his business partners. But the footsteps I heard weren't confident and heavy like those people's. They were lighter, hesitant. They were, in fact, familiar. Curiosity then pulled me to my window. I parted the curtains just enough to see—and my stomach dropped.
What the hell is she even doing here?
Of all people, it had to be her. She was walking up our porch steps, her head slightly lowered, clutching a stack of books to her chest like she was afraid they'd disappear if she let go. My blood became warmer by the second, though I couldn't explain why. It wasn't anxiety—more of like irritation laced with alarm. Harriet didn't belong here. She didn't belong in my house.
I turned back to Sebastian, who was still watching me, his head cocked in that curious owl tilt. "I… uh… someone's here, Miss Alice. You should probably—"
He didn't even wait for me to stop him. The air around him seemed to ripple, like heat waves bending the light. His cloak of feathers quivered, each plume loosening from his form and curling inward, folding over his shoulders. His limbs seemed to draw in on themselves, shrinking, compressing with a strange motion. The soft rustle of feathers replaced the sound of breathing. And his hands receded into talons that gleamed in thelight, and the curve of his back straightened into the proud posture of a bird. His eyes, already golden, sharpened into round, predatory orbs, and in the span of a heartbeat, his entire body had narrowed into the compact elegance of an owl.
He blinked once, before hopping onto the windowsill. For a moment, the last traces of his humanoid shape clung to the air like a fading mirage, and then—with a silent push of wings—he was gone into the night.
The timing was perfect—too perfect. Harriet was probably seconds away from knocking downstairs.
I rushed out of my room as I curiously eavesdropped what Harriet's motive was. My heart was beating faster than it should have for something so mundane, but I couldn't shake the need to know why she was here. I crept down the stairs, careful not to cross the hall where she could see me. By the time I reached the corner near the foyer, she was already standing at the door. I leaned against the wall, holding my breath, and listened.
"Good afternoon, ma'am," Harriet's voice droned. Always that same dull, emotionless tone, as if she were reading straight from a textbook.
And then I saw that she was holding my books. My bag wasn't there, just a neat stack of them, the covers aligned so precisely you'd think she measured them.
My mother's voice carried warmly from the doorway. "Oh! These are Alice's?"
"Yes," Harriet said simply. "Our teacher asked me to bring them. She said Alice hadn't been back to school, and these were in her locker."
I felt the tiniest flicker of guilt—not much, but enough to make me shift uncomfortably. The last time I'd seen Harriet, she'd been drenched from head to toe because of me and my friends. And yet here she was, delivering my things without a word about it. I mean, I told myself it didn't matter. She probably didn't have enough pride to care.
My mom thanked her politely, and I could almost hear her smile. I rolled my eyes. This was exactly the kind of moment where Harriet would say something tedious about grades or assignments and my mother would pretend to be fascinated.
"What was your name again, dear?"
"Harriet," she replied.
But then, my mom's tone shifted—warmer, sharper. "Harriet… your last name wouldn't be Withers, would it?"
"Yes, why?"
I peeked just far enough to see my mother's expression change. Recognition lit her eyes. "I've heard of you!" she said. "Alice's teacher speaks very highly of you. She and I go way back, and she said you're one of the brightest students she's had in years."
In years?
The words landed like stones in my chest. Mom's voice sounded so proud, impressed, like it wasn't a tone I heard often when she talked about me. And here she was, handing it out to Harriet, of all people, like it was nothing.
"She exaggerates," Harriet replied plainly, but I noticed her grip on the books tighten ever so slightly.
"I doubt it," mom said. "Well done. That kind of discipline will take you far."
Something hot and unpleasant curled in my stomach. It wasn't just jealousy—it was the sting of knowing no matter how hard I worked, my own family always seemed more impressed by someone else. Someone who didn't even try to be likable.
Harriet didn't gloat, didn't smirk. She just nodded. Mom stepped forward, taking the books from her hands. "I'll be sure Alice gets these."
I then retreated quietly up the stairs, not waiting to hear the rest. My footsteps were soundless on the thick carpet, but my mind was anything but calm. By the time I reached my room again, the walls felt too close, the air too still. I sat on the edge of my bed, listening faintly to the muffled voices below. Mom's polite chatter. Harriet's flat responses. It was unbearable. I told myself I didn't care, but my throat felt tight. It wasn't just Harriet's presence—it was the way my mother had looked at her, the pride in her voice, as though she'd found a diamond in a pile of dust and wanted everyone to know.
