Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 674(@200wpm)___ 539(@250wpm)___ 449(@300wpm)
August starts to open his mouth but stops, looking at my battered book on the table and ignoring his tea. His expression eases, but the lines around his eyes are concerningly deep. He flashes me a glance, that unruly lock of hair drifting across his eyes.
“May I?”
“O-oh.” I don’t know why I’m suddenly embarrassed, but I clear my throat and look away, tucking my hair back. “S-sure.”
“Thank you.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. I’m suddenly more nervous than I was when Clara was looking at them. I don’t know what I’ll do if August laughs, or something worse.
But there’s only silence, except for the soft sounds of paper against paper.
Chest tight, I glance back shyly. I can’t look at him directly.
But then I stop.
Because he’s really looking at the pages.
He has the intense concentration I’ve seen on his face before that says whatever he’s looking at has his full attention.
He’s staring at my drawings, absorbing them, taking time to appreciate them.
To appreciate something I created, like my silly little doodles are actually worthy of a focus so intense.
I really am about to blow to smithereens.
Fireworks everywhere, bright and hot and bursting.
While August looks at my sketchbook and I look at him, I realize Clara’s looking at me.
Her smile is small and thoughtful, her eyes glittering with warmth.
I clear my throat, looking away again. That seems to break August’s focus, and he murmurs, “Hello, Kiki.”
My heart goes to pieces right there.
“Kiki the Koala,” he says again. A touch of rumbling approval, softening the anger that roughened his voice only a minute ago. “How did you come up with her?”
“Oh, well . . .” No one’s ever asked me that before. It takes a second to find my voice, and I breathe deeply. “Gran,” I say. “Gran and Lena. When we were little, Lena and I fought like wet cats in a bag. We’d be best friends one second and hate on each other the next. Sometimes we didn’t mean it. Sometimes we did. We were both really headstrong. And when we swore we’d never talk or play again, Gran would call us inside and sit us down with tea for everyone.” The memory warms something inside me, like holding my heart in front of a crackling fire. “She’d always ask us to try to figure out what was in today’s cup. Anise, lavender, vanilla, honeysuckle, jasmine, mint. We’d get so distracted guessing, we’d forget what we were even fighting about. And then she’d bring us cookies, and we’d all enjoy the rest of the afternoon.” I smile, ducking my head. “So I turned that into Kiki. There’s no problem she can’t fix by sitting people down with a cup of eucalyptus tea and getting them to talk.”
“Teaching children conflict resolution and love for a good cup of tea,” August says, his lips curling. I fizz like champagne, breathless and bright. He turns to the last page, closes the back cover, and gives me those stark blue eyes again. “I like it. It’s a damn good concept. There’s a warmth to her that creates an immediate connection to the page.”
Oh no. Am I about to start crying just because August gets my drawings?
I smile, trying to hold it back. “Don’t embarrass me like this. I can’t cry in front of your aunt.”
“Of course you can, dear,” Clara says. “It’s always better to cry with joy.”
I shake my head. I need to divert the subject quickly, or I will start bawling.
I glance back to August, biting my lip.
“Hey, are you okay? You look tired.”
“I’m worn out,” August answers slowly, before his mouth creases and he turns a dire look on Clara. “I’m tired of being lied to.”
Oh crud.
Wrong direction.
Clara draws herself up, lifting her chin. “If you have something to say, young man, be direct. I don’t appreciate insinuations.”
“I don’t appreciate deception,” August throws back. “She had Lester’s sketches, Aunt Clara. His developmental work. She’s going to use it to prove he created Inky first. Did he? Is there merit to the claim? Can she date the sketches to before your own?”
Say no, say no, I plead. I know it can’t be true. My idol wouldn’t do that. Clara’s such a kindhearted, thoughtful woman—she has integrity, a good heart.
Tell me everything I believed in as a little girl wasn’t a lie.
But she doesn’t say anything.
Her eyes lid and she looks at the window, her expression blanking into stubborn, glassy emptiness.
August slams a fist against the table.
The teacups bounce, clatter, splash.
With a muffled squeak, I scramble to pull my sketchbook and portfolio away.
“Damn it, Clara!” he snarls. “You can’t stay silent on this. This is the whole future of Little Key—your life’s work!”
“Yes, yes,” she says icily. “It was my life’s work, son. Now that work is done. What does it matter who owns or publishes the Inky books? They won’t disappear just because Miss Sullivan has taken over.”