1
Soleil played her first melody the night she was born.
Her instinct was frail, a delicate plucking of the only string she could sense—her mother’s will.
Her mother didn’t notice the interference; she thought the panicked urge to feed her child was natural, instinctive. Partly true, as it is true that the moon is pulled by the sun as well as the earth.
But for Soleil it was the origin of an impulse that became as natural as breathing.
At first, she only touched the wills of those in her household—calming arguments between her parents, spurring them to get her a snack or take her to the park, pressing for a rebuke rather than a punishment. Nothing greedy, nothing too obvious.
When she started school, she expanded her repertoire. First it was the slow shift of a teacher’s lesson plan in a more interesting direction. Then a change to the school cafeteria’s schedule—her favorite meals served more often. Over and over she softened disputes between friends. Once she tweaked a bully’s impulses, salving the pain that made him crave the wretchedness of others.
She never told anyone her secret. She’d discovered that adults did not like to feel out of control—that they did stupid and harmful things when they sensed their own weakness. So she pressed their wills gently, a touch here and there. She studied them, their characters and personalities, so she could alter their tune gradually, without anyone noticing the change in key.
When she graduated from high school, it was with honors sheearned—no undue interference. But being homecoming queen—that was a small self-indulgence, because she had been so very good.
Such a good girl. Everyone said so.
And because she was good, she decided she had a responsibility to help others, to make their lives happier.
People were always talking about doing something to make the world a better place. They talked about how, if they were in charge, things would improve—injustice and deception unraveled, and rewoven into fairness—chaos braided into beauty and order. How many people had the power to truly take control, to guide the outcome of anything? And since she had the power, shouldn’t she use it?
It was onlyright.
She’d start small at first, she thought.
With one tiny town.
2
It was going to be wickedly hot. Seven in the morning, and Soleil could already feel the chill of the night melting away, squelched beneath the blanket of sticky heat that enveloped every late-August day in upstate Georgia.
Soleil set her coffee thermos on the brick ledge next to the front door while she wrestled with the lock. When she’d rented this place, nearly three months ago, the owner had offered to replace the ornate, old-fashioned lock, but Soleil said “Absolutely not” because it was too charming, too perfect a complement for the jade green door with its artistically peeling paint. Never mind that it took her a solid three minutes each morning to get the damn key to turn.
“Why do I bother?” she muttered as the lock finally clicked into place. Most people in Wonderland, Georgia didn’t lock their doors anyway. The town was too small for crime—at least not in broad daylight.
The miniscule irritation of the door barely damaged Soleil’s mood. She felt jaunty and stylish today, in a lacy mini-dress, floral-patterned leggings, and green Converse sneakers. She hitched her bag higher on her shoulder, collected her thermos, and strode down the path to the sidewalk.
When she had arrived here in June, right after graduation, this street in particular had truly seemed like a Wonderland. Palm-like mimosas, heavy with fluffy salmon-pink flowers, drooped over lawns. Magnolias held up creamy blooms as big as dinner plates, and gardenias perfumed the air. Sky-blue hydrangeas nodded from the corners of yards, and the rhododendrons burst with extravagant clusters of coral, fuchsia, and baby pink.
There weren’t nearly as many things blooming in August, but Soleil didn’t mind. Back then, she hadn’t known anyone, and now she had established a link with someone in nearly every house on this block and the next. Each will she touched became a member of her ever-growing orchestra—a neatly composed symphony of magic woven throughout the entire town.
“Good morning!” Mrs. Archer waved from the flowerbed she was weeding.
“Good morning,” Soleil replied, happy to see the woman active outside.
Soleil couldn’t create emotions, but she could sense them, since they were tied to willpower—often so closely woven that motive and emotion became inseparable. While shifting a person’s will, she could usually reinforce or suppress a corresponding emotion, too. She’d given Mrs. Archer the motivation to return to her favorite hobbies, which would hopefully help the woman move out of the depression she’d been mired in since her husband’s death.
A few houses down, Violette Theriault was kissing her partner Jodi goodbye. Violette was the only one who’d pronounced Soleil’s name properly when she arrived— “So-lay,” not “So-leel” or “So-lyle.” Not that Soleil blamed these Southern tongues for tripping over the name. As the child of transplanted French-Canadian parents, she was bound to end up with a name that most American brains couldn’t compute.
As a reward for Violette saying her name right, Soleil had nudged Jodi’s will, downshifting her workaholic tendencies so the pair could spend more time together. And it seemed to be working wonders, since they were making out enthusiastically on their front step.
Soleil hid a grin and moved on. She wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the kiss—a gangly teenage boy leaving the next house paused to watch the women, his jaw sagging and his eyes hungry.
Soleil cleared her throat, and the boy started so sharply his backpack nearly slid off his shoulder. He gave her a sheepish grin.
“Heading to work, Landon?” she asked.