Page 93 of The Whispering Night
“Can you see the maze?” she shouts over the engine. The four-wheeler’s own small headlights, which were subsumed by the Hummers’, now spray over the narrow path.Verynarrow and very clearly meant only for walkers. A bench framed by potted roses streaks past. Then an absurd array of statues shaped like toga-wearing cupids holding golden keys. “Through the trees,” Winnie adds. “Do you see the maze?”
“It’s too dark, but there’s a—” Erica breaks off as Winnie slams on the brakes. The path has ended and a marble gazebo now glows white before them.
Winnie doesn’t bother to cut the engine. She knows where they are now, even if she’s never been here. Erica seems to know too, and as they bothscrabble off the four-wheeler, Erica says: “The maze is that way.” She points to a lantern-lined path.
“Yeah,” Winnie agrees, and though her legs are Jell-O from clenching onto the four-wheeler and her ears still quake from the engine, she staggers toward the lanterns.
One by one, the lanterns ignite. Unseen motion sensors trigger them to life, sending orange light outward. It should be beautiful. It should be an elegant display of darkness, darkness, light and everything the Luminaries stand for. Instead, it’s like tens of giant arrows pointing,RIGHT HERE! YOUR TARGETS ARE RIGHT HERE, JEREMIAH!
Winnie and Erica start sprinting again. The lanterns stop blinking into existence. The final steps of the path grind out. Then there is the outer wall of the maze, the green of the yew hedge turned to black at this hour.
Winnie and Erica thunder inside.
Immediately, the world quiets. They are soundproofed by yew trees. The lanterns that flared behind them disappear. There is only darkness again. The air is colder in this place, as if sunlight never quite muscles in to warm the leaves, the gravel, the shadows.
“This way,” Winnie says, whispering even though she doesn’t need to. “Stay close.”
“Duh, Winona.”
Winnie smiles.
In her mind, she can see the maze as a sketch upon the family desk. It’s like it’s right there, like she is a child again and Dad never left. Winnie remembers wonderingwhythe Saturdays needed a maze. Like, sure it seems fun, but who actuallyusesone?
Dad, it turns out.
Winnie jogs steadily onward, the map in her mind swiveling with each turn. For once, she’s glad she has never had a fancy phone; she’sgladfor all the practice she’s had reading maps for corpse duty; and she’sgladthat Dryden wouldn’t rest until the maze was exactly as he wanted.
Complete with an ugly fountain made of purple granite.
“There,” Winnie says, and she finally, finally slows.
“Oh.” This is all Erica says, and there’s a resonance to the word. When Winnie looks over, she finds her friend is crying. Not a bitten-back sortof cry, nor an effusive sob. Nor even the silent, stiff cry of someone who is ashamed to be seen.
These are happy tears. The kind you let loose when you finally,finallyknow you’re free. When finally,finallythe weight of an impossible task is lifted off of you.
Winnie swallows. Then fixes her glasses, which are practically falling from her nose at this point. And as her lenses slot into place, Erica crystallizes into the girl she used to be. The one who spent every Friday night with Winnie in an old cabin that smelled like cut grass.
The fountain burbles, oblivious to Tuesdays on the hunt or the source it has been holding for four years: a simple, metallic sphere that spins and rolls atop running water.
“It’s genius.” Erica’s voice is thick with reverence. With joy. She inches closer. “I still have no idea why your dad hid Jenna’s source, but… this was ageniusplace to do it.”
Winnie doesn’t disagree. Her fingers fumble her locket from her black sweatshirt. “Now what?” Her voice is so quiet, the fountain’s water seems to steal it. The source seems to absorb it.
To think, only four days ago, she and Signora Martedì were standingright herebeside the one thing they both wanted to find.
“Now we pull it out… I guess.”
“Youguess?” Winnie’s fingers tighten on the locket.
Erica winces. “I don’t know. Sorry. I just… this is a lot, okay?”
Winnie can definitely agree with that. She can also agree that she and Erica are sitting ducks right now. “Do you know how to pick up the source? Safely, I mean? I saw a diagram once, but…” She trails off.
And Erica gives a hard nod. “I can pull it out. We’re blood relatives, so I can touch Jenna’s source. Besides, it’s been sitting here so long, exposed to the water—I don’t think it has any magic left.” A twisted, sideways smile. “Still, I wouldn’t be a Thursday if I weren’t prepared, just in case.” She withdraws a pair of latex gloves from her pocket. They’re garishly blue in the shadows and make Winnie think of four-petaled poppies. They make her think of what Erica said back in the pump room:You ever want something so bad, and then you finally get it, and it’s just… not the same anymore?
Winnie knew then, and now she knows it all over again—because Ericawas right to worry in the pump room. This is the last clue. This is Winnie’slastpiece of Dad. So what on earth will she do next?
Erica eases her gloved hands around the ball—which is no larger than a baseball—and lifts up her sweater as if to tuck this source into the swaddle alongside her own. For half a breath, she is Lady Justice again, with her left hand balanced to one side holding Jenna’s source and her right hand towing her sweater aside.
