I want to argue with her, but I'm not sure what to say. So instead I utter, "It felt real."

"Some dreams do."

"But you said a long time ago that on Lorien we could sometimes communicate with each other over long distances."

"Yes, and right after that I would read you stories about a wolf who could blow down houses and a goose who laid golden eggs."

"Those were fairy tales."

"It's all one big fairy tale, Marina."

I grit my teeth. "How can you say that? We both know it's not a fairy tale. We both know where we came from and why we're here. I don't know why you act as if you didn't come from Lorien and you don't have a duty to teach me."

She puts her hands behind her back and looks at the ceiling. "Marina, since I've been here, since we've been here, we've been fortunate to learn the truth about creation and where we came from and what our real mission is on Earth. And that's all found in the Bible."

"And the Bible isn't a fairy tale?"

Her shoulders stiffen. She furrows her brows and flexes her jaw.

"Lorien isn't a fairy tale," I say before she can respond, and, using telekinesis, I lift a pillow from a nearby bed and spin it in the air. Adelina does something she's never done before: she slaps me. Hard. I drop the pillow and press my hand to my stinging cheek with my mouth wide-open.

"Don't you dare let them see you do that!" she says furiously.

"What I did right there, that's not a fairy tale. I am not part of a fairy tale. You are my Cepan, and you are not part of a fairy tale."

"Call it what you will," she says.

"But haven't you read the news? You know the boy in Ohio is one of us; you have to! He could be our only chance!"

"Our only chance at what?" she asks.

"A life."

"And what do you call this?"

"Spending our days living the lies of an alien race is no life," I say.

She shakes her head. "Give it up, Marina," she says, and walks away. I have no choice but to follow.

Marina. The name sounds so normal now, so me. I don't think twice when Adelina hisses the name at me or when one of the other girls in the orphanage yells it on the way out the school doors, waving my forgotten math book. But it hasn't always been my name. Back when we were aimlessly looking for a warm meal or a bed, back before Spain and Santa Teresa, before Adelina was Adelina, I had been Genevieve. Adelina was Odette. Those were our French names.

"We should change our names with every new country," Adelina had whispered when she was Signy and we were in Norway, where our ship landed after months at sea. She'd chosen Signy because it had been written on the woman's shirt behind the counter.

"What should my name be?" I'd asked.

"Whatever you want it to be," she'd said. We'd been at a cafe in the middle of a bleak village, enjoying the heat from the mug of hot chocolate we'd shared. Signy had stood and retrieved the weekend's newspaper from a nearby table. On the front page was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Blond hair, high cheekbones, deep blue eyes. Her name was Birgitta. My name had become Birgitta.

Even when we were on a train and the countries zipped past the window like trees, we'd always change our names, if just for a few hours. Yes, it was to stay hidden from the Mogadorians or anyone else who might be following us, but it was also the one thing that raised our spirits among so much disappointment. I'd thought it was so much fun, I wish we'd traveled over Europe several times. In Poland I was Minka and she chose Zali. She was Fatima in Denmark; I was Yasmin. I had two names in Austria: Sophie and Astrid. She fell in love with Emmalina.

"Why Emmalina?" I'd asked.

She laughed. "I don't know exactly. I guess I love that it's almost two names in one. Either one is beautiful, but you smash them together and you get something extraordinary."

In fact, I wonder now if that was the last time I heard her laugh. Or the last time we hugged or made proclamations about our destinies. I believe it was the last time I sensed she cared about being my Cepan or what happened to Lorien-what happened to me.

We arrive at Mass just before it begins. The only available seats are in the very last row, which is where I prefer to sit anyhow. Adelina shuffles to the front where the Sisters sit. Father Marco, the priest, begins with an opening prayer in his always-somber voice, and most of his words are muffled beyond recognition by the time they reach me. I like it this way, sitting through Mass with detached apathy. I try not to think about Adelina smacking me, filling my mind instead with what I will do when El Festin finally ends. None of the snow has melted, but I'm determined to make it to the cave anyway. I have something new to paint, and I want to finish the picture of John Smith that I started last week.

Mass drags on forever, or at least it feels that way, with rites, liturgies, communion, readings, prayers, rituals. When we reach the final prayer I'm exhausted and don't even bother pretending to pray like I normally do, and instead sit there with my head lifted and eyes open, scanning the backs of the heads of those in attendance. Almost all of them are familiar. One man sleeps upright in his pew, arms crossed and chin touching his chest. I watch him until something in his dream startles him awake with a grunt. Several heads turn his way as he gathers his bearings. I can't help but smile; and as I look away, my eyes find Sister Dora scowling at me. I drop my head, close my eyes, and feign prayer, mouthing the words that Father Marco recites up front, but I know I've been caught. It's what Sister Dora thrives on. She goes out of her way to catch us in the act of doing something we shouldn't.

