Chapter Two

Glora and her best friend spot what appears to be The Sneak!

Chapter Two

Glora's breath pushed off the wall and brushed against her face, warm and heavy. Her shoulders tensed as she rested her forehead against the cold bricks, lungs gasping for air, body cramped in the tiny space. It had been three years since she hid in this nook last, and she hoped that was time enough for her friends to forget it existed. At the sound of Wesley's hoarse yell, Glora risked a peek outside the nook. Wesley was chasing Elli, a short girl who on several occaisions had sworn to be Glora's little sister. The girl tripped as her oversized boots caught on a loose brick, and she skidded on her knees and palms to crash against a stack of crates. Glora bit her lip as the crates tottered. Wesley fell to his knees, tagged Elli and darted off as the crates toppled over the poor girl. An angry fruit merchant appeared around the corner just as Elli scrambled under his stand and emerged on the otherside with a fruit in hand. Glora grinned in her nook and ducked back in as Wesley brushed past. She pressed her forehead to her knees, neck stretching, fingers drumming, muscles waiting. She could feel the blood pound through her joints in anxious expectation. Her body felt like a spring, ready to launch at the soonest sign of an approaching tagger. And then the footsteps came too close and her legs exploded from the secret space, her barefeet hit the ground and she tore off, across the market square and over a pile of rugs, Wesley's heavy breath and mingled laughter close behind. The impact of her foot against a brick felt solid through her ankles, the rough stones stimulated her skin, the rush of sound and the thick scents of cooking food urged her faster, faster. As the pursuer's hand lunged close, Glora spun away and darted through a gaggle of laughing women, darted down a dark, lampless alleyway and leapt into an assortment of discarded objects, some of which were rather hard and scraped her legs. Her breath came fast now, and her blood felt too active to be sitting still as heat rushed in waves to her face. But it wasn't long until Wesley slammed into the pile in which Glora hid, and the two tumbled to the ground, laughing and wheezing for breath.

"Alright," Glora gasped, grinning wildly. "You got me."

Wesley raised a triumphant fist as he lay on his side. "Hurrah! The little runaway is caught!"

Glora got to her knees and dusted off her ragged skirt, extending a hand for Wesley and pulling him up. "So did I win again?"

"Yep. Elli's mad, I bet. She was certain she was last this time, but I didn' tell her 'bout you."

They sauntered out of the alleyway, breath slowing down gradually and knees cooling somewhat as their blood calmed. A group of kids were waiting in the market square, the smallest boy jumping up and down and skipping around the taller children in an attempt to listen and be heard.

"Oi, Glora." called Ronan, who at seventeen was the oldest of the group. "Piper says you turned eleven yesterday, is that right?"

Glora grinned and raised her chin. "Sure I did."

"Happy eleventh." Ronan turned back to the group as an argument began over which game to play next, using his long arms to hold back the younger children from biting each other. Glora sniffed the air wistfully before joining the ring of street kids. Supper had been overlooked in her rush to escape the manor.

"Wanna play another game of hide n' tag?"

"My foot hurts, can't we just go to the hideout?"

"No! Not again, ain't you sick of that yet!"

"Let's play a whisper game!"

"Shut up, all of you!" Glora snapped. "I say we get something to eat before we set off on some other dumb game." 

Elli shook her head bossily. "And who's gonna buy it this time? I ain't gonna send Piper to go snatch somethin' again."

"Sham you guys, I know what we ought to do." Piper piped up. Though he was near ten years of age, Piper was still as little as the few seven year-olds and as neglected as a broken market item. "Aw, Piper, stay out of this for once." Harpo the fifteen year-old stepped in front of the hopping boy.

"I said, I know what we ought to do." Piper squeezed and shoved his way into the center of the group. "Let's go find Bentley."

"Ha!" Ronan grinned. "Let's!"

Bentley was a young law enforcer, who one day had taken it into his head that he would find and punish Glora for one of her various pranks, the most recent of which involved Piper yelling a silly song at the top of his lungs in the middle of the night. Unfortunately, the young man brought upon himself many agonizing hours for taking up such a task, and since his first attempt at catching Glora he had become the target at which most of the kids' pranks were directed. But today Glora's stomach was grumbling in protest of her hurried escape from the manor, and the emptiness sparked a crabby mood as she stood amidst dirty, shouting children.

"Can't we do something partly intelligent for once? I'll go get the food myself, seeing as you lot are too lazy." And she turned on her heel, only to bump into Ronan. "And since when, little lady, have you had lots of coin?"

Glora smirked. "Since before you bothered your thick head to wonder about it." She tossed her curls over her shoulder haughtily, but Ronan only laughed as she marched off.

