•••

Regina Gale used to roam Potter Oaks hallways as a delinquent, donning all the required regalia: cigarettes stuffed in the back pockets of tattered jeans, ears and nose filled with enough holes to strain a family-sized portion of spaghetti, shoulder, neck, and lower back covered in thoughtless tattoos.

But now her office is the very prison she frequented in her youth, and it is no longer a place of condemnation but of sanctuary, though she finds herself restless regardless. She sits on the opposite side of the desk, in the important, worn-but-not-destroyed leather chair, staring down the crooked bridge of her nose into the faces of misbehaving students and...feels a kinship with them, them riding the waves of teenage rebellion as she once had.

Peneloper Auttsley sits outside her door, but as Regina still has half a cigarette to smoke, Miss Auttsley must wait. And wait she does, with glee, because she sees this as an opportunity to revisit a place, that, like Mrs. Gale's office, provides her sanctuary. It is her dearest treasure, a leather bound notebook, and this revelation that a book is her most beloved possession should come as no surprise, as that's just the kind of story this is. 

•Land of Confusion•

It was a gift from her father, who'd recognized Peneloper's love of writing from an early age. And like Peneloper's mother, who, back in those happier days, used to cultivate hot peppers and tomatoes to life in the backyard, Peneloper's father sought to cultivate his daughter's imagination. 

She loved her notebook, carrying it with her everywhere, favoring it above all else. When her book bag was weighed down by last minute homework assignments, Peneloper would often toss aside her text books in favor of her notebook. A shiver coursed through her as her fingers brushed the pebbled leather cover. She traced the wrinkles, put there by years of abuse. 

The scent of oil and parchment and ink made her smile, which was quite a feat, given she sat outside the principal's office awaiting punishment. 

She cracked open the book, her gaze drifting over the words inscribed in the front cover. The last words her father had ever given her, an extra gift, before the world deemed it necessary to take him away. 

For my beloved Nep. You were blessed with the ability to create wonder. I can't wait to see how you effect the worlds. 

- Dad.

After swallowing back a lump of pain that had formed on her tongue, and pressing her eyelids shut tight to prevent the trickle of tears from starting, Peneloper glanced back at the words. She'd never thought much about them, aside from how lovely bittersweet they were - the encouragement and love encapsulated much of what she remember of her father, but now, oddly enough, she focused more on one word in particular and what she'd always assumed had been a typo. 

But the revelation that magic was real had shifted her perspective. 

Worlds. 

Her father had written 'worlds.' She knew enough from school to know that worlds existed. Mars. Saturn. Pluto had existed, and then, when enough scientists became disillusioned by the unremarkable space rock, was downgraded to dwarf planet status. 

Worlds. 

Something about that word tasted of the unusual. She sighed, the hard back of the bench biting into her shoulders. 

If only Crispen was here, she could ask him, he could maintain his air of mystique by answering in the vaguest of terms, and then after hours of persistent nagging, he would divulge another of the universe's secrets. But no, he was not here, even though he would have been as tardy as she'd been. His homeroom teacher, Miss Markle, delighted in Crispen's presence and would never send him to the principal's office. 

She slumped her shoulders and brought her notebook up to her chest. 

Even if she could ask him to explain her father's use of 'worlds' he might not explain. Peneloper had, after all, snapped at him because--  

She clicked her tongue and shook off her guilt. Calling her Nep...he never should have said that. She had been right to be angered and she would not apologize. Crispen should apologize. She'd done nothing wrong. 

But the words she thought and the seizing in her chest alerted her of a conflict of head and heart. 

Ignoring the war waging in her body, Peneloper focused on her notebook, thumbing through the pages, and delighting in the way they each crinkled, until she arrived at one of her favorite parts. The story was one of love, revenge and redemption, chronicling the life of an honorable pirate, Captain Ire Stormholden. 

The section she eyed detailed the captain's first love, which tragically, turned painful, as such situations often did. 

It would be a rather unbecoming authorial choice to omit Peneloper's story here, so I, instead, will allow you to experience it while our Peneloper revisits it. 

Pages 24 and 25, from Storm Bound, in which the woods provide a respite from the demands of the world and among its shade, love is allowed to bloom. 

"Matilda! It's no fair if you hide among the treetops!" the young man yelled, as he swam in a sea of emerald, his beloved forest stretched out as far as the eye could be bothered to see.

"Who says I'm in the trees?" came the reply in a delightful sing-song which prompted the man's heart to quicken. He knew the girl and how she played her games, and though he was a willing participant with nary a complaint when she sought to outsmart him in the woods behind her house, he desired nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and claim his prize.

"I say," he called back, a lilt in his voice. "Because, I know you the best."

Sweet bouts of her laughter fell to Ire's ears; and though she was hidden among the branches of summer foliage, her smile, which he could picture in his mind's eye as clear as though she were standing before him, proved contagious, and the young man found the same one marking his face.

Before he could wipe said smile away, as he knew from where Matilda perched, she would be watching him, and Ire refused to give her the satisfaction of seeing him complacent, and dare he say, happy, with her game, a thud befell his shoulder. He whipped around, scanned the tree line and found nothing. But when he returned his attention to his more immediate grounding, he found an acorn at his feet.

His smile grew fierce, as his fingers enclosed around the incriminating bone Matilda had seen fit to toss his way. An acorn. Only oaks grew on the northern side of the forest. He turned in the direction where it must have been thrown, his steps picking up in speed as a renewed purpose overtook him. The prize was very much within his grasp.

