It was as if the air had turned to stone, freezing them both in ce.


    Ivan’s lower lip trembled, caught between tears and stubborn silence. York, on the other hand, began to panic. He was used to pulling pranks on kids older than himself–never on someone his own age, let alone younger. This was supposed to be harmless fun, just a bit of mischief to pass the time. He had never meant for things to get so out of hand.


    Swallowing hard, York scrambled to gather the scattered books, stacking them into a neat pile before thrusting them into Ivan’s arms. When Ivan didn’t take them, York grabbed Ivan’s hand and pressed the books into his palm.


    “I didn’t mean to, honestly! Don’t cry, okay? I’ll buy you a new one. Or terr.ew ones! Or a hundred if you want! Please, I swear I wasn’t trying to be mean–just don’t cry.”


    York looked ready to burst into tears himself. “If it’s really that bad, then go ahead. and cry, but you can’t tell Alessia, alright? If she finds out, she’ll wipe my ount for sure.”


    He remembered, with a shudder, thest time he’d picked on someone his own age. Alessia had deleted everyst one of his game ounts without so much as a warning, and dragged him by the ear to apologize in person. He’d learned his lesson–never again had he bullied anyone younger than or as young as himself.


    Now, seeing Ivan so silent, York was overwhelmed with regret. Even Rex, their golden retriever, circled Ivan once before nudging him gently with his nose.


    That little gesture finally got a reaction. Ivan stood up, put the books carefully back on the shelf, and–without a word or a tear–sat back down at his easel. He picked up his paintbrush. The single yellow flower he’d painted was <i>now </i>being smeared over with ck, the whole canvas dissolving into a wild, messy blur.


    York watched, growing more anxious by the second. He reached out to touch Ivan’s arm, but his finger caught the edge of a line, dragging it out of ce.


    Ivan nced at him, eyes rimmed red but empty of any real emotion.


    York quickly looked away. “Don’t be mad, okay? I really didn’t mean to. It’s just a notebook–tomorrow I’ll bring you a hundred if you want!”


    Ivan ignored him, and York bit his lip, clearly wrestling with himself before making


    an enormous concession.


    “Or–or maybe you can borrow Rex for two days? Or three! Three days, that’s the


    1317


    most, though. I’ve never let anyone else borrow Rex before.”


    As if understanding, Rex nudged Ivan’s hand again.


    But Ivan only pressed harder with his brush, sending another wild streak across the page.


    Then the door mmed shut with a sharp bang. Karen, hearing the noise from the kitchen, poked her head out and found a boy and a dog standing in the hallway, staring at each other.


    “What’s going on, York? Did you and Ivan get into a fight?”


    York couldn’t answer. The words just wouldn’te.


    Karen had raised five children of her own, and unless blood was spilled,


    usually


    let them sort out their squabbles on their own–maybe offering adviceter, once tempers had cooled.


    This time, she decided to stick to her tried–and–true method.


    “Want toe help me in the kitchen?”


    York nced up at Karen. There was a warmth in her eyes he’d never once seen on his mother Yvonne’s face. In his memory, Yvonne was always brisk and distant–her face set in a stern mask, always rushing in and out of the house, never lingering. He could count on one hand the number of meals they’d shared together; he couldn’t even remember if thest time was when he was three or four. Even when


    he’d gone to Merovia, Yvonne had never visited, not even when he’d fallen ill…


    “Okay,” he mumbled, nodding almost imperceptibly.


    In the kitchen, Karen pulled up a little stepstool for York so he could help out. Truth be told, York–pampered from birth–wasn’t much help, but as long as he didn’t break any dishes, Karen was satisfied.