Much Ado About Nothing: A Short Story

I carried on through classes that day with a grim determination. In History, the teacher had to call my name thrice before I heard and answered her question. At break, Winnifred and Denise marched up to me.

"Where were you this morning?" Winnifred asked, irritated. "Mrs. Gilford asked me during study hall."

I hastily looked up from the novel I'd been reading, a twist on Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing. "Where was I? Miss Florence sent me to tell the principal that she wasn't feeling her best, Winnifred."

"You were gone way too long to be at the principal's," Denise whined in her nasal voice.

"I had another commitment," I muttered evasively, placing the book more firmly in front of my face.

As I'd suspected, it didn't work. It

I stepped back, pressing against the alley wall and holding the bag in front of my face as the rustling grew louder. I thrust the backpack out and heard an indignant squawk. I opened one eye to see a few red feathers drift to the ground and Kiosk dive for my wrist, give it a sharp peck, and perch on it.

"Kiosk!" I almost sobbed in relief. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

Kiosk, who was the size of an eagle, let out a strange call, like a match flaring up, and shifted his weight.

"You'll have to fly, though," I frowned. "I'm not home yet."

I still felt watched, perhaps from being so nervous, so I took the direct route home instead of the diverted one I'd been planning and locked up my bike much faster than I normally would have done.

I rushed up the stone steps of the orphanage, opened the door, and slammed it behind me, surprising the receptionist.

"Miss Wendell, do be careful," she sighed, shuffling her papers. "And try to arrive earlier. Dinner has started without you."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bradford," I answered pleasantly, though not at all in a pleasant mood, and stepped into the dining hall to find a seat. The only one available was between Winnifred and Denise, so it was with a resigned disposition that I seated myself next to them and grimly loaded my plate with

That is perfectly average. But if you are not yet fourteen and are already hearing the whisperings, that is a rare thing indeed. Hasten to Sorcerer's Arena; I attended that place myself. They will teach you well for five years, and then you will find yourself with all the high-quality education you could wish for.'"

There was a footnote by the author underneath, claiming that this was proof of the savagery of the magical race, but I didn't heed it. My heart was already pounding. If the passage meant what I thought it did- that hearing voices in your head was not always a sign of madness- then I was of magical heritage. I frowned as I re-read the passage. The term Sorcerer's Arena had been heavily underlined and marked with the numeral one. I flipped pages until I found the note, which read: The only surviving copy of a Sorcerer's Arena map in Einfalt is at the village's museum. The exhibit is off-limits to undergraduates.

I bit my lip, closed the book, and stuffed it back in my bag. On my way home, I mulled over two things. The first, that if I was of magical heritage, I needed to get to Sorcerer's Arena somehow. The second was that I had no idea how to get there, and I really didn't want to rob a museum. I mounted the orphanage steps and walked