Page 3 of Legacy Found

"Just a pinch now."

I feel the pinch. That's all it is — a pinch, a vial filling dark red, a cotton ball and a bandage and a there, done.

Nothing feels different. I just know my ankle hurts and I want to go home.

They release me as the afternoon light is fading. The doctor repeats the instructions like I'm going to forget them — ice, elevate, stay off it, don't be a hero — and I nod and promise and privately mourn the summit I didn't reach.

Because that's the part that actually stings. Not the ankle. Not the palms. Not even the humiliation of the rescue. It's that it was such a good day — the exact kind of day I crave every day spent at work.

I crutch toward the exit, already certain I'll have bruises in my armpits. The automatic doors whoosh open. Cool evening air hits my face.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, the little app pipes up. Today's journey may take a turn you didn't plan for.

I stop. Right there in the doorway, balanced on my crutches.

And I laugh.

"Well," I say to no one. "I guess you got that right."

Although, seriously, universe? You couldn't have worked a hot doctor who wanted my number into the plan? Just a little something to balance out the bumps and bruises?

Apparently not.

I hitch my pack higher on my shoulder and point my crutches toward home.

Chapter two

Jessica

Waking up the morning after a bad sprain is hell.

I open my eyes, feel absolutely fine for exactly one second, and then I try to move my leg. "Nope," I announce to the ceiling. "Cancel it. Send it back."

My ankle has swelled overnight, and my scraped palms have stiffened into two useless little claws. Getting to the kitchen is a production of crutches and undignified lurching, and by the time I arrive I've decided I'm eighty now. That's just what's happening. I skipped six decades overnight, and I should probably start buying velcro shoes. Hopefully a couple of extra strength Tylenol will drop my average age to sixty, I think.

The kettle doesn't care how old I am. I fill it, lean against the counter, and wrap both aching hands around that first too-hot sip. Then I check the horoscope.

Sagittarius. "Persistence surrounds you. What you dismiss today may return tomorrow. The universe rarely takes no for an answer."

I go still with the mug halfway to my mouth, because that one's pointed. I don't know yet what's supposed to be so stubborn; this morning the only thing surrounding me is a mountain of chores and physical pain flaring all over my body. But I tuck it away anyway — what you dismiss today may return tomorrow — and get on with it, because being eighty doesn't pay rent.

I'm halfway to the door, dressed and armed with crutches, when I remember the mail — a little pile fanned across the mat. Electric bill. A pizza flyer. A dentist postcard. And one that doesn't belong.

It stops me. Heavy cream cardstock, the kind of paper that costs money, my name on the front in dark, elegant script.

Ms. Jessica May Miller.

Not "Occupant." Me. Full name, middle and all. I flip it over — an embossed crest, a mountain and a crescent, raised under my thumb.

Luftis Academy.

Never heard of it. My first, extremely reasonable assumption is that it's one of those absurdly expensive private schools that mails glossy brochures to convince parents to spend a mortgage on tuition. The only flaw in that theory is that I don't have kids. I have plants, and I've killed two of those.

I slide my thumb under the flap.

Dear Ms. Miller, It is our distinct honor to inform you that you have been selected to receive a full scholarship to Luftis Academy, one of Europe's most distinguished institutions. Your placement has been secured. We ask that you contact the admissions office at your earliest convenience...

I read it twice, and then I laugh, because it's genuinely funny. A full scholarship. To me. For a school I've never heard of, that I never applied to, for a program the letter doesn't even name. Someone has a mailing list with a very wrong entry on it — or this is one of those stunts where the "scholarship" turns out to cost forty thousand pounds and a kidney.