When I was eleven years old, I wrote my very first book. It was a picture book. (You will notice that there are no pictures in this book. This makes sense, as the pictures in that book were not very good.)

  My fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Spracher, thought the book was wonderful, however.

  She pulled me aside and told me, “Quinn, you’re going to write books one day. The first one you should dedicate to your parents, but you’re going to dedicate the second one to me.”

  So, Janis, I’m proud to say that this one is for you.

  And for any readers, I need to tell you something. If you want to write a book, you can. All you have to do is try. One day, in fact, you will write a book. That one you should dedicate to your parents.

  The second one, though? You dedicate that one to me.

  THE WORLD INSIDE THE WATCH

  Magic does exist, but only we know how to reach it.”

  That’s what my aunt Jo used to tell me as I was falling asleep on her couch when I was younger. The fireplace was warm and crackled, her blankets were soft and heavy, and her hands would scratch through my hair as she whispered—only for me to hear.

  “You see, Rose, there’s a place where anything is possible, and when you go there, you will become more powerful than anyone you’ve ever met.”

  “Me? But I’m small.”

  “That doesn’t matter when you have magic, does it?”

  “How do I get there?” I’d ask, although I already knew the answer.

  “You use the watch, of course.” Jo would pull the long gold chain from her pocket slowly, link by link, until the pocket watch came into view.

  It was perfectly round, and the gold was as bright as the fire in the hearth. On the top was a loop, attached to which was a thin gold chain with braided links. Next to the loop was a button. Jo pressed it, and the sides, separated into twelve petals, fell open like a flower.

  Pictures were carved on the back of each segment of the gold shell. They depicted magical landscapes that could exist only in Jo’s fantasy world. In the middle was the clock, with long bronze hands that ticked silently.

  The first time she showed me, my hand reached out on its own, and Jo clicked it shut.

  Only Jo was allowed to touch the pocket watch.

  “It’s not yours yet, my love—but one day it will be, and then you will hold the key that will allow you to enter the other world.”

  “When can I go?”

  “When I’m ready to give it to you,” she’d say.

  I knew all twelve realms inside the watch by heart. Jo had told me about her adventures in them and had painted me dozens of pictures.

  In Ten O’Clock you turned into an animal to escape the giant flowers that followed you. Jo said she was a mink there, which she explained was a lot like if a snake and a hamster had a baby. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be a mink. She thought I might be a fox. I always liked foxes after that.

  Then in Eleven O’Clock you could create anything you could think of just by drawing it. If you wanted your own pet dragon, all you had to do was learn to draw one. But you had to be careful, because once it was created, the dragon would take on a life of its own. It might bite you or singe off your eyebrows.

  But Jo didn’t just tell me about the magic, even though that was the fun part—she also told me about the dangers. You had to be extra careful in the magical clock world, because whenever something is that amazing… there must always be something about it that’s equally frightening.

  “And it will be your job, Rosey-Posey, to save it one day.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because I’m too old and because you’re the perfect mix of smart, kind, and special.”

  That was always the best part of Jo’s stories, when she told me I was special. No one else believed that, and so I would listen to her as she scratched my head, and drew pictures for me, and gave me lessons on how to survive in the magical realms.

  I stayed awake for hours more than I would any other night, just to hide in her stories for a little longer. She even had a book about the world.

  The book was encased in red leather and bound with gold thread. The title was carved in cursive writing that I had thought was just perfect. The middle of the letters were gold as well, chipping only slightly. They read: The Thirteenth Hour.

  On every page was bright artwork that had been painted with a thin brush.

  On the first page was a tall man who had black hair with a puff of white on top, a floppy mustache, and an old-timey tie. His name was Amisi, and he was going on an adventure.

  Amisi flew over the clock world carrying a fistful of brightly colored balloons.

  I loved that world, because it felt like the exact opposite of the dry deserts of Arizona that I had grown up in, filled with identical white houses with identical pools and identical cactus-shaped WELCOME HOME mats.

  As I grew older, though, I realized that the watch world was just a book—a story that Jo had read and liked. But I still listened and nodded along, so that I could be special for a little longer too.

  When I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore, Jo would recite the ending to me.

  Scrawled on the back cover was a painted line of black writing: To my Mila. I will come back for you once I’ve saved our true home.

  Then below was the rhyme that Jo had sung to me so many nights when I was little.

  “So that you’ll remember it always,” Jo would whisper.

  “The little girl went off to bed and found a place inside her head. Her eyes closed shut when the clock struck one, and she dreamt she could fly up to the sun. When she awoke the very next day, she couldn’t wait to go back and play.

  “Next she slept, the clock struck two, and she dreamt that she sailed on the ocean blue.

  “ ‘How fun,’ she cried at the fire of three, ‘one of these worlds could be made for me!’ It was not the colorful city of four, ‘but I’ll keep going, there might be more.’

  “She was strong at five and small at six. ‘This must be magic, not just tricks.’ There’s steel, caves, and snow at seven, eight, and nine, but then she worried: ‘Which hour is mine?’ Not ten’s garden, nor eleven’s art. ‘It must be the last one,’ she knew in her heart.

