Chapter Fourteen Emma Baldwin
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Emma Baldwin
Thanks to the magic of time travel, I arrive home only one minute after I left.
But I’m nearly caught by security while climbing the conjured ladder to sneak into my bedroom.
I freeze as a neighbor’s dog barks, redirecting the guard to the other side of the building.
The distraction gives me just enough time to escape to the balcony before the ladder vanishes, putting me back in my room before anyone notices I left.
Still, I was too close to getting caught.
I’ll need a different escape plan next time.
After, I relax in my bed, staring at the piano. Even half an hour later, my heart is still racing from my close call when a cone of amber light appears, spotlighting the lace runner on my creamy white dresser.
What the hell is that?
I’m a lightning bolt full of nervous excitement. A golden mailbox materializes, gleaming in the soft light. Malcolm must’ve written a letter for me … but what could he possibly want to say so soon? Has he changed his mind about working with me? I rush over, my fingers trembling.
The mailbox is small and beautiful. It’s carved from warm, honeyed wood, with delicate blossoms curling around the edges.
Vines twist up the sides, and pink petals frame the tiny gold door, each groove catching the soft glow of the sun.
I open it to reveal a miniature world inside: trees, cobblestone streets, and fairy-tale cottages that seem to hum with life.
Tiny, shining fairies with skin in a rainbow of shades emerge from the box.
Their dresses are fitted at the top and fall like bells made from silver rain.
My mouth hitches open in surprise—who knew that creatures like this existed?
As the fairies flit in circles around me, they leave glittering trails of stardust in their wake.
A pretty fairy hovers closer to me. Her silver hair matches her dress, and her wings seem carved from ice.
Her tiny brown hands hold a glowing envelope.
My heart thumps excitedly. As she approaches, the envelope grows in size.
With a smile and a mischievous glint in her eye, she hands me Malcolm’s letter.
“Thank you,” I sputter. I watch as she flies back into the mailbox, the others soaring in behind her. The box slams closed, vanishing and taking away the magical world inside it.
I read:
Dear Emma,
I wasn’t sure if you’d be nervous about writing me after what the psychic said, so I figured I should get the ball rolling, just in case.
I’m glad that you were brave or maybe just reckless enough to come see me today.
And I’m thrilled that you want to take a chance and help me help us get out of this situation.
I was at Angelo’s Pizzeria in South Philly, eating one of their famous cheesesteaks and thinking about our problems. As the grease and cheese dripped down my fingers, I couldn’t help but laugh at how you’d probably handle it all with way more grace than I did.
You have a certain elegance even when facing curses and our shared family drama.
I’ll be honest: This mission brings a bit of shine into these dark days.
It gives me hope that the future can be brighter.
You know? It’s amazing how we can share letters and small moments, even when we’re miles and years apart.
It makes everything feel … well, normal. Like maybe we can get through this.
Maybe after this is over, we can go back to the Fair and spend hours laughing on the Ferris wheel.
I love Ferris wheels … and funnel cakes.
So I’d love to share them with you … And take you to Angelo’s and all the cool places in Philly.
I know we’re fighting some pretty dark stuff, but stay hopeful.
We’re the only two people in the world who understand what it’s like to be Tethered right now, at this moment in history.
And we are the only ones who can stop it.
So I can’t lose you to the Darkside … Or lose myself, because neither of us wants to end up going “hunter and prey” on the other because of this dumb curse.
Hope you write back. I want to know you better.
And hearing from you would make this whole mess a bit more bearable.
See you soon, Emma Baldwin.
Malcolm
I move to sit at my desk. My fingers trace over the curve of the “M” in Malcolm’s name, the paper smooth and cool under my fingertips. A smile curls my lips. I didn’t expect a letter this soon, and yet, here it is: proof that he is thinking about me. And that he is committed to ending the Tether.
Warmth glitters over my body like sunshine on a river.
The idea of Malcolm, somewhere far away, pausing between bites of a greasy steak to pen this note, makes my heart flutter like a cluster of butterflies trapped in a jar.
His words carry glimmers of hope and possibility in an otherwise dark situation, igniting a fire of determination within me that I refuse to let be extinguished by the Tether.