Prayer concludes with the sign of the cross, finally bringing an end to Mass. I'm up out of my seat before anyone else, and I hurry from the nave to the kitchen. Sister Dora may be the largest among all the Sisters, but she shows surprising agility when it's needed, and I don't want to give her the chance to catch me. If she doesn't, I might escape punishment. And I do, because when she enters the cafeteria five minutes later as I'm peeling potatoes beside a gangly fourteen-year-old named Paola and her twelve-year-old sister, Lucia, she only glares at me.

"What's up with her?" Paola asks.

"She caught me smiling during Mass."

"Good thing you weren't paddled," Lucia says out of the corner of her mouth.

I nod and go back to what I'm doing. As fleeting as they are, it's these small moments that bring us girls together, the fact that we share a common enemy. When I was younger, I thought commonalities like this, and of being orphaned and living under this same tyrannical roof, would unite us all as immediate and lifelong friends. But really it only worked to further divide us, creating small factions within our already small group-the pretty girls huddling together (La Gorda excepted, but still a part of their crowd), the smart girls, the athletic ones, the young ones-until I was left all alone.

A half hour later when everything's ready, we carry the food from the kitchen to the serving line. The crowd of waiting people clap. At the back of the line I see my favorite person in all of Santa Teresa: Hector Ricardo. His clothes are dirty and wrinkled, and his hair is tousled. He has bloodshot eyes, an almost scarlet complexion to his face and cheeks. Even from as far away as I am I notice he has a slight shake in each hand, as he always does on Sundays-the only day in the week he swears off drinking. He looks especially rough today, though when he finally approaches, he holds his tray out and fixes on his face the most optimistic smile he can muster.

"And how are you, my dear Queen of the sea?" he asks.

I curtsy in return. "I'm doing well, Hector. And you?"

He shrugs, then says, "Life is but a fine wine, to be sipped and savored."

I laugh. Hector always has some old adage to share.

I first met Hector when I was thirteen. He had been sitting outside the lone cafe on Calle Principal drinking a bottle of wine by himself. It was midafternoon, and I had been on my way home from school. Our eyes met as I passed.

"Marina, as of the sea," he had said, and I'd found it odd that he knew my name, though I shouldn't have since I'd seen him every week at the church pretty much since the day I'd arrived. "Come keep a drunk man company a few minutes."

I did. I'm not sure why. Maybe because there's something entirely agreeable about Hector. He makes me feel relaxed, and doesn't pretend to be somebody he isn't like so many other people do. He exudes the attitude of "This is who I am; take it or leave it."

That first day we had sat and talked long enough for him to finish one bottle of wine and order a second.

"You stick with Hector Ricardo," he'd said when I had to get back to the convent. "I'll take care of you; it's in my name. The Latin root of Hector means 'to defend and hold fast.' And Ricardo means 'power and bravery,'" he'd said, thumping his chest twice with his right fist. "Hector Ricardo will take care of you!"

I could tell he meant it.

He'd gone on. "Marina. 'Of the sea.' That's what your name means; did you know that?"

I'd told him I did not. I'd wondered what Birgitta meant. And Yasmin. What Emmalina was rooted in.

"That means you are Santa Teresa's own Sea Queen," he'd said with a sideways grin.

I'd laughed at him. "I think you've been drinking too much, Hector Ricardo."

"Yes," he'd replied. "I am the town drunk, dear Marina. But don't let that fool you. Hector Ricardo is a defender all the same. And besides, show me a man without vice and I'll show you one without virtue!"

Years later, he's one of the few people I can call a friend.

It takes twenty-five minutes for the few hundred people to receive their due today; and after the last person leaves the line, it's our turn to eat, sitting away from the others. As a group we eat as fast as we can, knowing that the quicker we clean up and get everything put away, the sooner we'll be on our own.

Fifteen minutes later the five of us who work the line are scraping pots and pans and wiping counters. At its best, cleanup takes an hour, and that's only if everyone leaves the cafeteria after they're done eating, which rarely happens. As we're cleaning, when I know the others aren't looking, I throw into a bag the nonperishable items I plan to take to the cave today: dried fruits and berries, nuts, a can of tuna fish, a can of beans. This has become another weekly tradition of mine. For a long time I convinced myself I was doing it so I could snack when painting the cave's walls. But the truth is I'm creating a stockpile of food in case the worst arrives and I have to hide. And by the worst, I mean them.

Chapter Six.