  “At long last, when the clock struck twelve, she found a kingdom for herself.”

  THE SMOKE KEEPER

  Something crawled toward me in the darkness.

  My head was filled with fog, and in the pitch-black room I couldn’t figure out where I was.

  How did I get here? It was hard to think, but I was soon distracted by the scraping sounds of the thing moving. As it came closer, I could finally see what it was.

  It’s a man, I thought. Sort of, anyway. His arms and legs were too bony inside his bright yellow suit. A top hat shadowed his face. The way he moved, however, didn’t look like anyone I had ever seen—he jerked as he pulled himself across the floor toward me.

  “Stop,” I tried to yell, but it came out as a whisper. My chest was so tight, I couldn’t speak.

  The man said nothing, but I could hear the scratching of his nails as they dragged across the floor. My chest grew even tighter when I saw the nails. They were long, yellow, and cracked—curling toward his palms like claws.

  I tried to run, but my body was frozen—except for my pounding heart.

  As the man came nearer, I could finally see his face.

  He didn’t stare at me, he stared through me, like an X-ray. But he had no eyes—just dark, empty sockets. His nose was broken, and his lips looked like they had been torn into his face.

  The scariest thing, though, was his teeth. They were long, yellow, and cracked, just like his nails. Each tooth was as long as my fingers, and together they kept his mouth pried open, like one of those fish that live at the bottom of the ocean.

  The teeth parted for a second—just long enough for a rattling breath to squeeze through, along with glittering gray smoke.

  It’s a Smoke Keeper! I recognized him now and realized, This is a dream.

  But even though I knew what he was, as the Smoke Keeper scuttled closer, all elbows, knees, and teeth, I found that I was still afraid.

  But it’s just a dream, Rose! Wake up!

  It was like the more I realized it wasn’t real, the faster the man moved.

  Wake up! Wake up now!

  His mouth spread wide, teeth opening. A wheeze rattled across his lips.

  I could hear Jo’s voice in my memory. “All you hear is a long death rattle, and then it’s too late.”

  Just as he reached me, he whispered, “Rosemary.”

  * * *

  “Rosemary!”

  “Ahh!”

  As soon as my body unfroze, I felt like I was falling. I caught myself just in time and realized, Oops. I’m in class.

  My classmates snickered as they stared at me. I wiped at my cheek and, ugh, yeah, there was drool. Blood rushed to my face, causing my cheeks to flush.

  I looked up to see Mr. Topinka standing over my desk, his mustache scrunched up in the way it did when he was mad. Mom always said that I should try to make his mustache scrunch up less.

  “Sorry, Mr. Topinka. What’s the question?”

  “Well, my first question is why are you sleeping in my class?”

  More people giggled. Someone kicked my chair from behind.

  I didn’t have to turn around to know it was Jeremiah. He was super tall, his long legs barely fitting under his desk. He had blond hair that was shaved on the sides and spiked up
in a mohawk. His eyes were the same color blue as clear pool water. When he looked at you, it made you shiver because something about his eyes was cold.

  He kicked my chair again. I gritted my teeth, ignoring him.

  Then his twin sister, Fallon, reached over to hit his arm, and I had to stop myself from smiling. She had the same blond hair and blue eyes, but her eyes were warm. She looked at me, then turned away just as fast.

  We used to be friends. She stopped hanging out with me last summer when people started making fun of her for it. I don’t know what they think is wrong with me, exactly. It’s like everyone just decided I was a loser all at the same time. Maybe it was because of my clothes, or because I didn’t talk very much, or because I—

  “Earth to Ms. Marks.”

  My eyes shot to the front of the classroom. “Uh, sorry, Mr. Topinka.”

  “Now, why were you sleeping in my class?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I didn’t want to tell him that the real reason I was always tired in class was because I had nightmares at home.

  “That’s not an answer. But it’s fine, you don’t have to explain it to me.”

  I sighed. Thank goodness.

  “You can, however, explain it to your father. He’s here to pick you up.” Mr. Topinka stepped aside, revealing the small frame of Mrs. Lamprey, the office aide, behind him. “Mrs. Lamprey will escort you to the office.”

  My dad was here? But why? He never picks me up, and it was so early…

  My classmates laughed more as I stumbled to stand.

  Aunt Jo always told me that if you looked at Smoke Keepers—at monsters—with fear in your eyes, then they would go in for the kill. If they saw fear, then they knew they could win. I know bullies aren’t Smoke Keepers, but sometimes they feel like monsters anyway. So I didn’t look at the other kids as I followed Mrs. Lamprey.

  Because I was looking at the ground, I didn’t see the boy who appeared at Mrs. Lamprey’s side. I crashed into him and stumbled again. “Oh! Sorry, I—” I mumbled.

  I looked up at him. He had long, shaggy black hair and dark brown eyes streaked with gold. I had never seen him before.

  “You all right?”

