ordinary had happened.
Emma counted the soldiers’ bodies on her fingers. “Six. That’s all of them,” she said. “It’s over.”
I put my arms around her, shaking with gratitude and disbelief.
“Which of you are hurt?” said Bronwyn, looking around frantically. Those last moments had been crazy— countless bees, gunfire in the dark. We checked ourselves for holes. Horace was dazed but conscious, a trickle of blood running from his temple. Bekhir’s stab wound was deep but would heal. The rest of us were shaken but unhurt—and miraculously, not a single one of us was bee-stung.
“When you broke the window,” I said to Bekhir, “how did you know the bees wouldn’t attack us?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “Luckily, your friend’s power is strong.”
Emma pulled away from me suddenly. “Oh my God!” she gasped. “Hugh!”
In all the chaos, we’d forgotten about him. He was probably bleeding to death right now, somewhere in the tall grass. But just as we were about to tear outside and look for him, he appeared in the doorway—bedraggled and grass-stained, but smiling.
“Hugh!” Olive cried, rushing to him. “You’re alive!”
“I am!” he said heartily. “Are all of you?”
“Thanks to you we are!” Bronwyn said. “Three cheers for
Hugh!”
“You’re our man in a pinch, Hugh!” cried Horace.
“Nowhere am I deadlier than in a field of wildflowers,” Hugh said, enjoying the attention.
“Sorry about all the times I made fun of your peculiarity,” said Enoch. “I suppose it’s not so useless.”
“Additionally,” said Millard, “I’d like to compliment Hugh on his impeccable timing. Really, if you’d arrived just a few seconds later …”
Hugh explained how he’d evaded capture at the depot by slipping down between the train and the platform— just like I’d thought.
He’d sent one of his bees trailing after us, which allowed him to follow from a careful distance. “Then it was just a matter of finding the perfect time to strike,” he said proudly, as if victory had been assured from the
