Page 19 of The Whispering Night
Jay leaves the same way he came in: via the window. Mostly because Mom wakes up—they hear her alarm—which makes Winniefreak the eff outand Jay alongside her. A night fighting against drolls, manticores, and vampira? Whatever. A morning against Mama Bear Francesca Wednesday?Run for your life, Jay Friday.
And he does. He was at least smart enough not to park his bike in front of the house, but still, when Winnie hears the engine rev a block away, she can’t help but hide under her covers. Surely Mom will hear that.Surelyshe’ll realize Jay snuck in and made out with her daughter.
It would seem Mom doesnotrealize, and once Winnie’s heart and breathing calm to healthy, sustainable rates, her eyes drift shut. She dozes off.
And finds herself in the forest.
It’s a dream—she knows it’s a dream, and she’s glad for that. Because as real as it feels, sheknowsshe will wake up, no matter what might come next.
What comes next is a white wolf.Jay,she thinks, except she can tell it isn’t. This one has different eyes. He’s smaller too. “Pure Heart,” he tells her, although there is no movement on his canid mouth. Just a deep, rumbling voice worn ancient from grief and time. “Trust the Pure Heart.”
“Yes,” she answers. “I do.” Even though this isn’t true—the Pure Heart is the Whisperer, the center of her diagram, the pistil of her trillium, afamesspell run wild in the forest. She doesn’t trust it at all. Yet here she is, lying with frictionless ease: “I trust the Pure Heart completely.”
She awakens to her locket scoring against her collarbone. She jolts upright, grabs for it, fumbles it from her shirt…
But it’s not actually hot. It’s not actually burning, and whatever strange magic had claimed it in the forest when she faced those Dianas—it’s not happening now. It’s just a golden circle, with a moon and two stars, that once belonged to her grandmother.
A grandmother whom Winnie has thought of a lot lately. Because what does it mean if this really did come from Grandma Harriet, Dad’s mom? And how can Winnie even confirm if such a thing is true when she has zero contact with the woman?
The house is silent now, meaning Mom has gone to her shift at the Revenant’s Daughter. No rain pitter-patters against the roof. Instead there is only sunshine, aggressive in its brightness and revealing every scratch, fingerprint, and microscopic dent on the golden locket. Winnie doesn’t open it because she knows it will just be a picture of her and Darian, and she has already withdrawn those photos to search for more clues behind them. There was nothing then; there is nothing now.
Erica might get messages in her locket, but Winnie never has. And on the flip side, Erica’s has never gotten hot like Winnie’s.
Winnie blinks. And suddenly an idea forms—one she can’t believe she hasn’t thought of before.
Part of her knows she should ask Erica first. Not for permission so much as guidance. But another part of her expects that if she does, Erica will instantly bark,No.And for once, Winnie would rather beg forgiveness instead of permission. (Oh, who’s she kidding? When has she ever asked for permission?)
After snatching up a sketchbook, Winnie rips the top right corner off a blank page. It’s a thumbnail scrap upon which she writes in silver pencil:Is anyone there?Then she snaps open the locket and places the message inside.
She feels silly as she squeezes the locket shut and says, “Let’s see what you’ve got for me.” But hey—she might as well give this a try. Her locket isn’t like Erica’s, but they’ve yet to testhowdifferently the two golden necklaces might behave. And with all these dead ends and redundant Venn diagrams that grace Winnie’s whiteboard each night, it’s time for a little shakeup.
For several minutes, nothing happens. No warmth, no buzz, no sensation of magic to hermit-crab through the room. To say Winnie feels disappointed would be an understatement. She also feels even sillier, and heat creeps up her neck.
Until she finally just tears open the locket, and… nope. Her own handwriting stares up at her. She shuts the locket again. Then shoves away from her desk. The day beckons; she is going to be late if she doesn’t pick up the pace.
Once downstairs, she finds a protein bar on the kitchen table with a note attached:If you want real food, swing by the Daughter. LOVE YOU UNTIL THE END OF TIME—MOM
Winnie would very much like real food. In fact, the thought of hash browns, eggs, and bacon sounds so delicious, she viscerally regrets sleeping an extra two hours when she could have vacuumed up diner food instead. Alas, she has not only missed a chance for a real meal, but the clock on the microwave indicates she is going to be super late to Luminary training if she doesn’t get moving. And what was it Aunt Rachel said last night?Be the model Luminary you’ve always wanted to be.
Right. She can do that, even if it means she’ll have to stay in her ratty sweatpants and rattier T-shirt proclaiming an undying love for Charmander. If this outfit was good enough for Jay Friday, then it’s definitely good enough for the rest of Hemlock Falls. Although Winnie does tug on her leather jacket—whichstillsmells new a full month after the twins gave it to her.
And she can’t resist opening the locket one more time once she’s out in the garden shed and retrieving the family bike. But the same message is right there. No magic, no reply.
Winnie sighs. Then she sets off for the Sunday estate, where culture can be mainlined into her blood. It might be the weekend, but if the forest never quits, than neither will Luminary training.
Winnie regrets her outfit as soon as she reaches her first class at the Sunday estate. She is three minutes late to Luminary history, which means the whole class stares at her as she scurries in. Her cousin Marcus loudly snorts, then mutters, “Charmander?” And for the ten thousandth time in her life, Winnie really wishes she could punch his teeth in.
Except then she feels guilty because the kid does have ghosts of his own right now. Diana-shaped ones he’s diligently keeping secret.
At least it’s not Professor Samuel standing at the whiteboard, since he went to visit a sick relative a week ago. Instead, the teacher eyeballing Winnie is a short, pale-faced woman who looks like she could bench-press Winnie with one arm while dominating an arm-wrestling competition with the other. She beams at Winnie, seemingly unconcerned by Winnie’s tardiness, and after swatting a gray strand that has fallen from her mostly blond bun (pinned artfully atop her head in a way that Winnie wishes she could copy), she motions for Winnie to take a seat.
“As I was saying,” Professor Alice declares with a barely there Norwegian accent, “I think you all will enjoy the lesson today.” She points to the whiteboard, where words are written in thick, colorful markers that are easy for Winnie’s bespectacled eyes to read:The Importance of the Masquerade for Community Morale. Below this are the seven clan symbols—each drawn in different colors. Not the best sketches, but clear enough to interpret. And a million billion times better than the listing of dates and names that Samuel always scribbles in tiny black ink.
“We will begin with the Floating Carnival. Does anyone know why it is beside the Little Lake?”
Marcus’s hand shoots up. He doesn’t wait to be noticed before half shouting: “To honor the aquatic nightmares of the Big Lake.”
“Exactly.” Professor Alice smiles. It is a very nice smile that fans lines around her dark eyes as she launches into a history of the Floating Carnival’s most popular rides: the Ferris wheel, designed to look like a full moon. The Kelpie Carousel with assorted aquatic nightmares for riding. The Tilt-A-Whirl, which Winnie hates to ride because it makes her vomit.