WHEN I FINALLY WALK OUTSIDE AFTER CHANGING into warmer clothes and rolling my bed blanket under my arm, the sun is shifted to the west and there's not a cloud in the sky. It's half past four, which gives me an hour and a half at best. I hate the rushed quality of Sundays, the way the day creeps by until the very moment we're free, at which point time flies. I look to the east, and the light reflected off the snow causes me to squint. The cave is over two rocky hills. With as much snow as there is on the ground now, I'm not even sure I'll see the opening today. But I pull on my hat, zip up my jacket, tie the blanket around my neck like a cape, and head east.

Two tall birch trees mark the trail's start, and my feet turn cold the second I enter the deep drifts. The blanket-cape sweeps the snow behind me, erasing my footprints. I pass a few recognizable fixtures that show the way-a rock jutting out past the others, a tree that leans at a slightly different angle. After about twenty minutes I pass the rock formation identical to a camel's back, which tells me I'm almost there.

I have the faint sensation of being watched, possibly followed. I turn and scan the mountainside. Silence. Snow, nothing else. The blanket around my neck has done a great job of hiding my tracks. A slow, prickly feeling crawls up the back of my neck. I've seen the way rabbits blend into the landscape, going unnoticed until you're almost on top of them, and I know that just because I can't see somebody doesn't mean they can't see me.

Five minutes later I finally spot the rounded shrub that blocks the entrance. The cave's mouth looks like an oversized groundhog hole cutting into the mountain, and that's exactly what I had mistaken it for years ago. But when I'd looked more closely I knew I was wrong. The cave was deep and dark, and back then I could see next to nothing in the little light that entered. There was an implicit desire to discover the cave's secrets, and I wonder if this is what caused the Legacy to develop: my ability to see in the dark. I can't see in the dark as easily as I can in the day, but even the deepest recesses of black glow as though lit by candlelight.

On my knees, I knock away just enough snow to be able to slip down and in. I drop the bag ahead of me, untie the blanket from my neck and sweep it across the snow to hide my footprints, then hang it on the other side of the opening to keep out the wind. The entrance is narrow for the first three meters, followed by a slightly wider passageway that winds down a steep decline large enough to navigate while standing; and after that the cave opens, revealing itself.

The ceiling is high and echoing, and its five walls smoothly transition into one another, creating an almost perfect polygon. A stream cuts through the back right corner. I have no idea where the water comes from or where it goes-springing up through one of the walls only to disappear into the earth's deeper depths-but the level never changes, offering a reservoir of icy cold water regardless of the time of day or season. With the constant fresh source of water, this is the perfect place to hide. From the Mogadorians, the Sisters, and the girls-even Adelina. It's also the perfect place to use and hone my Legacies.

I drop the bag beside the stream, remove the nonperishables, and place them on the rock ledge, which already holds several chocolate bars, small bags of granola, oatmeal, cereal, powdered milk, a jar of peanut butter, and various cans of fruits, vegetables, and soup. Enough for weeks. Only when everything is put away do I stand and allow myself to be greeted by the landscapes and faces I've painted on the walls.

From the very first time a brush was put into my hand at school, I fell in love with painting. Painting allows me to see things as I want to and not necessarily as they are; it's an escape, a way to preserve thoughts and memories, a way to create hopes and dreams.

I rinse the brushes, rubbing the stiffness from the bristles, and then mix the paint with water and sediment from the creek bed, creating earthy tones that match the gray of the cave's walls. Then I walk to where John Smith's partially completed face greets me with his uncertain grin.

I spend a lot of time on his dark blue eyes, trying to get them just right. There's a certain glint that's hard to replicate; and when I tire of trying, I start on a new painting, that of the girl with the raven hair I had dreamed about. Unlike John's eyes, I have no trouble at all with hers, letting the gray wall do its magic; and I think that if I were to wave a lighted candle in front of it, the color would slightly change, as I'm sure her eyes do depending on her mood and the light around her. It's just a feeling I get. The other faces I've painted are Hector's, Adelina's, a few of the town's vendors I see every weekday. Because this cave is so deep and dark, I believe my paintings are safe from anyone's eyes but mine. It's still a risk, I know, but I just can't help myself.

After a while I go up and push aside my blanket, poking my head out of the cave. I see nothing but drifts of white and the bottom of the sun kissing the horizon line-which tells me it's time to go. I haven't painted nearly as much or as long as I would have liked. Before cleaning the brushes I walk to the wall opposite John and look at the big red square I've painted there. Before it was a red square I'd done something foolish, something I know would have exposed me as a Garde, and painted a list.

I touch the square and think of the first three numbers that are underneath, running my fingertips over the dried, cracked paint, deeply saddened by what those lines meant. If there is any consolation in their deaths, it's that they can now rest easy and no longer have to live in fear.

