Something Darker Beneath the Surface

“Okay, let’s see what we need to find,” Zoe announced, unfolding her scavenger hunt sheet with the efficiency of a general planning a battle. She read aloud from the list. “Find a booth that demonstrates traditional cooking methods. Learn about a family immigration story from before 1950. Watch a traditional craft demonstration. Participate in a cultural dance or music activity…”

“There are twelve items total,” Marcus observed, peering over her shoulder. “If we spend about fifteen minutes at each booth, we should have plenty of time to complete everything.”

Evie looked around at the bustling festival. Families were already gathering around various booths, and the sound of different languages mixed with laughter and music filled the air. “Where should we start?”

“How about over there?” Zoe pointed toward a booth with a hand-painted sign reading “Nonna’s Kitchen – Italian Heritage.” The smell of garlic and herbs drifted toward them, and they could see an elderly woman in an apron rolling out pasta dough on a wooden table.

The four of them made their way through the crowd, Iris trailing slightly behind. When they reached the booth, the elderly woman looked up with a warm smile that reminded Evie of her own grandmother.

“Welcome, welcome! I’m Mrs. Rossetti. Are you here to learn about traditional Italian cooking?” Her hands never stopped working the dough as she spoke. “My family came to Springville in 1923, and we brought our recipes with us from the old country.”

Zoe immediately pulled out her notebook. “That’s perfect for our immigration story requirement! Can you tell us more about your family?”

As Mrs. Rossetti began sharing stories about her grandparents’ journey from Sicily, Evie found herself drawn into the tale. But when she glanced over at Iris, she noticed her cousin wasn’t taking notes like the rest of them. Instead, she was watching Mrs. Rossetti’s hands as they worked, completely absorbed in the rhythm of the pasta-making.

“My nonna, she taught me everything,” Mrs. Rossetti continued, her voice growing softer with memory. “When times were hard, when Papa couldn’t find work, Nonna would make pasta from nothing—just flour and water and love. She would say, ‘A family that eats together, stays together.’ Every Sunday, our whole family would gather around the table…”

Iris’s face suddenly changed. The fascination disappeared, replaced by something darker. Her jaw tightened, and she took a step back from the booth.

“…and the children would help roll the dough,” Mrs. Rossetti went on, smiling at the memory. “Three generations in one kitchen, sharing stories, sharing traditions. This is what family means, yes? This is what we pass down.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Zoe said, scribbling furiously in her notebook. “Family traditions are so important for—”

But she was talking to empty air. Iris had turned and walked away, pushing through the crowd without a word.

Evie looked between her remaining group members and her cousin’s retreating figure. Marcus and Zoe were still focused on Mrs. Rossetti’s story, completely unaware that anything had happened.

“I’ll be right back,” Evie mumbled, and hurried after Iris.

Evie pushed through clusters of families and festival-goers, trying to keep sight of Iris’s dark ponytail bobbing through the crowd. Her cousin moved quickly, weaving between booths with the skill of someone who had learned to disappear when she needed to.

“Iris, wait!” Evie called out, but her voice was lost in the festival noise—children laughing, vendors calling out their wares, traditional music playing from a stage somewhere in the distance.

She lost sight of her cousin near a booth selling handwoven scarves, then spotted her again heading toward the far edge of the festival grounds. Evie’s chest was starting to burn from the effort of keeping up, and she was beginning to worry that Iris might leave the festival entirely.

Finally, near a small brick building that looked like it had been part of the original town, Evie saw Iris slow down and stop. The building had a hand-painted sign that read “Heritage Books & Stories,” and through the open door came the familiar, comforting smell of old paper and binding glue.

Evie caught her breath and approached more slowly. Through the doorway, she could see Iris standing among the narrow aisles, her shoulders still tense, staring at a shelf of books like they held the answers to questions she didn’t know how to ask.

Evie stepped inside the quiet bookstore, the festival sounds fading behind her. “Iris? Are you okay?”

Iris didn’t turn around. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t seem fine. You just walked away from our group.” Evie moved closer, trying to keep her voice gentle. “Mrs. Rossetti was really nice. Why did you leave?”

“I said I’m fine, Evie.” Iris’s voice had an edge to it now.

But Evie couldn’t let it go. She’d grown up in a family where problems were talked through, where feelings were shared over dinner conversations. “I don’t understand. Was it something she said? About her family?”

Iris’s hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Just drop it.”