  I was surprised by how earnestly he was asking it. But before I could answer, Mr. Topinka ushered him into the room.

  “Oh, and of course! Class, we have a new student. Let’s welcome Alejandro Fuentes.”

  I heard the class shouting their greetings just as the door slammed shut.

  THE SECRET GIFT

  Wes, my dad, was fed up by the time I got to the office.

  “Come on, we’re running late.”

  “Late for what?” I asked, jogging to keep up with him as he strode long dad steps toward the parking lot.

  “To see your aunt.”

  “Aunt Jo?”

  He didn’t say a word as we climbed into his big truck and pulled out of the parking lot.

  It took most people two hours to drive to Phoenix from Globe, where I live. But Wes wasn’t like most people—he wasn’t even like most dads.

  Most dads ask you about how your day was, or put your drawings up on their fridge, or actually, you know, want to spend time with you.

  Wes didn’t do any of those things, and it took him only one hour to drive to Phoenix. He liked to drive really fast. I figured it was because if he drove fast, then he could spend less time with me.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “I already told you.”

  “No, but, like, where exactly? Jo’s house?”

  I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye; it looked like he was deciding whether or not he wanted to lie.

  “The hospital,” he said finally. “The cancer came back.”

  I knew Jo had been sick, I just didn’t realize that she was still sick. The last time I saw her was two years ago when I was in the fourth grade. That’s when she got diagnosed with brain cancer.

  Back then we would take car trips to see Aunt Jo all the time.

  Aunt Jo was a loner like me. Mom called her a “hermit.” She lived far away from any other houses, walled off by ginormous Aleppo pines. She wasn’t married and didn’t have any kids. She did have really long hair, though; thick orange hair that she wore in a braid down her back. She was so short and the braid was so long that it reminded me of a tail. “Minks do have long tails, kid,” she’d say whenever I’d mention it.

  I liked Jo. I liked her mostly because she liked me. Aunt Jo said she thought I was great because I wasn’t similar to anyone else. Funny, when it seemed like that was the reason nobody liked me at school.

  Jo decided to become my “mentor.” She said that a mentor was like a teacher, except a mentor wouldn’t mark you tardy or give you grades. She would just teach me things. Jo’s the one who taught me to draw and paint.

  She said that painting was going to be my strongest magic when I went into the other world. “The magic of Eleven!” So I had to practice to prepare.

  She told me lots of things, and at the time I didn’t think it was weird. I was just happy that someone finally understood me and didn’t think I was a total loser. We spent hours in her garage as she gave me art lessons.

  She thought it was important that your picture felt real—no, that it was real. If you drew a man, then he had to really be thinking things. He had to have a family and had to want something. It was your job to make him alive. “Otherwise the magic won’t work.”

  Then she told me about the Smoke Keepers.

  “They’re called Smoke Keepers because magic looks like smoke, see? They try to steal people’s smoke away. Don’t let them take it from you, Rose.”

  Jo drew the Smoke Keepers a lot.

  When I told Mom about the whole “Aunt Jo told me that monsters are real and they’re trying to steal my magic” thing, it caused a big fight between her and Dad. Mom said that I wasn’t allowed to get mentored by Aunt Jo anymore.

  I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. What I do know is that the only person who ever actually liked me for me told me that I should be afraid of everyone.

  And now she was sick again. It must be pretty bad if she’s in the hospital…

  I shook my head. It would be fine. It had to be fine. She was Jo, and Jo couldn’t be taken down by anything or anyone. She was the strongest person I ever knew.

  Wes and I drove in silence for a while, which I liked. Wes and I never had much to talk about.

  “How’s your mom?” he finally asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Still working at that diner?”

  I nodded. Mom worked mornings at the diner. She hated it because they made her wear a 1950s dress with red and white stripes. Then at night she went to the community college. She was studying to become a nurse.

  “What about you?”

  “What about me?” I asked.

  “Join any sports?”

  “No.”

  “Any clubs?”

  I just shook my head.

  “So you’re not doing anything?”

  “Not really,” I said. I was still drawing a lot, but I knew that wasn’t what he meant. Wes was always worried about college. He said if I wanted to get into Columbia, which is where he went, then I would have to have good grades and “important hobbies.”

  Drawing didn’t count because you couldn’t write it on a college application, Wes said.

  “Why not? You’re not still doing art or anything like that, are you?” he asked me, looking away from the road.

  He thought it was a waste, that I needed to be spending all the time I wasn’t in school doing something that would prepare me for school. Art was just “fun,” and that wasn’t good enough. “You don’t get graded in fun,” he’d chide me.

  I paused before answering. “No.”

  “Good. Well, when the new year starts, I’ll find a good club for you. How does debate sound?”

  Terrible.

  “Okay.”

  There was no point in arguing with Wes. He was a lawyer, so he argued for a living. And I just do art.

  “Good. When you go to law school, debate will be an important skill. It’s never too early to think about college, Rosemary.”

  * * *

  The hospital was all white and smelled like plastic and medicine. I didn’t like it.