Property of the State by Bill Cameron Page A

sitting, but he called her a clumsy zebretta—whatever the hell that means—then bolted. There was no sign of him during lunch.
    â€œYou’ve been hurt as well.”
    â€œI fell.”
    That’s good enough for her. Philip looks worse, but maybe it’s the mask.
    â€œYou should be careful.”
    â€œMe and Philip both.”
    Her lips press together as if she wants to blame Duncan for my face too, but can’t work her way around his coma. She shakes her head at last, and glances toward the door. “Philip went up to bed.” I wonder if he’s looking at his pictures of Bianca Santavenere. “I appreciate your company for supper. Mr. Huntzel is away again.”
    She still doesn’t eat. Something is on her mind, but the last thing I want her to do is tell me about it. Nothing good ever comes of knowing other people’s secrets. I finger my chips. The tension in the kitchen could crack teeth.
    I say, “I noticed the heads in the basement need dusting.”
    â€œThey do?”
    â€œI can take care of it tomorrow, maybe.”
    â€œWhatever you think is best.” She picks up her milk at last and drains the glass. Then she stands and pushes her fingers into her eyes. “You’ll excuse me. It’s been a long day.”
    God only knows what made it so long; she wasn’t at school for the first time in the history of forever. She pads out to the main hall and is gone, leaving me alone with two sandwiches and a double helping of chips.
    My sandwich and chips are down before the soft echo of her footsteps fade. Then I wrap her sandwich and put it in the fridge, pour her chips back into the bag. Rinse our plates and glasses, stick them in the dishwasher. And listen. The house is dead quiet. The thing I like best about Huntzel Manor. Time to get to work.
    Tuesday on Wednesday: living room and library, dust and vacuum. I note my start time on the clipboard in the mudroom. The vacuum cleaner and other cleaning supplies are kept in a storage room in the basement next to the boiler room. It would be a hassle if not for the one-man elevator that goes from basement to second floor, up the middle of the spiral staircase. I start in the library because when you dust, you start at the top and work your way down. Maddie the Mad Chess Woman drilled that lesson into me in first grade.
    It’s a big job, but I’ve been doing it since April. I’ve never broken any of the ceramic figurines on display in the living room: poodles and fat-cheeked girls wearing poofy dresses. The library is easier, even though I have to use a stepladder to get at the highest bookshelves. I work alone, the way I like it. Feels weird to run the vacuum cleaner with the house so dark and empty, different from the afternoons when Philip or Mrs. Huntzel might wander through. I try to hurry, but it still takes me more than two hours—longer than usual, probably because my face is pounding the whole time. Mrs. Huntzel won’t question the time. She never does.
    I’m rolling the vacuum cleaner onto the lift on the first floor when Philip appears at the top of the spiral stairs. The transparent plastic of his mask warps his elf face. “Why are you here?”
    â€œJust catching up from yesterday.”
    Mrs. Huntzel views me as Philip’s protector, someone to look out for him when she’s not around. Philip hates it, even if he does seem less jumpy when he knows I’m nearby. All it took was me knocking Duncan sideways one day to make a friend, I guess. Reid would ask me how I feel about that.
    But something is different now. When Philip reaches the first floor, he stops. “Your face is grotesque.”
    â€œAt least I don’t have to wear that terrifying mask.”
    I can’t read his expression, but there’s something vaguely hostile in his stare. I wonder if he thinks I’m trying to one-up him.
    â€œCaliban knocked me down the hill.” The