Page 121 of Freeing Hook

“How long will it take you to…help him?” the woman asks, her voice trembling as much as her folded hands.

“You must understand this is a process,” says the warden. “This isn’t an institute for petty magic. If you want that, I suggest you contact the Seer down the street. I’m sure she could provide you with a few baubles to hang around the child’s neck to make him behave.”

“Of course not,” says the woman. “It’s just that I’ll miss my boy, and I’d like to have a date to look forward to.”

Something tells me the shadow of the warden is grinning. “Trust me, Ms. Astor. When you get your boy back, once we’ve fixed him, you’ll realize there was nothing to miss about the boy he was before.”

I watch young Nolan, my heart cracking for him, but if he’s bothered by the warden, all he does to show it is run a coin up and down his pant leg.

“Please, you have to talk to his mother,” says Peter, tugging on my coat. I find myself wondering where the real Peter was this day. If he hid somewhere and listened for the new recruits whenever they brought one in. If he really did go out to the city to beg an adult to save the new boy. I wonder how much of this is true, and how much the shadows have altered the story, not unlike a memory, warping its shape over time to suit the current needs of the holder.

I watch, numb, as the mother hands over a pouch full of coin. Astor said she was a widow. Without his father around to support them, I can’t imagine a pile of coin that large wouldn’t be felt at the supper table. Not in a small fishing village like this one.

When Mrs. Astor goes to leave, I can’t help myself. I grab her by the shoulders. “This is a trap. The work the warden’s doing here—it’s not for your child’s benefit,” I say.

Astor’s mother shifts slowly, peering at me over her shoulder. Her body has a bent quality about it. I can’t tell if that’s the nature of the wraith or a reflection of the truth. “I cannot keep him,” she says. “As much as I love him. The warden helped me see—he’s a danger to my other children.” She says it wistfully. As if she’s spent every night since the warden visited her home trying to convince herself otherwise. Trying to talk herself out of it. I watch her lower her hand to her belly, a belly I just now realized is swollen underneath the shadows, and realize Nolan’s father can’t have been gone long. “Take care of my boy, won’t you?” she says before disappearing.

Numbly, I turn back to the scene unfolding before me. The warden taps on his desk, he and young Astor sizing each other up. Judging by Nolan’s size, he can’t be older than eight.

“You like power. That’s why you hurt your siblings.”

Young Nolan just shrugs, otherwise unresponsive. Still, I can’t help but notice how he rolls the coin up and down his pant leg faster. In my mind, I can feel its curve in the grooves between my fingers as if they’re my own.

“You’re not going to speak to me, then?” asks the warden. “You’re not going to defend yourself?”

“I don’t do it because I like it,” says young Nolan. There’s no defensiveness in his tone. Just a bold obstinance.

“Hmmm,” says the warden, pushing himself from his desk. “You know what I think? I think you like the feeling of power. I think that’s why you hurt other children.”

As he approaches Nolan, the child doesn’t react, but then the warden comes up to Nolan’s chair from behind and slips both hands onto the boy’s shoulders, rubbing them in almost tender circles.

I wait for the Nolan I know to rip his head off for touching him. But, of course, this isn’t the Nolan I know. This Nolan is a child.

He freezes underneath the warden’s touch, just for a moment, but it’s enough for the warden to identify just how afraid the child underneath his hands is.

Slowly, as if he’s won, the warden pulls away and paces over to the fire, clasping his hands behind his back. “Come here, boy,” he says. “There’s a lesson I would have you learn.”

Nolan stands, but it’s more as if to prepare for a fight than it is to approach the warden.

The warden looks over his shoulder, though I can’t see his expression through the shadows. Even the fire by the hearth is just a lick of black shadows.

“You’re not afraid of fire, are you?” asks the warden.

Nolan’s jaw stiffens, and he puffs his chest, striding over toward the warden with a sway to his feet that exudes all confidence, nothing of the terror that was emanating from him just moments ago.

When he reaches the fire, the warden grabs at a poker and begins irritating the coals until the flames swell, hot and aggravated. “Here’s something you need to learn early. And that is, no matter how big you are, there’s always someone bigger than you. Always someone with more power. No matter how firm your will is, there’s always someone who can break it. Always someone who can break you,” says the warden.

“If you’re trying to frighten me into thinking that bigger person’s you, you’re doing a poor job of it,” says Nolan.

The warden doesn’t show any signs of anger that I can see. In fact, his tone is almost amused as he says, “You will be a delight to break, Nolan Astor. By the time we get you back to your mother, she won’t recognize you.”

“You don’t plan to give me back to my mother,” says Nolan, not a hint of fear in his voice. He has his hands clasped behind his back, mirroring the warden—probably because he sees him as powerful and wants to measure up.

“Now, where did you get that idea?”

“The other boys here,” says Nolan. “They’re much too old not to have been sent back yet.”

“Some refuse to bend.”

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