1 Pancakes and Papyrus Nana's rooster crowed, the sound of his cry too jarring for me to ignore. I rolled over and licked my lips, which for some reason felt swollen and numb. My mouth was particularly dry. I groaned as I shifted beneath the sheets, tugging them over my head to block out the piercing beams of daylight. The light was an intruder--an unwelcome visitor disturbing the dark tomb where I slumbered peacefully. There was an awareness tickling the back of my mind, but I doggedly ignored it. Unfortunately, whatever it was had sunk in its claws and wouldn't be pushed aside so easily. What was it that I couldn't remember? And why did I feel like I'd lost a boxing match? My head hurt. I longed for a cold drink of water and a bottle of aspirin, but I just didn't have the energy in my limbs to seek what I wanted. The clattering of pots and pans told me I wouldn't be able to lounge in bed much longer. Nana was going to call for me soon. Bossy needed to be milked, and there were eggs to gather. My feet hit the cold wooden floor, and as I slid to the edge of the bed my hands shook. I had the sudden feeling that I was in danger. When I stood, my knees buckled, and I quickly sat back down. Gasping, I took hold of my grandmother's quilt, my fingers tightening into fists that clutched the fragile fabric as fiercely as I would a life preserver. A cold sheen of sweat glistened on my arms. I couldn't catch my breath. Horrors filled my mind: Death. Blood. Destruction. Evil. Was it a dream? If it was, it was the most vivid nightmare I'd ever had. Lilypad? my nana's voice called. You up yet, hon? Yeah, I answered, my voice quavering as I rubbed my trembling limbs vigorously. I'll be out soon. I attempted to shake off the nightmare as best I could and dressed in a faded pair of overalls, a comfortable T-shirt, and thick socks. By the time I headed out to the barn, the sun had fully risen above the horizon. It perched in the cerulean sky, beaming down on me like an all-too-knowing eye. The light painted the thin clouds above in shades of rose and dusty orange. As I walked the well-worn path, the golden sunshine warming my shoulders and the fragrant air tickling my nose with the scent of Nana's flower garden, I felt like all should be right with the world. And yet I knew it wasn't. The gilded setting struck me as false, and I sensed evil things hiding in the shadows. Something's definitely rotten in the state of Iowa. Settling onto the wooden stool beside Bossy, I thought I had never in my life been so tired. It was more than physical exhaustion. Deep inside I felt battered, drained--like my soul was one of Nana's wet towels, wrung of water and thrown carelessly on a line to dry. Pieces of me skittered around in the breeze, and it was only a matter of time until a gust of wind blew hard enough to send me flipping into the dust. Reaching up to pat Bossy's flank, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The sound of streaming milk was soon pinging against the side of the metal bucket. What kind of incomprehensible human ritual are you engaged in now? an irritated voice said. I squealed and staggered up from my seat, accidentally kicking over the milk bucket and my wooden stool in the process. It's called milking a cow, ya flea-bitten feline. Naturally, I assumed as much. But such an act is beneath us. And for your information, we don't have fleas. Who's there? I called out, spinning around. I picked up a pitchfork and kicked open a stall, looking for intruders. My nana has a shotgun, I warned, a statement I never thought I'd ever have to utter. Trust me. You don't want to get on her bad side. Why doesn't she know who we are? questioned a voice with an Irish accent. I do Skryť popis