I turn from the square, from the hidden and destroyed list, clean the brushes, and put everything away.

"I'll see you guys next week," I say to the faces.

Before leaving the cave I take in the landscape painted on the wall beside the passageway leading in and out. It's the first painting I'd ever attempted here, sometime around the age of twelve; and while I have touched it up a bit over the years, mostly it has remained the same. It's the view of Lorien from my own bedroom window and I still remember it perfectly. Rolling hills and grassy plains accentuated with tall trees. A thick slice of blue river that cuts across the terrain. Small bits of paint here and there that represent the Chimaera drinking from its cool waters. And then, off in the far distance at the very top, standing tall over the nine archways representing the planet's nine Elders, is the statue of Pittacus Lore, so small it's almost indistinct; but there's no mistaking it for what it really is, standing out among the others: a beacon of hope.

I hurry from the cave and back to the convent, keeping an eye open for anything out of place. The sun is just below the horizon when I leave the path, which means I'm running late. I push through the heavy oak doors to find the welcome bells ringing; somebody new has arrived.

I join the others on their way to our sleeping quarters. We have a welcoming tradition here, standing next to our beds with our hands behind our backs, facing the new girl and introducing ourselves one by one. I'd hated it when I had first arrived; hated feeling on display when all I wanted to do was hide.

In the doorway, standing beside Sister Lucia, is a small girl with auburn hair, curious brown eyes, and petite features not unlike a mouse. She stares at the stone floor, shifting her weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other. Her fingers fiddle with the waist of her gray wool dress, which is patterned with pink flowers. There's a small pink clip in her hair, and she wears black shoes with silver buckles. I feel sorry for her. Sister Lucia waits for us all to smile, all thirty-seven of us, and then she speaks.

"This is Ella. She's seven years old and will be staying with us from here on out. I trust that you will all make her feel welcome."

A rumor is later whispered that her parents had been killed in an automobile accident and she's here because she has no other relatives.

Ella flutters her eyes up as each person says their name, but mostly she keeps her gaze on the floor. It's obvious she's scared and sad, but I can tell she's the kind of girl people will fall for. She won't be here for very long.

We all walk to the nave together so Sister Lucia can explain to Ella its importance to the orphanage. Gabby Garcia stands yawning in the back of the group, and I turn to look at her. Just beyond Gabby, framed in one of the clear panes of the stained glass window at the far wall, a dark figure stands outside looking in. I can just make him out in the oncoming nightfall, his black hair, heavy brows, and thick mustache. His eyes are trained on me; there's no doubt about it. My heart skips a beat. I gasp and take a step backwards. Everyone's head snaps around.

"Marina, are you okay?" Sister Lucia asks.

"Nothing," I say, then shake my head. "I mean, yes, I'm fine. Sorry."

My heart pounds and my hands shake. I clasp them together so it's not noticeable. Sister Lucia says something else about welcoming Ella, but I'm too distracted to hear it. I turn back to the window. The figure is gone. The group's dismissed.

I rush across the nave and look outside. I don't see anyone, but I do see a single set of boot prints in the snow. I step away from the window. Perhaps it's a potential foster parent assessing the girls from afar, or perhaps it's one of the girl's real parents sneaking a glance at the daughter he can't provide for. But for some reason I don't feel safe. I don't like the way his eyes settled on me.

"Are you okay?" I hear behind me. I jump, then turn around. It's Adelina, standing with her hands clasped in front of her waist. A rosary dangles from her fingers.

"Yes, I'm fine," I say.

"You look like you've seen a ghost."

Worse than a ghost, I think, but I don't say that. I'm scared after this morning's slap, and I pocket my hands.

"There was somebody at the window watching me," I whisper. "Just now."

Her eyes squint.

"Look. Look at the prints," I say, turning back and motioning to the ground.

Adelina's back is straight and rigid, and for a moment I think she's actually concerned; but then she softens and steps forward. She takes in the prints.

"I'm sure it's nothing," she says.

"What do you mean it's nothing? How can you say that?"

"I wouldn't worry. It could have been anyone."

"He was looking right at me."

"Marina, wake up. With today's new arrival there are thirty-eight girls here. We do the best we can keeping you girls safe, but that doesn't mean the occasional boy from town doesn't wander up here to sneak a peek. We've even caught some of them. And don't think for a minute we don't know the way that some of the others dress, changing clothes on the walk to school to look provocative. There are six of you turning eighteen soon, and everyone in town knows it. So, I wouldn't worry about the man you saw. He was probably nothing more than a boy from school."

I'm sure this was no boy from school, but I don't say so.

"Anyway, I wanted to apologize for this morning. It was wrong of me to strike you."