“I’m trying to help. If you’d just tell me what’s wrong—”

“What’s wrong?” Iris spun around, her dark eyes flashing. “You really want to know what’s wrong? I’m standing there listening to some old lady talk about how wonderful her perfect family is, how they all gathered around the table every Sunday like some fairy tale, and you wonder what’s wrong?”

Evie took a step back, startled by the sudden anger. “I just thought—”

“You just thought what? That I’d love hearing about happy families? That I’d want to take notes about traditions and Sunday dinners and three generations cooking together?” Iris’s voice was getting louder. “News flash, Evie—not all of us got to grow up in your perfect little world where families actually want to be together!”

Evie felt heat rise in her cheeks. “I was just trying to be nice!”

“Well, don’t!” Iris shot back. “I don’t need your pity or your help or your fake concern. I know exactly what you think of me—the messed-up cousin who ruined your perfect bedroom and your perfect life.”

“That’s not true!” But even as Evie said it, she wondered if maybe it was a little bit true. “I never said that!”

“You don’t have to say it. It’s written all over your face every morning when you wake up and see me in your space. You think I don’t notice how you organize your side of the room a little more perfectly every day? How you make sure all your precious posters are facing away from my bed?”

Evie’s mouth fell open. She hadn’t realized Iris had noticed those things. “I just… I was trying to give you space—”

“Space? In a room that used to be all yours? Right.” Iris laughed, but there was no humor in it. “And now you follow me here acting all concerned, like you actually care what happens to me. Well, here’s a reality check, cousin—I don’t need you to save me. I’ve been taking care of myself just fine without perfect families and Sunday dinners and people who pretend to care.”

The words hung in the air between them, sharp and painful. Evie felt tears prick at her eyes, but she blinked them back. “I do care,” she whispered.

“No, you don’t!” Iris’s voice cracked with emotion. “You care about looking like a good person, about doing what your mom tells you to do, but you don’t actually—”

She gestured angrily as she spoke, her arm sweeping wide. Her elbow caught the edge of a nearby bookshelf, and suddenly books came tumbling down in a cascade of covers and fluttering pages. Both girls instinctively dropped to their knees, scrambling to gather the scattered volumes before anyone noticed the mess they’d made.

“Oh no, oh no,” Evie muttered, frantically stacking books. “We’re going to get in so much trouble.”

But Iris had gone completely still. In her hands was a slim volume with a deep blue cover, its title embossed in silver letters that seemed to shimmer in the bookstore’s dim light: “The Loyal Wanderer.”

“What is it?” Evie asked, noticing her cousin’s sudden stillness.

Iris turned the book over slowly, as if it were made of something more precious than paper and ink. On the back cover was an image of two figures standing on a cliff overlooking a vast, misty landscape—one figure reaching out to help the other across a dangerous gap.

“I don’t know,” Iris said softly, her anger completely forgotten. “But… look at this.”

Evie leaned closer, and as she did, she felt something strange happen. The harsh fluorescent lights of the bookstore seemed to dim, and for just a moment, she could have sworn she heard the distant sound of wind whistling through mountains, calling to them both.

“Should we…” Evie hesitated, then reached out to touch the cover. “Should we open it?”

Iris nodded, her fingers already finding the edge of the front cover. Together, they opened “The Loyal Wanderer” to the first page. The text seemed to glow softly on the cream-colored paper, and Evie found herself reading aloud without meaning to:

“Evie and Iris found themselves standing in the heart of Armal’s vast farmlands, where golden wheat stretched endlessly toward distant purple mountains. The wind carried the scent of wild herbs and something else—something like magic itself. Neither girl understood how they had come to be in this place, so far from everything they knew…”

The words seemed to pull at them, drawing them deeper into the page. The bookstore around them began to fade, the sounds of the festival growing distant and dreamlike.

“Evie?” Iris whispered, but her voice sounded strange, as if it were coming from very far away.

And then everything went white.

When the light faded, Evie’s eyes fluttered open to find herself lying in soft grass under an enormous sky. The air smelled different—cleaner somehow, with hints of wildflowers and something she couldn’t name. She sat up slowly, her head spinning with confusion.

“Iris?” she called out, panic creeping into her voice.

“I’m here.” Iris’s voice came from nearby. She was sitting about ten feet away, staring around them with wide, disbelieving eyes. “Evie… where are we?”

All around them stretched golden farmland exactly as the book had described—endless fields of grain swaying in a gentle breeze, with those same purple mountains rising in the distance. They were no longer in the Heritage Books & Stories shop. They were no longer at the cultural festival. They weren’t even sure they were still in the same world.