QUOTE : Merrymount Mill," read the sign hanging above the entrance of the graystone windmill. "Facility for Convicted Juveniles." I wrinkled my nose, flexing my fingers around the handle of my tattered suitcase. I had no idea why it was called Merrymount. There were no "mounts" around here, or anywhere in the flat land of Matrus—mountains were a luxury enjoyed only by our neighbors in Patrus. And nothing about this towering brick building, or the shriveled brown fields that surrounded it, could be described as merry.