THIRTY YEARS AGO
“Which of these does death fear most?”
The murmurs in the lecture hall fade to an uncomfortable silence. Professor Reivax has a reputation for being strange and unorthodox, but to open his class with death…it feels wrong, especially when the rest of campus is abuzz with sunshine and cheery beginnings.
“Any takers?”
Nervous laughter trickles through the stillness of the dimly lit amphitheater. Most of the images on the projection screen are gruesome—blood-splattered knives, spears exiting several torsos, rotting skeletons stacked in a pile. Scattered between the horrors are a few photos that seem oddly out of place—a yellow Labrador, a portrait of an old woman, a scenic countryside.
“None of them,” boasts a brutish boy in the front row.
Professor Reivax drums his fingertips on the podium. “And you are?”
“John Lane.” Somehow his name alone elicits several fist bumps, like it’s some sort of accomplishment to have the most generic name imaginable.
“Care to defend your answer, Mr. Lane?”
John Lane reclines, crossing his hands behind his head. “Easy, death doesn’t fear anything.”
“I see,” Professor Reivax replies in a flat voice, smoothing a wrinkle in his orange pants.
John Lane’s chest deflates.
“Anyone else?”
Several students name various weapons; one shrugs and picks the dog.
“Waste of my time,” Professor Reivax mumbles to himself, leaving the students perplexed and waiting for an explanation. He’s resigned to moving on when a girl with bright green eyes raises her hand, a timid reach that barely rises above her shoulder.
“Yes, Ms….”
“Esther Merrybright,” she says quietly while twirling a curl of dark hair. “The necklace.”
“Leave it to the only girl in class to pick the jewelry.” John Lane snickers.
But Professor Reivax’s blue eyes are suddenly electric. “Where are you from, Ms. Merrybright?”
“Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania.”
“Curious,” he murmurs. “Tell me, what made you choose the necklace?”
Esther considers the question, surveying the necklace—an amber stone on a simple cord suspended around the neck of a serious-looking woman. She felt drawn to it the moment the image appeared, but like most things in her life that are peculiar and inexplicable she struggles to explain her decision. Studying the portrait, something obvious suddenly jumps out at her. “The outfit and the painting style are contradictory.”
A smile tugs at the corner of Professor Reivax’s face. “Go on.”
“Her dress would have been worn at least one hundred years before that style of painting became popular. It’s almost as if she’s outlived all her peers”—Esther’s voice drops to a whisper—“as if she beat death.” She clears her throat and steadies her shoulders. “And the artist highlighted the necklace.”
“The shadow,” says Professor Reivax, like the words carry tremendous weight. “The necklace has a name.”
“Spooky.” John Lane cackles. Another undeserved fist bump before John Lane’s face reddens and his hands fly to his throat. No sound escapes his gaping mouth as his skin flushes purple.
Esther looks to Professor Reivax, who is eerily calm, expectant almost. He catches her gaze and winks before clapping his hands at the exact moment John Lane lets out a phlegmy cough, air permeating his lungs once more. Goose bumps prickle along Esther’s shoulders. It was almost as if…but that would be impossible.
“Just a little exercise,” remarks Professor Reivax as he replaces the images with a syllabus. “No need to write any of that down.”
But Esther can’t help but jot down the name of the necklace. Nor can she get the image of the woman out of her head. A prickly feeling settles beneath her skin, and her heart quickens the longer she
thinks about it. Try as she may, Esther Merrybright can’t shake the feeling that something’s coming.
She just doesn’t know how right she is.
She doesn’t know that this is going to change everything.
MONDAY
Mullary
I dash across the parking lot in my tattered high-tops, cradling my gas station burrito like a newborn. Nothing says breakfast quite like a packaged lump baking beneath a lamp.
I slump on a bench riddled with gum, hanging my backpack from the handlebars of my bicycle—the straps look as if they might snap from the weight of textbooks crammed inside. I fish out a copy of Little Women, fully intent on savoring the morning. I like this time best. I always have. My mom used to say I was too early for even the worm.
