Someone was getting the axe.Em twisted and arched, working her jaw rabidly, shifting her attacker's hands over her mouth. Fingers slipped; her teeth dug savagely into the gritty flesh; grip slackened.Em screamed. Alex was at the base of the stairs when he heard the scream. He leaped at the first flight, his first step halfway up, hands grabbing the rails like vines. Alex hauled himself up the stairwell like an ape climbing a tree, bouncing from landing to step to railing to landing, exploding through the door at the top, careening off the opposite wall into a full-on sprint down the hall, his long raincoat flapping behind him like wings of fury.The door was open; Alex braced a hand against the jamb and sprang through.Directly in front of him stood a man less than four feet tall, in a dark cloak, arms raised, holding Em's axe high over his head; at his feet, Em was pinned beneath several more small men in dark cloaks. The axe-wielder's upper body was turned, the figure. Palmer smiled."Good," she said. "I don't want to know — yet — how it did or didn't influence him. What I want from you, by Friday, is how it might have influenced him. For example, he was a crewman on a whaling boat. Oh, and that's the one fact that is off limits. How might his experience on that boat influence his work? What would you look for when you're reading? Miss Josephs?" Will you be grading this, Mrs. Palmer?" came a prim voice from directly in back of me. I recognized Missy Joseph's voice, dripping with even more false sweetness than it had in ninth grade. From the little I remember of her, she probably felt betrayed, that Mrs. Palmer had stolen her seat and given it to me."I will be grading every single thing you write in this class, Missy," Mrs. Palmer said. "If you write on the board, I will grade that. If you pass notes, I will grade them. If I catch you text-messaging, I will grade that. And since none of you seem to be able to spell in text messages, you should be.
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