Page 3 of The Whispering Night
Number of friends a month ago? Zero. Number of friends now? At least six and counting.
Number of nightmare species fought a month ago? Zero. Number fought now? Eight, if you include werewolves as one of them—which Winnie does. Nine, if you include will-o’-wisps, which she doesn’t.
Dianas faced a month ago? Zero. Dianas faced now? Three.
But perhaps more important than the empirical evidence that Winnie can track on a spreadsheet is theemotionalevidence. Because for the first time in four years, she feels hopeful.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all.
Winnie had to memorize that poem by Emily Dickinson for Ms. Morgan two years ago. Lately, the poem keeps surfacing like artifacts of data you can never quite scrub from a hard drive. And every time Winnie thinks of the poem, she imagines a will-o’-wisp in the forest.
And hope is why she has come here this morning, to the edge of the Thursday estate where a cluster of white flowers can watch her from beside the back door with judgment in their petals like pointing fingers.Tsk, tsk, Winnie Wednesday. You really shouldn’t be here.
Trillium flexipes.The nodding wakerobin. They were Dad’s favorite native flower in Hemlock Falls. No—theyarehis favorite flower because Winnie is going to find him. She is going to bring him home.
She shoulders into the shed. The smell of old grass wafts against her asshe fumbles for a switch. Fluorescent lights wink on, revealing that nothing has changed since she last visited two days ago: an electric lamp still hangs on a hook in the corner with a folding chair and tiny bookshelf to stand solemnly beside it.
Winnie swipes the light back off again. It’s too bright for what she needs to do. Then she hurries to the corner and drops into the folding chair. In seconds, she’s yanking books off the shelf. Gone are the graphic novels and Percy Jacksons of four years ago. In their place are a varied assortment of bodice rippers with bent spines, historical Luminary textbooks with less-bent spines, and some philosophy and self-help books in Spanish that Erica’s dad keeps giving her for her birthdays (these spines are not cracked at all; sorry, Antonio).
After she removes eight titles, a small line appears on the shelf’s backing. It’s where a false panel has been placed, shortening the depth by two inches. Since Erica did the same on all three shelves, it’s not visible unless you know what to look for. Even now, knowing what to look for, Winnie has to squint behind her glasses and dig her fingers in. There should be a little divot. A little space to get leverage—
There.
She pulls. The false back peels away to reveal the latest findings from Erica Thursday—although, the two pages Winnie withdraws appear totally blank. And the honey smell that Winnie knows coats them is too weak to compete against the grass and gasoline.
From her back pocket, Winnie slides out a sheet of sketch paper—also deceptively blank—and presses it into the hidden compartment before returning the false panel along with each book in the exact order she removed it. And to make sure there’s no difference in dust, she quickly tugs off, then replaces every other book on every other shelf as well.
Her top and bottom teeth click together, a physical manifestation of the nerves churning in her spine—until she shoves her tongue between. She has no reason to be nervous. She has done this three times now, her speed and finesse improving with each visit so that by now, she is basically a full-blown spy.
Agent Wednesday.Dad used to call her that sometimes when they played their secret code and cipher games. She had no idea then how much those games would save her. And maybe save him too.
On her way back out of the cabin, as Winnie folds the pages from Erica into her back pocket, her eyes catch on the old red vampira she and Jay painted five years ago. It has faded, so now only fangs and a single eye remain. Somehow the anatomical inaccuracy makes it more horrifying. Like a corpse left to rot until the forest has transformed it into a revenant.
Tsk, tsk,the trilliums scold as Winnie gently shuts the back door behind her and locks it with the key from Erica.You really shouldn’t be here.
CHAPTER
2
WTF Triangle: These three young adults belong to the Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday clans. Formerly best friends, two of them are now romantically involved while the third is a tentative ally. See also: Winnie Wednesday, witches, and werewolves.
When the WTF triangle met eight days ago, their first reunion in four years, it was awkward. And tense. And Winnie kept imagining spaghetti western music playing in the background, as if she were trapped in the graveyard climax scene ofThe Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.(She’s pretty sure she was the Ugly in that scenario.)
But it was also undeniably productive.
If Winnie had brought a voice recorder to the cabin on that night, a transcript of the conversation would have read as follows:
[0:00]
Winnie: [standing below the window] Tell him, Erica. Tell Jay what you actually are.
Erica: [seated in the folding chair] No thanks. I’m good.