Cars trickle in, and the smell of exhaust and gasoline swells in the crisp autumn air. The bells above the convenience door chime as sleepy-eyed workers march in and out with coffees in hand. Something skips past my foot—a plastic toy dog. I scoop it up, lifting my gaze to meet the gap-toothed smile of a little girl.
“Is this yours?”
She nods, pigtails flopping.
“Parker, no! Don’t touch!” A woman in a coordinated tracksuit with a fierce ponytail rips the girl away. The corners of her fuchsia lips curl into a snarl as she scurries back to her stroller posse congregated near the park entrance. A thin yellow line is all that separates the Gas ’N’ Stuff from the park. I know which side I belong on, and I bury my nose beneath the safety of Louisa May Alcott.
“That’s the daughter.” The woman whispers loudly enough for me to hear. “The one whose mother I was telling you about.”
The pack of moms collectively gasps and nods, swishing their highlighted hair.
“Who?” one of them asks, eyes pinned on her phone.
“Esther Merrybright.”
Hearing my mom’s name, my heart leaps into my throat.
“The woman with the decent haircut but tragic wardrobe? She was always fleeing in and out of town.”
“That’s the one. She burned the family house down. Can you imagine?”
I sink inch by inch into the bench.
“Then she disappeared. No one knows where,” another mom practically screams. “Left the girl with her sick grandmother.”
“Horrible.”
“Tragic.”
They all agree between sips of coffee, high with the rush of caffeine and gossip. A film of tears blurs my vision, and I clench my jaw to keep them from spilling out. Small-town problems. Everyone knows when a house goes up for sale before it’s even listed. So, everyone especially knows when your mom burns yours down.
But my mom isn’t tragic. She’s missing.
I turn away, slumping into my parka, wishing it would swallow me whole. I don’t care what those women say. I don’t. I just want to enjoy my breakfast without being reminded of the worst day of my life.
Taking a deep breath, I manage to blink away the tears. I won’t dare look back at them. Instead, I take a few mindless bites before my teeth sink into something dry and tasteless, and I spit the glob into my napkin. What in the world?
I put down my book and peel back the soggy tortilla to inspect the burrito. A sharp white corner pokes out from beneath the oozing cheese. I give it a gentle tug, pulling at a thick envelope. It’s standard size, pristine, not a speck of Tabasco to be seen. My mind can’t wrap itself around the perfectly smooth envelope clutched in my fingers. The impossibility of it being concealed in my burrito.
Even more impossible, it’s addressed to me. My name, looped in elegant cursive across the center.
My pulse quickens and I stiffen, afraid to move. Afraid to give those women even more to talk about. Afraid to see what’s inside.
I inhale slowly, catching the scent wafting up from the envelope. It smells like waffles, warm and sweet, drenched in syrup and butter, just like how my mom used to make them. The pads of my fingers tingle and my adrenaline spikes. Somehow—don’t ask me how—I can tell that this letter wants to be opened. Sugary sweet and inviting.
Anyone else might think this a joke, some elaborate scheme. But I know better. My mom may have left me, but not without a warning
“Run if the strange finds you.” And this letter reeks of the strange. I should know, because the strange stalked my mom. No matter how hard she tried, it always caught up to us.
I should throw it out. Rip it to pieces and light the garbage can on fire. Instead, I squash it in my backpack and grab my bike before I can think about it. My half-eaten burrito slips from my jittering hands, hitting the bench with a splat. So much for breakfast.
I pedal past the moms and their whispers and their high-tech strollers. I don’t stop until the unremarkably beige sign for Punxsutawney High pops into view.
Normally I slip through the day undetected, and I don’t mind because I’d rather melt into the background, lose myself in the crowd. Friends and concerned faces have long shied away from me. But not today.
The scent of waffles radiating from the letter in my backpack only seems to thicken, and by the time I elbow my way to my locker, I’ve stirred a chorus of rumors. Whispers of the elusive Breakfast for Lunch Day have begun to spread. I know I’ll be personally responsible for the letdown that will ensue in the cafeteria come lunch period.
Now I should really toss the letter. I don’t want to draw any more attention, and I can feel the strange seeping out, the very thing my mom told me to run from. But I can’t. Because I can’t help but wonder one thing…. Who sent it?
