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HarperVoyager
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Amy S. Foster 2018
Cover illustration © Larry Rostant
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018
Amy S. Foster asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008190415
Ebook Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008190408
Version: 2018-09-18
For Vaughn, my warrior prince, who showed Ryn what was worth fighting for.
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Amy S. Foster
About the Publisher
“Stop scratching,” my mother commands tersely. Her fingers grip the steering wheel tightly and instead of the radio that is usually playing in the car, there is only silence. Even at seven years old I can tell that she is annoyed, but mostly, she is worried. I stare down at my slender, bony wrists. Even though it is October, I am wearing only a tank top and shorts. I cannot bear the weight of actual fabric on my skin, and even this little amount is torture. I grit my teeth. I can feel my face flush and a sheen of sweat starts to form on my forehead. I want to do as my mom says, but my skin is on fire.
I need to scratch.
I stare at my legs, two skinny toothpicks. They, like the rest of my body, are covered in red, angry welts. I have had this rash for three days. Seventy-two hours. During that time, I have slept for maybe ten of them, and my parents have survived on even less. No one knows what this is. Not my pediatrician and not the doctors at Doernbecker Hospital. Nothing has helped. I’ve had three shots of different medicines—exactly three more than I like. They put some kind of lotion and then a cream on the rash. I screamed in agony and threw up because it hurt so bad. So far, everything has just made it worse. I am trying not to cry. I have cried so much these last few days that my throat hurts and my eyes sting in the corners where the tears come out. I feel like the pictures I’ve seen of the deserts in Africa, empty except for miles and miles of sand that go on forever. That’s how I feel on the inside: like a thousand pounds of sand.
On the outside, all I want to do is scratch.
One of the doctors from the hospital has told us to go to another doctor in North Portland. A special doctor. This doctor only knows about skin and now my mom and I are driving there in the quiet car where I only hear my own heartbeat and my mother’s occasional muttering of swear words under her breath because of the traffic.
When we get to the address, I see that it is a normal office building, white and gray. This place doesn’t look all that special. In fact, it looks pretty shabby compared to the hospital and my own pediatrician’s fun and fancy office that even has a fish tank. We park
