Page 71 of The Gargoyle and the Songbird

ECCO

The butterflies in my stomach are doing loop-de-loops as we stand in front of the sprites’ front door the next day. I can’t believe we’re finally about to do this. That we’ve finally figured out who my stalker is.

The warm, woodland colors of their house make it stand out of the surrounding forest like an enormous fruit or flower, its patchwork of colorful shingles and climbing vines all coated in freshly fallen snow. It sets a cheery, pleasant scene—a stark contrast to my burbling anxiety.

I glance back at Graeme looming behind me, his features etched in a familiar scowl, those stone-carved cheekbones somehow even more brooding than usual.

“I still think we should’ve brought the police with us,” he grumbles, muscular arms crossed over his chest.

I wave him off. “Oh, it’s fine! I’ve got this.”

But inside, my mind is racing ahead to the confrontation awaiting me. Taking a deep breath, I rap sharply on the door. The sound echoes through the afternoon stillness.

After a few tense seconds, the door swings open.

A smiling sprite woman stands before us, her iridescent wings fluttering behind her. Time for my show face. I plaster on a huge smile.

“Hi, are you Karisse’s mom?” I ask, my voice surprisingly steady despite my jittery nerves. “I’m, err, her temporary choir director.”

The woman’s eyes widen, mouth forming a surprised ‘o’.

“Oh! Wow! You’re Ecco Waverly!” she exclaims. Leaning in conspiratorially, she stage-whispers, “Karisse isobsessedwith you, such a huge fan.”

I exchange a loaded glance with Graeme, our suspicions solidifying by the second. His already tense shoulders tighten, jaw muscle flexing.

Clearing my throat, I keep my voice carefully neutral. “Is she here right now? I wanted to chat with her about something for, uh… choir.”

“Yes, of course! Come on in.” Karisse’s mom steps aside and gestures for us to enter.

We step inside and my mind whirls with possibilities of how this conversation will unfold. Could I possibly be right about this? Or is it far too outlandish to be true?

I follow Karisse’s mother down the hallway, taking in the homey, lived-in feel of the house. The walls are covered in family photos and colorful artwork, some of which looks to be by Karisse herself. The air is filled with the sweet scent of baking bread.

We stop outside a door adorned with a glittery nameplate that reads “Karisse’s Room” in looping, girlish handwriting.

Karisse’s mother knocks softly before pushing the door open, revealing a space that’s every inch a typical 11-year-old girl’s room. It’s a haven of pink and purple and sparkles, filled to the brim with stuffed animals and posters.

Amidst the sea of color, one thing stands out like a beacon: the poster of me that I signed just a few days ago, hanging in a place of honor on the wall.

Karisse herself is sitting on her bed. Her eyes widen with shock and delight as she takes in the sight of me standing in her doorway.

“Oh my gods,Ecco!” she squeals, her voice high and breathy. “What are you doing here?!”

My gaze darts around the room, taking in every detail with a critical eye. My senses are on high alert as I search for any clue that might confirm my suspicions.

And then I see it: a half-melted magic-working candle sitting on Karisse’s desk, its wick still smoking faintly. The candle is hard to focus on, as if it’s vibrating in and out of existence as I watch.

I try to keep my voice calm and measured as I turn to face Karisse and her mother.

“Well, Karisse, I wanted to talk to you about something… and I think your mom should probably stay for this.”

I’m painfully aware of the delicate nature of this conversation, the way I need to approach it with tact and sensitivity. But I also know that I can’t back down, not when the safety of myself and those around me could be at stake.

I look Karisse directly in the eye, my gaze unwavering. “I need to ask you something serious, Karisse. Have you been… following me?”

The words seem to hang in the air, the room suddenly charged with a palpable tension. Graeme tenses beside me, ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice. But I keep my focus on Karisse, watching her face with bated breath.

“What are you talking about?” Karisse’s mother demands, her voice rising with indignation. “Karisse is just a kid!”

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