The bread merchant eyed her suspiciously as Glora drew a dull coin from her patched pocket, but the woman took it all the same and unwrapped a dark loaf of bread. Just as she extended her hand to receive it, a strangled yell from across the market drew Glora's attention. An unusually terrified tone in the voice quieted all the children and turned the heads of nearly every merchant as a ridiculously dressed man burst into the center of the square.

"Sneak! Sneak! I've spotted the Sneak!"

For a moment the entire market was absolutely silent as a hundred eyes watched the man sobbing on the ground. And then Glora grabbed her bread and ran off in the direction the man had come. What seemed like all of the market goers soon followed, Piper skipping faithfully by her side. Glora quickly found herself jostled into the center of the rushing crowd and then knocked to her knees. Wiping her cuts with the tattered end of her skirt, she licked her lips regretfully as the people hurried on without her. A shocked exclamation halted the people in their tracks.

"By the blood of Faldor! How?!"

An odd scent travelled into Glora's lungs; a dark, earthy scent. Hundreds of shuffling feet echoed along the cobblestones, Glora tasted blood on her tongue, and the spluttering lanterns cast jagged shadows across uneven stones. She crawled forward, through many legs and over many boots, when a terrible, chilling scream caused her to freeze, heart pounding loudly in her chest. A sudden wave of whispers spread through the people, and Glora clambered to her feet and trotted to the front of the crowd, when under the threat of losing her life she was forced to stop. For there, mere steps in front of her, lay a gaping, disquieting emptiness. The ground had been cracked open, and down below was utter darkness. The back of her neck prickled as she stared at this error, this wrongness. It wasn't right for the ground to be open like this. It simply wasn't possible. She backed away, legs oddly numb, and bumped into a crying woman.

"Sorry." Glora croaked, and turned to brush past her.

"Tonno fell." sobbed the woman. "He fell in, in there. Down!" the words ripped from her lungs; her expression was agony itself. Glora felt her chest go cold, and she turned and ran.

Leaning against a lantern post, Glora held her head and focused on taking deep, smooth breaths. She was somewhere in the depths of the East Provinces and surrounded by a darkness only weakly permeated by lanterns here and there. It had to be bedtime by now; she had run for nearly a quarter hour and then walked until her feet knocked against eachother. Her legs started to tremble and she sank down onto her haunches, kneading her eyeballs gently with the heel of her hands. The darkness was overwhelming; every few steps she saw a gaping hole, right there in the ground. Though the sides were unknown and though she couldn't see a foot above the glowing lanterns, beneath her feet was supposed to be always solid ground, always assurance, always safety. Always there. And now it had been broken, torn from beneath her and she didn't know where she was. Shivers ran up her arms and disgust shook in her chest as she berated herself for her own terror. But it was awful; the ground was gone, and someone had fallen in! Had he seen it, or was he shoved in by the rushing crowd? And that scream, oh, he had felt his only safety disappear, and then down he went, into the unknown.

Glora took a quick inhale and looked up. She had to get home. The skinny girl stood, limbs quivering slightly. She gave herself a sharp slap across the cheek, smoothed down her thighs with firm hands, and looked about her surroundings. A relieved laugh rushed out of her mouth when Glora realized where she was. This was on the way to Wesley's house. She hesitated, debating whether she should head back North or stop to visit Wesley. It would take two hours at the least to walk back home, and her body ached at the thought. With a weary sigh, Glora turned and directed her feet towards Wesley's house. It was cold in this area, and within moments she regretted leaving her shoes as her toes went numb. Her raggedy clothes, which she had found in the East and saved just for playing with her friends, provided no edge against the seeping chill. She rubbed her thin arms and lowered her brows in a determined glare. Gathered between cobblestones, the dust and dirt steadily thickened the further she walked. Along the path on either side houses sprouted in seemingly random locations, leaning against one another and more often than not bearing only a heavy cloth in place of a door. The girl's face grew morose as she surveyed the miserable neighborhood, more out of self-pity than sympathy, but in sorrow for a sorry state all the same. She pinched her cheeks as her feet began to drag in exhaustion, ashamed to be seen in any posture but a regal one. Her head drooped wearily, tongue loose in her mouth, ears pounding in a seductively sleepy beat. And then finally, wedged between a rather dim lantern and an empty house, was Wesley's slanted shack, luckily protected with a thin wooden door. She paused at the door. Should she knock? Perhaps his mother was sleeping right on the other side. Creeping around the corner, Glora stood on tiptoe and silently pulled a tattered curtain to the side, peering through the glassless window. On the floor lay a child, who appeared older than he was due to the dust ingrained under his eyes and across his cheek. A thick blanket covered his body, black velvet acquired through a midnight journey to and from Glora's manor. Glora smiled to remember the adventure, then bit her lip guiltily as she contemplated waking the boy. He appeared so peaceful in sleep, his hands black and red from working in the mines, his lids heavy in their sockets.