Minutes later, the sound of the front door closing signaled Harriet's departure. Footsteps came up the stairs—measured, unhurried. My mom stepped into the room, her expression perfectly neutral. She carried the books and placed them gently on my desk. "Your classmate, Harriet—the one your teacher liked—brought these. You left them in your locker."
I didn't meet her eyes. "Thanks," I said flatly. "You can just leave them there."
She hesitated, as if expecting me to say more, then nodded and left without another word. The click of the door closing behind her sounded too final.
I stared at the stack of books for a long time. I mean, they were ordinary, familiar, but they felt different now—like they carried the weight of my mom's admiration for someone else. Someone who wasn't me. And that—more than anything Harriet had ever done—made my chest ache.
I lay back on my bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to pretend it didn't matter. But the truth was, it did. It mattered more than I wanted to admit. The door now closed with a soft click, leaving me alone in the stillness of my room. I stared at the stack of books my mother had left on the desk, but they blurred through the haze gathering in my eyes. My chest ached with something heavy—an ugly knot of jealousy, disappointment, and shame twisting together until it became unbearable. I then turned my gaze away, but that only made the feelings worse. The image of my mother praising Harriet replayed again and again, each time cutting a little deeper. The way she smiled. The warmth in her tone. I had worked so hard—pushed myself past exhaustion more times than I could count—and yet, in one afternoon, Harriet had stolen the kind of admiration I had been chasing for years.
I felt my lips tremble before the first tear slid down my cheek. Then another. Soon, I couldn't stop them. I curled forward, pulling my knees toward my chest on the bed, trying to muffle the sound of my sobs. My breathing came uneven, my chest hitching with each shaky exhale.
It was then that something strange stirred in the air around me. At first, I thought it was just my imagination—maybe the dizziness that came with crying too hard. But then I felt a subtle pressure, like the air itself was thickening and bending around me. My hair lifted, as if gravity had suddenly changed its mind, and my skin prickled from head to toe. The light in the room bent strangely, shimmering as if I were sitting underwater. In a blink of an eye, a faint shimmer slowly emanated from my palm, gliding over my hands like liquid glass, before swelling, stretching, and pushing outward. It wasn't something I built or controlled—it was something that had been waiting, coiled inside me, and it simply unspooled. A translucent sphere unfolded from my body, smooth as a soap bubble yet firm in the way it pressed against the air. Bluish color flickered faintly on its surface—pale blues, fleeting sapphire, and glints of azure—as if they were trapped in crystal.
It didn't just surround me. It claimed the space around me, wrapping me in a cocoon of warmth and quiet. And for the first time all day, I wasn't cold or small or breakable. I stared through the faintly reflective surface, my distorted reflection staring back with red-eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. But somehow, I felt calm. Stronger. The realization struck hard in my chest. This was real.
And that thought was terrifying.
I froze, my sobs catching in my throat. I didn't dare move. My heart pounded in my ears. It was the same sensation I'd felt before, when that mop had flown across the room in the janitor's closet—only now, it was bigger. Stronger. And this time, I could see it completely.
A soft thud against the windowsill broke the heavy silence.
I turned sharply, half-expecting to see nothing but the air outside. But there perched Sebastian, in his owl form, his eyes glowing faintly. He tilted his head at me, the same way he always did when he seemed to be assessing something.
"Miss Alice," his voice came—not booming, not demanding, but low and calm.
Him calling my name made my throat tighten even more. I sniffled, unable to form an immediate response, my eyes darting between him and the strange bubble surrounding me.
Slowly, I lowered my legs and sat upright, my palms flat against the bed. "Sebastian… what—" I glanced around again, my reflection shimmering back at me from the curved walls of the sphere. My voice cracked. "It's real. It's actually real."
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he hopped closer on the sill, his talons clicking against the wood. "I told you," he said softly, "I could sense it in you. And now, you've proven it to yourself."
I want to deny. I want to say I was imagining. I want to believe all of this was just a dream. But my breath caught in my chest when the bubble shimmered continuously. It wasn't some accident, or a trick of my imagination. I had created this.
My heart dropped, the weight of what that meant settling heavily in my chest. Sebastian was right. The thought should have felt thrilling. Empowering. But instead, it terrified me.