MONDAY
Lyric
I’m in a foul mood the minute I open my eyes, but that’s how I start most days—on the wrong side of the bed. Immediately, I sense that something is off. Rubbing the crust from my eyes, I jerk out of bed. My normally green curtains have darkened to a somber shade of black. Yup, something’s definitely up.
It’s not unusual for the curtains to switch colors or patterns overnight—my uncle’s taste in home decor changes with the slightest breeze. I’ve woken to much stranger—the walls replaced entirely with glass, fish tanks fitted in the window frames, floors covered in bamboo reeds. Stoutmire Estate is Uncle Xavier’s masterpiece. It’s also my home—no, that’s a lie, because the word home implies family. I haven’t had a home since I was five. Not since the incident on Christmas Eve when my life went to shit and my parents deemed me a liability. Better to ship me here to live with my deranged uncle Xavier. Better for everyone but me.
The pink corner of my suspension form glares at me from my open messenger bag. I’ll need to forge my uncle’s signature at the bottom, but I have two full weeks to figure that out. This is more like a vacation anyway. All it took was a right hook to Corey Shamble’s glass chin. That kid had it coming—no one should be that chipper in the morning.
I yank a mostly clean shirt from my dresser and rummage around for slightly less clean socks, making a mental note to tell a staffer to do my laundry. Something grazes the back of my neck and I spin, heart pumping. A single black balloon floats near my nose, hovering like some creepy killer clown left it there. I squeeze it until it pops, releasing something shiny and polished—a small knife with a handle made of smooth white bone. A tag inscribed with a set of instructions dangles from the spine. For later. Hide me.
When I grip the handle, a trail of muddy footprints appears, a path I’m meant to follow. Shit. The pit in my stomach tightens.
I shove the knife beneath my mattress and add it to my growing list of concerns. I mentally bump hide knife above forge suspension forms. Hell of a Monday.
I need to get out of this room, but even the mood in the halls feels off. Staff bustles by in black blazers instead of their normal vibrant hues of magenta and emerald. Uncle likes to match the staff uniforms to the seasons and his ever-fickle moods. None of them will look at me, either. They all rush by clutching letters, with tears in their eyes. I can smell my uncle’s magic radiating from the envelopes—sweet, but decaying like a rotting tooth.
I push past the staff and look down into the foyer. My insufferable uncle Zolan—who insists we call him uncle even though he’s distantly related—and Lord Thorn, council head of the northern sector, are huddled by the door. What are they doing here?
But before I can question it, someone screams. Hysterics and tears follow. I dart down the winding staircase and dash across the marble to intercept Tulia, one of the senior staff.
“Tell me what’s going on.”
Tulia purses her lips like she’s lodged a lemon behind her teeth. “Can’t say, Lyric.”
“Why not?” My voice drops to a growl, but Tulia stands her ground.
“You’ll need to wait for your letter,” she answers, and whisks away.
Wait for my letter? No, I don’t think so. I’ve grown up here. Lived here because my parents were afraid of me hurting my siblings. I deserve to know what’s going on.
I storm the mansion halls, stomping my boots across polished wood and slick tiles like a giant smashing villages beneath my feet.
“Edwin!” I call, catching sight of my uncle’s head of staff in the solarium.
He turns, slowly, as if he’s afraid to see where the command came from. The golden buttons on his black blazer reflect the sun. “Lyric. We weren’t expecting you so soon.”
Heat creeps up the back of my neck, but I remind myself this is a vacation, not a suspension. “What’s all of this?”
I half expect him to repeat what Tulia said, that I need to wait for my letter. The staff is annoyingly loyal to my uncle, but Edwin takes a step closer, his sharp green eyes searching mine. “I’m afraid I have some rather unfortunate news.”
Add that to my list.
“Which is?”
“Your uncle Xavier passed away last night. He was found in his bed this morning,” says Edwin. He doesn’t blink as sunlight filters in, momentarily making Edwin’s eyes look mottled and blue. He studies my expression, searching for a crack in my facade, perhaps even tears.
But it doesn’t happen. I don’t feel sad, I don’t feel anything at all. ...
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