I feel a rush of gratitude that he wrote first, because I might have gotten cold feet and not reached out to him.
With a deep breath, I sit at my desk to write back.
The pen is a live wire in my hand, a conduit for the emotions that swirl inside me.
Fear. Rebellion. Curiosity. Each word I write feels like a promise, a commitment to this journey to save ourselves.
My heart races as I try to capture the thoughts and feelings running wildly through me, to let him know that I’m just as committed as he is to ending the Tether.
I finish the letter and sit back, taking a moment to steady myself before tossing the message Malcolm wrote into the fireplace so my family can never find it. I watch the blue flames greedily lick the letter. Its edges curl and darken, while I hold my note carefully.
When Malcolm’s letter is nothing more than ash, I reach for the piece of paper he gave me with instructions for summoning the magic mailbox. Chanting the spell, I focus on my desk, willing the mailbox to reappear.
A cool whisper of magic brushes past me, carrying the faint scent of cinnamon.
My breath stills as the magic box shimmers into existence, its amber glow spreading like sunlight over water, splashing onto the desk in ripples of light.
My heart pumps with the intensity of our mission. I can’t turn back now.
The lid creaks open, and golden light spills out, revealing the miniature city inside—a tiny world alive with magic. A sound like wind chimes caught in a gentle breeze fills the air as a fairy emerges, her presence overwhelming despite her tiny size.
Her sea-blue hair cascades in waves, each strand floating as if underwater.
Tiny specks of light flicker within, like stars trapped in silk.
Her brown face is sharp and angular, high cheekbones framing amber eyes that cut unnervingly deep.
Across her full nose, freckles sparkle like stardust scattered.
Her dress, made of glowing pink petals and shimmering emerald leaves, shifts as if alive with her movements.
A silver crown adorned with pink flowers rests on her head.
She floats in the air, her translucent wings a flutter of motion, veins of molten gold running through them.
Trails of glittering mist swirl behind her as she flies closer.
Her small palm extends toward me. “The price of postage is a secret,” she says.
I pause, her words feeling like a dare. “A secret?”
She nods, her head tilting, the light catching the gentle curve of her pointed ears. “A truth you’d rather keep hidden.”
My throat tightens, almost choking on words I’ve never spoken aloud.
The room chills, and the beautiful mailbox feels more ominous than inviting.
Gulping, I whisper, “When I was eight, after a fight, I wished my sister, Grace, was gone. Just for a second. And when she died … I couldn’t stop hating myself. ”
The fairy doesn’t flinch, but the weight of her gaze feels like judgment. “Regret still lingers,” she replies softly. “But your payment is accepted.”
She reaches for the letter, her tiny fingers touching mine. Her touch is cool, like a breath of fresh air on a winter night. The pendant at her neck glows brighter as she takes the letter. It shrinks to fit into her palm.
The fairy flutters into the glowing box. Her gossamer wings leave trails of golden dust as she disappears into the amber light of the city inside. The lid slams shut with a soft click, and the glow fades, leaving the room dim and the mailbox gone.
The air feels colder now, like my ugly secret froze something inside.
But I know Malcolm will read my response in mere moments.
And the thought of him reading my words sends a wave of warmth through me.
We’re conspirators connected by an invisible thread, one that grows stronger with every word exchanged.
So I hope my letter assures him that I’m committed to this mission:
Dear Malcolm,
Your letter made my night. I could almost picture you in South Philly, cheesesteak in hand, ketchup splattered red on your shirt.
And, for the record, I’d probably be just as clumsy with it.
My brother brought one home after he’d finished a scouting mission once, but it didn’t travel through time well. The bread was stale and hard.
Still, I can’t believe how much we have in common, like our love of greasy foods and Ferris wheels. Learning about you makes me even more sure that we can’t let this curse turn us against each other. And yes, we have to ride that Ferris wheel one day!
I was thinking about what you said about us getting out of this situation. It feels good to know I’m not alone in this fight. Your humor, your kindness—it’s not what I expected at all. I thought you’d be … I don’t know … more like a storybook villain, I guess. But you’re just you. And I like that.