A glimmer of lilac burst through the trees ahead of him, followed by a scent of honeysuckle and vanilla. Matilda's scent. As that was all Ire needed, he kicked up his boots and before he knew it, the chase was on. He expelled breaths in heavy, laden gasps that grew white in the cool of morning as he sought to close the gap between himself and his beloved. Ahead of him, he heard the crack of branches, the crunch of dried leaves, and her laughter sprinkled throughout when her running could afford her the luxury.

Ire chuckled and picked up his pace. Ever since they were children, he'd been faster than her, and through many exhaustive foot races, he'd proven this fact time and again. Today would be no different, especially since he'd been particularly motivated by the prize Matilda had promised him if he played the game to her liking. He ran, darting through trees, jumping over thickets and roots that threatened to throw him. Before long, Ire was upon her, Matilda's blur of lilac dress coming into focus, her twin braids of chestnut hair, flapping like the flags of victory behind her, though Ire knew today would see him victorious.

Matilda turned, her cheeks rosy, eyes bright, sweat making her dark skin glisten like soil, warm and the progenitor of so much life. She smiled, just like she had every other time they'd come to the forest to escape their circumstance: her running from a life of decided importance, where every day was dictated by wealth and propriety and order. Where she was expected to be a lady, dressing as such, and acting as only nobles did.

Him, running from a house that stank of stale ale and vomit. Where his father spent his days confined to his room, reeking of bad choice and regret, while the homestead fell further into disrepair. Where Ire had his hope to take to the seas continuously dashed with each fist determined to make contact with his cheek. The forest was their refuge, where the chains of predicament and status shed them like unwanted skin and they could, at least for a moment, be free.

Ire closed the distance between himself and Matilda. Matilda, having resigned herself to his capture, slowed as his arms reached out and slipped around her waist. "Gotcha," he said, triumphantly. She feigned disapproval as she forced herself into an unnatural frown, but the smile that danced within her gaze was not one that could easily be disguised.

"You always do," she said and pouted. Ire brought her into him, her head resting against his chest, the rough cotton of his shirt scratching her cheek.

"I'll always catch you," was his response, and he'd vowed it always would be, and that no matter what, he'd always make it stand true. But for a moment, he saw his darling Matilda tense, her mouth pulling taut, and the smile with which she always gazed at him, flickering, as though a candle on the verge of being stamped out. Ire's heart raced, despite the fact he now stood still.

"Have my words made you uncomfortable?" he asked as a tightening occurred in his stomach.

Matilda gazed at him, her face relaxed, her manner that of ease. "I believe," she continued, lifting herself onto her tiptoes so she could look directly into Ire's face. He flushed at having the full breadth of such lovely eyes, and rich skin on his level. "You wish to claim your reward?" She wove her fingers into his hair, and Ire, no matter how old he got was always bothered by her blatant affections, which he craved more than air or ale or food but which he handled with the lackluster grace of inexperience, cast his eyes downward. Unworthy. Inferior to her in all ways.

Matilda chuckled and brought her fingers to his chin, where she tilted his head and set to sate Ire's yearning with the feel, and taste, of her lips.

"I was wondering when you'd delight me with your presence, once more," Gale said, leaning against the doorframe, the overhead light catching on the glittery, gold font of her name stamped on the door's glass.

Peneloper shut her notebook with the utmost care, and it was this demonstration of being aware and considerate and attentive, that made her teachers lament the eldest Auttsley's indifferent attitude toward all things school-related. "I meant to come earlier," she responded in kind, "but I've been held up."

Principal Gale smiled and crossed her arms, trying to look professional. She certainly had the wardrobe and stiff shoulders required for reprimanding the whole of teen-dom, but she had her wits about her, which made her a poor disciplinarian, as she was more liable to envision herself in the student's shoes and gaze at the world through the contemptible eyes of her charges, noting the injustices of doing math when calculators existed, the hypocrisy of forced physical activity, when, for the rest of the school day, students are forced to do nothing but sit for hours, and the absurdity of tests, which only measured a sliver of one's knowledge and it was all the knowledge one didn't need to live good, successful lives.

Gale, Peneloper insisted, therefore, was a refreshing change of pace from the khaki-wearing forces of teachers and other adults-in-charge.

"Well," Gale preceded to step aside and waved Peneloper in, "you know how much I hate dawdling, do come in and take a seat."

Peneloper stepped into the office, a wide space of blank walls, and overstuffed bookshelves, with all manner of book that were far more interesting than any found in the belly of the school library.

She shut the door behind her. "You only care about dawdling when it's your time being devoured," she continued, taking a seat opposite Gale, who had settled behind the previous principal's desk which suffered the symptoms of perpetual clutter.

It was actually quite impressive: the stack of papers, leaning and in want of toppling but never giving in to their base impulses or pull of gravity, the markers all with mismatched caps spanning the width of the desk, the ink stains, the coffee rings, the computer displaying a YouTube channel with the how-tos for homemade IPAs, her "Teaching is a Work of Heart" mug filled with questionable 'apple juice.'

" I'd challenge you to find someone who doesn't value their own time, Miss Auttsley," Gale placed an elbow on the plastic tray of her desk marked "in," "I'm sure you, of all people, understand the importance of every second."

"I do," Peneloper relented, sitting back in her chair. "That's why I was late for school. It's hardly high up on my list of priorities."