I buried my face in my hands, the tears coming harder now. "Why?" I whispered, my voice breaking. "Why me? I didn't ask for this—I don't even know what this is."
Sebastian didn't move closer. He didn't need to. His voice, steady and sure, reached me just the same. "You don't have to know everything yet. But you must understand—being gifted doesn't make you a curse. It makes you something rare. Something worth protecting."
I wanted to believe him, but the panic in my chest wouldn't let me. "Worth protecting?" I let out a shaky laugh, bitter and humorless. "If the people who tried to take you are after me too, then I'm not worth anything except trouble."
The sphere shimmered faintly as my emotions flared, small ripples chasing each other across its surface. I pressed my palms harder against my eyes, wishing I could stop the tears, wishing I could make it all go away—the jealousy, the confusion, the fear.
I didn't even notice the creak of the doorknob at first.
The door swung open, and one of the housemaids stepped inside, balancing a folded blanket in her arms. She froze mid-step. The blanket slipped from her grasp, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor. Her eyes went wide—wider than I'd ever seen. And slowly, she panicked. "Oh… oh, dear God…" Her voice was high, thin, trembling.
I jerked my head toward her, my stomach plunging. "Wait—this isn't—" I started, but the words died in my throat.
The maid's gaze darted between me and the glowing bubble. She stumbled backward, her heel catching on the rug. Then she gasped before bolting for the door.
"Wait! It's not—" I threw myself off the bed, reaching out toward her, but the sphere seemed to pulse, as if in response to my panic, and I couldn't tell if it was helping me or trapping me inside.
Her hurried footsteps echoed down the hall, followed by the muffled thud of her bursting into the living room. "Mr. and Mrs. Whitlock!" she cried out, her voice carrying through the house. "Come quick—come quick! There's—there's something wrong with your daughter!"
I stood frozen, my chest heaving. The shimmering walls around me wavered, flickering in and out like a dying flame. My hands shook.
I didn't know what terrified me more—that the maid had seen me like this, or that I had no idea how to make it stop.
Sebastian's head then swiveled toward the door. He let out a low, almost irritated hoot before spreading his wings. The bubble seemed to shiver at the movement, like it knew he was leaving. Without another sound, he hopped onto the sill, feathers ruffling in the breeze, and with one beat of his wings he was gone—vanishing into the garden outside like he'd never been there at all. And then, just like that, the bubble collapsed in on itself, dissolving into nothing with a faint sigh of air. My skin tingled where it had touched me, leaving me feeling strangely hollow.
I barely had a moment to breathe before the hurried steps came—more than one pair. The door burst open and came in the maid, her face still pale and wild; Mom, looking equal parts alarmed and confused; and Dad, unreadable as ever, his sharp eyes scanning the room like they were taking inventory.
"She was glowing, and there was a sphere, Miss! I saw it!" the maid blurted, pointing at me like I was some dangerous animal. "She was inside it, like it was some kind of magic—"
Mom frowned, her voice firm but calm, the way she spoke to nervous staff. "Where?"
The maid looked around the room, scanning for whatever remained of the bubble. "It was just here! It was just here!"
Mom then shook her head in disbelief. "You must be tired, Glinda. You've been working long hours, you know?"
"I know what I saw, Ma'am!" the maid insisted, her voice pitching higher. "It was there, I swear it—right here in her room!" She gestured wildly, eyes darting between us.
I sat there on the edge of my bed, hands folded in my lap, pretending I had no idea what she was talking about. Inside, my heart was a frantic drumbeat.
"Calm down," Mom said gently, placing a hand on the maid's arm. "Let's go downstairs. Have some water. And then we can sort this out." Her voice was all motherly patience, but there was steel under it, like a command disguised as kindness.
The maid hesitated, still glaring at me like I might explode at any second, but Mom didn't give her time to argue. She guided her out into the hall with a reassuring murmur, her heels clicking against the polished floor as they descended the stairs together.
The room then went quiet again. I looked up and I realized that Dad was still standing there.
His gaze was fixed on me—not cold, not angry, but searching. There was something in his eyes, a flicker beneath the surface. Worry, maybe. Or fear. It wasn't the kind of look a father gave when his daughter had been accused of doing something strange. It was the kind of look someone gave when they already knew.
We didn't speak, though. But his silence said more than words ever could.