Page 88 of The Whispering Night
At those words, Winnie thinks of Jay’s song. Of the chorus:I miss you more now. Now that it’s been so long.She pushes at her glasses. She can’t think of Jay. She can’t get trapped again in her loop of the old museum. She knows where Jenna’s source is; there is only moving forward, following the photons down a trail her dad left four years ago. And Winnie says as much: “We have to finish what we started, E. We have to get Jenna’s source.”
“Yeah.” Another nod. Another lift in Erica’s spine. The straw house is becoming a brick one. “You’re right, Winona. I know you are.” She fastens the locket around her neck. An elegant movement by a Thursday who is poise through and through. “I can get us out of here,” she continues, her voice picking up speed. “But I’ll need a little time to get it ready.”
“Get what ready?”
“Amundanus. For hiding.” Locket in place, Erica grabs the dampener and tugs it to her crossed legs. “It’s, like, one of the only spells I can do, and it won’t keep us covered for long, but I think it will get us out of here.”
“Okay.” Winnie isn’t opposed to this, but again: she wants to leavenow. “How long will it take?”
“I have to pull together the pieces of the spell, assemble it, then place it in the source. Once that’s done, I can cast it and we’ll get out of here. It’ll take at least an hour to assemble, so you can nap or something.”
“Nap? Are you serious right now?”
“No one will find us.”
Winnie chokes out a laugh. The last thing she wants to do is sleep. Seriously, if she wanted to do that, she could have done it during her many hours locked underground in the Tuesday estate.
Erica seems to realize her advice isn’t being taken. She also seems annoyed by it.I gave you a command, Winona. Now you’re supposed to follow it.“Fine,” she snips. “Don’t nap. Wash up instead.” She motions to her duffel. “I’ve got baby wipes in there. And your training clothes are on top. Plus, there’s a brush somewhere, which… you really need a brush, Winnie.”
“What about paper? Do you have any paper?”
Erica’s eyebrows rise. The impatience is practically rolling off her now. She is no longer a little pig trapped in a house but the wolf blowing it down.
Winnie can relate. She wouldreallylike to get out of here. “Paper,” she repeats.
“Sure, yeah. That unlabeled binder on the shelf has paper. And there’s a pen in there too. Now can you stop asking for things? I need to concentrate.” Erica reaches out to grab her source as she did before, two-handed… Except she hesitates. Then flashes a warning glance at Winnie. “Don’t watch me, okay? I’m not very good at magic, and… I just really don’t want an audience.”
Winnie flips up her hands, already rising so she can find that blank paper. “No worries, E. Pretend I’m not here. Although… what do I do if I hear someone coming?”
“I’m not going into a trance, Winona.” Erica slips her hands under the source. “If the Tuesdays come, I’ll hear it just like you. But seriously: don’t worry. This place kept Jenna safe, and it’ll keep us safe too.”
Winnie takes Erica’s advice and cleans up. She won’t win any awards for freshness, but she does get the paint off her face. It also feels truly excellent to put on clean underwear, plus clean black sweatpants, a clean T-shirt, and the black zip-up hoodie she always wears during training.
Erica, having grabbed her source, has done absolutely nothing but close her eyes and concentrate. It’s identical to the pose she and Winnie mimicked as kids; all that’s missing is the dramatic bedsheet costume.
Okay, and the recitation of words like “eye of newt and blood of stone” or “tongue of harpy whispering home.” What Winnie hears coming from Erica are the soft mutterings of a language she can’t understand. She assumes Latin, but it might be Klingon for all she knows. It is with that gentle murmur behind her, rustling like spring in the forest, that Winnie finds a spot away from the heaters and leans against the wall. She folds up her knees, and with a binder on her lap, she starts to draw.
The pen is a ballpoint (the worst) and requires a few frustrated scratches to work. The paper, meanwhile, is lined, but with the blue still blue and the red still red. Not that any of that matters. What matters is the connection of pen to paper and the pressure of Winnie’s hand on the binder.
First, she sketches Erica, seated like she was before, with a source in one hand and Jenna’s spell in the other. She adds a blindfold because Justice is blind and neither Erica nor Winnie knows what will come next after they find Jenna’s source.
Then Winnie draws her family. A crude mimicry of the old photograph that hung in their living room, and that Dad sketched in Darian’s birthday cards. While Dad’s drawings were faceless, Winnie adds detail. Darian, laughing over pickle breath. Mom, setting her jaw against a spell that won’t defeat her.
Winnie keeps her own face featureless. No mouth, no nose, no eyes.
Justice is blind, after all.
She keeps Dad’s face blank too because she has no idea what he looks like now. Is he alive? Is he nearby? Or is he long gone, replaced by a tiny person in a hound mask?Anyone could be a Diana. A Diana could be anyone.
Lastly, Winnie draws Jay.
She doesn’t want to, and if she’s honest with herself, she’s afraid to even try. Tocommithis essence to paper like she did three nights ago. Because she has no idea what actually remains of the boy she loves. But once the distillation process begins, there’s no stopping it. Heat sends vapor rising through the copper still, until the alcohol is separated. Then gravity pulls it down, down, spiraling it through tubing, untildrip!
There is the finished product.
This is what Winnie saw in the old museum. Not boy, not man, not wolf, but a silhouette with shadows to writhe around him like prey engulfed by an amoeba.
I love you. I’m sorry.
