But Ridley couldn’t bear to think about her another minute; her brain had been on a nonstop Penelope loop. She kept going over their last conversation, wondering what if, what if, what if…
“Morgan, you all right? I made you some of those cinnamon pancakes you like.”
Ridley realized that her father was standing just outside her door.
“Thanks, Dad! I’m not hungry!” Her voice was lower, gruffer. She hated that voice.
“I’ll cover them with foil and leave them on the counter for you, then.”
Ridley heard his footsteps plodding down the stairs. Come to think of it, Daddy rarely made her breakfast anymore, and certainly not on a weekday morning. He was no doubt trying his best to cheer her up. Of course, he knew only a magically filtered version of the events surrounding Penelope’s death. That night, Ridley had been forced to use a series of spells, both on him and the police officers, to make sure he wasn’t present when they’d questioned her along with Greta, Binx, and Iris… and to make sure she’d been Ridley the girl with them and Morgan the boy with him. She’d also had to use a calming spell on herself; having to protect her identity so vigilantly in the presence of the police had taken its toll on her. On top of the trauma over Penelope.
The world was spiraling out of control. She was spiraling out of control. Maybe she could just stay in bed for the next few weeks. Months. Years. The rest of her life.
The house was quiet now. Momma was no doubt still asleep. Daddy must have driven Harmony to her preschool earlier and come back; Monday was gardening day, which was her favorite because they got to pick peppers and other fresh vegetables for their snack.
Harmony would want to play with Ridley later. There couldn’t be two bedridden Stones in the house.
Just get up, she told herself. Baby steps. You can do this.
With an effort, she sat up slightly, groaned, and slumped back down again. A few more minutes. Out of habit, she held up her hands to inspect her mani for chips… and was greeted by the sight of bare, bitten-down nails and thick, slightly hairy knuckles. Oh yeah. This happened a lot, especially first thing in the morning, expecting to be her real self and encountering Morgan instead. It was depressing.
Of course, her favorite movie, as always, offered some consoling wisdom on this point: What is real? How do you define “real”? In any case, things were going to be so much better, so much more real, once she mastered those two super-advanced spells, vertero and dissimulatio.
A metallic rattling sound. Across the room, her familiar, Agent Smith, was chewing vigorously on a carrot-shaped toy made of timothy hay (a rabbit favorite) that had been wedged into the wire fence of his exercise pen.
“Hey, guy. I know, you need breakfast. One sec.”
Agent Smith watched her with his translucent red eyes as he continued playing tug-of-war with the toy and rattling the fencing.
“I promise, I’ll bring you a real carrot, and some kale, too, if we have it. I just—”
With a sudden, swift motion, Agent Smith yanked the toy free with his Dracula-sharp teeth and flung it up in the air. It landed in his litter box, i.e., one of Momma’s old aluminum baking pans filled with recycled newspaper bits.
“O-kay. Message received. Be patient with me, I’m having a tough time.”
Agent Smith hopped into his litter box, still staring at her. They’d tried a more conventional litter box with him at first, made of plastic, but he’d consumed half of it, so they’d had to resort to something less edible.
Ridley had inherited Agent Smith (formerly Cupcake, which was so not the right name for him) from their neighbor back in Cleveland, Mrs. Azar, who was moving to a retirement home and couldn’t bring him with her. The moment Ridley had laid eyes on him, she knew. He was her meant-to-be companion. Momma had agreed on their family adopting him on the condition that he got along with Pandy, the dog (technically, Momma’s dog). It had been touch-and-go at first, but they had eventually developed a grudging cross-species fondness for each other.
Ridley’s phone buzzed on her nightstand. Again. She really should turn the thing off so she could get some peace.
Another text from Binx; Ridley could barely keep up.
Why couldn’t Neo eat his ice cream?
“Because there was no spoon,” Ridley said out loud. For someone who claimed not to be a Matrix fan, Binx sure knew a lot of Matrix-y jokes.
After a moment, Binx wrote:
Dude if you don’t text me back soon I’m going to come over to your house and teach your rabbit how to yodel.
Ridley grabbed her phone. She typed:
I’m fine I’m just sick. Are you guys at school? How’s everyone doing?
Not good. Did you get my text from before? About Penelope?
I just woke up, sorry. What about her?
When you guys talked last week, did she mention if she got a shadow message like the one Greta and Div got?
No. Why?
We were wondering if she was threatened, too.
Oh.
Now Ridley felt like a terrible friend. She should have told Penelope about the shadow messages… and also about the defaced gravestones, about the Antima at school. If Ridley had warned her about all this during their coffee, Penelope might have been more careful; she might still be alive.
I failed her.
Binx texted:
Also, did she talk about Colter with you?
Colter?
Ridley replied:
She said he was really nice. She seemed pretty happy with him, I guess.
What about his family?
She said they were nice, too. Why?
It’s complicated. I’m cutting class and coming over so I can explain in person. I know your dad doesn’t like visitors but just this once.
Ridley bolted