"Wesley." Glora whispered. She paused. He hadn't stirred. "Wesley! Wakeup!" she said aloud.

The boy took an irregular breath, and turned on his side. His eyes fluttered, opened slowly, and then fell shut.

"Wesley..."

He sat up, blanket sliding down, eyes blinking. "Glora?" he muttered sleepily. "'S that you?"

"Yeah, wake up!"

Wesley slid back down. "What're you doin' here?" he groaned. "Go away, it's 'middle of the night."

"Ah, get up, you lump. I've something to tell you."

"No."

"Come on, it has to do with the Sneak!"

"Go away."

Glora grinned, sitting down underneath the window. She waited a few minutes, counting her breaths. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.

"Glora?"

"Haha!" she stood up, laughing. Wesley started and jumped back. "Keep it down, would you? Mother's sleeping."

"Sorry. Come on, let's go."

"I ain't leavin', Glora. You're constantly pullin' me along these adventures of yours, at who knows what time at night, for some crazy reason or another, and --"

Glora scowled. "You have fun, don't you?"

But Wesley was silent, staring into the darkness with a hushed expression.

"Wesley?" she whispered, suddenly wishing she was on the other side of the window. A shuffling sound drifted somewhere behind her. A shiver went down her spine.

"Get in, Glora. Hurry." her friend breathed.

Without hesitation, she hoisted her hips over the window sill and scrambled in, landing in a heap without grace on the other side.

"What is it?"

The two children kneeled at the window, peering over the ledge. As she squinted into the darkness, Glora just barely detected a figure, an unusually large man prowling in the street. She felt her heart rise in her throat, watching the outline of an arm, the faintest step of a boot.

"Sneak." they whispered together. It wasn't fascinating or mysterious, clutching the cold wall of an unprotected house as she watched the dangerously real figure lurking so near. A boot heel, blacker than the night, disappeared around a corner, and the two friends let out their breath. Wesley appeared releived. He slumped against the wall, quite content to fall back asleep. But Glora was left with a cold neck and a wariness along her spine. The darkness bothered her, confused her senses and allowed her to see what wasn't there. A man in black and larger than normal was somewhere nearby, but Glora didn't, couldn't, know where. She pulled the blanket over herself and Wesley, who by now was fast alseep and breathing deeply. A bump sounded somewhere behind the next wall, a shadow flickered with the sputtering light, the musty air was too thick for clear thoughts. Her breath pulled in so quickly, was it loud enough for the Sneak to hear? And her head was nodding, drooping; perhaps he'd see it's moving shadow; maybe he'd smell the rich oils in her hair; and the darkness became so great it flooded even her mind.

Singing. Soft words, a gentle tune. A raspy lilt beneath the hum, but her words were sophisticated and betrayed a high-class education. Perhaps she was a stolen princess, kidnapped and forced to live in the slums, but singing a song of comfort. A crown. She would be wearing a crown, maybe, and Glora wanted to see it.

With a sudden lurch, Glora sat up. Squinting against the clear light, she moaned at the pull of her bruised and aching muscles. 

"Awake, are we?" spoke the singing princess.

Glora shielded her eyes with a dirty hand to see one of her maids holding up her tattered street dress. So it wasn't a princess.

"Hey," Glora rasped. Her throat was oddly tight. Painfully tight. She swallowed and winced at the sensation. "Get off my clothes."

"Tsk, tsk. To think you, Glora of Harbrek, was running around in this. You'll wish you were still a-sleeping in a moment, my darling, once your father comes up."

Glora of what? she thought dazedly. Her legs were nestled warmly in some soft cushion. Her bed. She was sitting in her bed. "Harbrek is my last name." she mumbled. "Where's Wesley?" she scrambled out of her covers and promptly fell to the ground. Her temples were throbbing thickly, and a swell of pressure pinched her nose.

"Hush, darling." Soft hands guided her back to the bed. Glora's long legs tangled in her slippery night gown, and she twisted and sank into the covers with a plop, avoiding her maid's eyes out of embarrassment. When she looked back from her pillow, the maid was gone and her door was shut. The girl tried to call out in protest at being abandoned so, but her head was heavy against a smooth cloth and all that came out was a weak moan. She smoothed down the front of her gown in preparation for her father's entrance, for the maid had said he would be coming, and Glora wished to appear confident and presentable. But her jaw ached something fierce, and her taste buds lay too prickly on her tongue. She moaned again in quiet frustration, rolled over to face the window and shut her eyes with a painful scowl.

It would be many an hour before her father came up to give Glora some dreadful news, news that despite it's world-ending effect on Glora was perhaps one of the greatest things that happened in her early years. But those five hours in which Glora did nothing but sleep would be very boring to record, so let us take our attention away from the Harbrek (for that was indeed her last name) manor, and instead give our sympathy to a very neglected young boy who could appreciate the attention far more than Glora.