“YOU MIGHT AS WELL CALL me Nina,” Mrs. Sawyer said a few hours later.
Above our heads, the last rumbling of feet and paws had stilled long since, although a hint of smoke suggested someone was still filling his belly. Probably Cinnamon—the bottomless pit had the astonishing ability to burn pasta, but at least he made up for his lack of culinary talents by consuming everything he singed.
Meanwhile, the teacher, the rogue, and I were curled together in a nest of comforters that barely made up for the fact that our abode lacked all other modern conveniences. The walls were bare studs, the floor was packed earth, and the only illumination came from a bare bulb attached to a dangling beaded string.
Oh, and did I mention the spider currently crawling across one of my feet? Sure, it was just a
