Flitwick, England: Not very long ago
Coraline's father had insisted on making a recipe for dinner. Again. She didn't know what had gotten into him lately. She was eating a meat pie and chips that she'd heated in the microwave.

"Coraline," her mother said. "We've decided to send you to boarding school for the next term."

"It will be good for you," her father added. "And the school is much better than the one in town."

Coraline didn't say anything, just set her fork down and regarded them both solemnly. After a long moment of silence, her parents exchanging a look, she ventured, "I'm not sure I want to go to boarding school."

"It's in America," her mother said. "You'll get to fly on a plane all by yourself."

Coraline thought about that. America. Now that was a place to explore, and she had always wanted to go on a plane. Besides, she wasn't overly fond of the children she went to school with. They were all so boring. "When would I have to go?"

Both of her parents smiled at her. "Soon, but not right away," he father said, and her mother added, "So much shopping to do before you go. They don't wear uniforms, so you'll need new clothes, new hairclips, new shoes."

Coraline wrinkled her nose. Shopping was not one of her favorite things. But if it meant she got to go to America, well... She picked up her fork again. "I don't need new hairclips, and I get to choose the clothes," she said, smiling at them both.


* * *


"Coraline, Coraline!" Mr Bobo waved at her from the top of the stairs when Coraline went out to get the mail.

She sighed but smiled up at him. He always got her name right. "Hello, Mr Bobo."

"The mice have a message for you. They say you should be careful on the island. Things are not what they seem. They were most distressed you were leaving."

Coraline looked at him thoughtfully. She'd never decided if she believed in the mice or not. Some days she knew Mr Bobo was a crazy old man with an circus of imaginary, musical mice; some days she thought she probably did believe the mice were real (but she almost never believed in the circus).

Today seemed to be one of the day she believed. "Tell them I promised I'd be careful," she said as she headed outside.

The information packet for her new school was supposed to be here any day, and she didn't want it to wait in the postbox while she talked to the probably-crazy-but-maybe-not old man.


* * *


"America," breathed Miss Forcible.

"Oh, America," sighed Miss Spink.

"We always meant to go to America, to tread the boards of Broadway, but we never did get there." Miss Spink sighed again.

"You must be careful, Caroline. America is still a wild place," Miss Forcible warned.

"It's Coraline," she replied automatically. "Not Caroline. And I'm going off to school, Miss Forcible. I'm sure it won't be wild at all." Even if she secretly hoped it would be.

She sipped her tea and absently patted the Scottie dog that was drooling on her knee while she imagined all sorts of excitement. All she knew of America was what she'd seen on the television. Which, if even slightly accurate, promised to be far more interesting than the life she was currently leading.

"Never mind, never mind, you never know what's going to happen. You must promise us you'll take the greatest care." Miss Spink got up from her comfortable chair, not as easily as she used to, and toddled over to the fireplace.

When she pulled the familiar jar off the mantelpiece, Coraline almost held her breath. The same odd collection was poured out, resting neatly in Miss Spink's hand: a tiny china duck, a thimble, a strange, brass coin, two paper clips, and a stone with a hole in it.

When Miss Spink, muttering to herself, plucked up the thimble, Coraline almost let out the breath she certainly wasn't holding.

"What's it for?" she asked, the question echoing strangely, as if this small flat, smelling of dogs and furniture polish, remembered the beginning of her last adventure and had decided to helpfully replay bits in case she'd forgotten any of it.

She hadn't.

"You never know when a thimble will come in handy," was the reply as Miss Spink set in her palm, Miss Forcible nodding along in approval.

"And you will write, won't you? We'd love to hear stories of America," Miss Forcible said, eyes surprisingly bright as she watched her.

"I promise," she promised, finishing her tea and standing – quickly, before they could offer to read the leaves. "And now I should go and start packing. Thank you for the tea."

She hugged them both goodbye and, as she left, she realised she'd slipped the thimble over her fingertip.

It fit perfectly.


* * *


Coraline was packed. A compromise had been reached on the clothes, and her father had given her a brand new computer for her very own, which was safely swathed in its special bag.

There was only one thing she needed to do before she left.

Stepping carefully, because it was wild and overgrown, Coraline made her way to the deep, dark well. It was covered over with heavy wooden planks. A tiny spider had spun a web in the sliver of shadow between them, and she poked it cautiously with a stick, sending the spider scuttling for the safety of the darkness.

Coraline nodded in satisfaction. As deep and as dark as the well was, she was confident nothing would ever find its way out.

If she could hear a faint scratching - a scurrying, scuttling noise - she was sure it was only her imagination.