The Secrets of Winterhouse

by Ben Guterson

  And although she was aching a bit, the main thing was that she wasn’t sure she wanted to delve too deeply into the subject at hand just yet. It was enough to have come to Winterhouse and to try to fit in.

  Elizabeth dropped her hand from her head and looked at her grandfather. “Do you think it’s really all over? I mean, do you think they all just decided to leave and not do anything?”

  Norbridge squinted at the plate of candy for a moment. “I think with people whose souls have been infected by evil, you never really know what they might do.”

  A silence descended on the room, and Norbridge set one palm down on the tabletop. It was an odd and deliberate gesture—like testing the surface for warmth—and it indicated something more to come. He stared at his hand with a strange fixity, and the two kids watched. Suddenly, beneath Norbridge’s palm, as though he’d imparted a glow to the table simply by the power of touch, a golden light brightened around the rim of his fingers. He moved his hand steadily across the surface of the table, leaving a trail of amber light behind—after several swipes and curls, it became clear what he was doing: Norbridge was writing something. Even before he came to the end of his motions, Elizabeth realized what it was he was spelling. Still, when he finished, she was stunned to see the very same design she had seen in the book by Dylan Grimes nearly two weeks before, the same word she kept on the pendant around her neck:

  “No matter how you look at it, though,” Norbridge said, “from any angle, we have to keep the faith.” He stared at Elizabeth. “You hold it up in any light, and we’ll be okay.”

  She felt certain he was letting her know something important, and she put a hand to the pendant around her neck. Norbridge leaned toward the table and then, as if blowing out candles on a birthday cake, gave a quick puff. The word there flared and then faded to nothing, like embers dying in a fire.

  “How do you do that stuff?” Freddy said, scratching his head and inspecting the table.

  An urgent knock sounded at the door. “Mr. Falls!” someone called from the corridor. “Mr. Falls!”

  Norbridge answered the door to find Sampson, breathless, standing there.

  “What is it, my good man?” Norbridge said.

  Sampson was so distraught he didn’t notice Elizabeth and Freddy sitting at the table.

  “Sir!” he said. “The Thatchers just arrived. They said they hadn’t sent any belongings beforehand and were just coming on the spur of the moment. All the luggage and stuff in there? They don’t know who it belongs to or where it came from. But there was one big crate that was open, and it was empty! You should come right away.”

  Norbridge held up a hand to quiet him, but it was too late—Elizabeth and Freddy had heard everything. Sampson looked past Norbridge and saw the two of them.

  “Oh!” he said, his face full of an even deeper alarm. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

  Norbridge whipped around. “Freddy, I need you to go back to your room.” He pointed to Elizabeth. “And, my dear, please remain here until one of us returns.” He patted the base of his neck, the spot where her necklace lay. “Door locked.”

  Freddy gave Elizabeth a small salute, and then he, Sampson, and Norbridge left the room. Elizabeth was alone once again.

  It’s not over at all, she thought. The ache in her head was returning, badly again. For fifteen minutes she paced the room, thinking through what Sampson’s news meant and trying to keep her agitation contained. Her head was throbbing, and she began to feel overcome by fatigue, even as she kept returning to a terrifying thought: Gracella’s body had been smuggled into Winterhouse. The pain in her temples was intense; and so she sat on the sofa, closed her eyes, and rubbed her head for several long minutes.

  * * *

  Another knock sounded on the door, only this time Elizabeth wasn’t startled but, rather, awakened. She looked around, realizing she’d fallen asleep on the sofa.

  “Coming!” she called. She looked at the clock: 6:18. She’d slept for over an hour.

  “Sampson!” she said when she opened the door. He stood before her with a covered silver platter, his red uniform crisp and bright as always.

  “Hello, Elizabeth!” Sampson said. “Greetings from your one and only dynamic dinner delivery dude!” He gave a huge grin, his buckteeth clipping his lower lip.

  “What’s going on?” she said. “What happened with the Thatchers?”

  “Everything is fine,” he said. “May I come in? I’ll explain it all.”

  Minutes later the two of them were sitting at the table in Norbridge’s kitchen, a plate of baked trout and rice and carrots sitting invitingly before Elizabeth, though her appetite was suppressed by her bafflement.

  “It was all a bunch of confusion,” Sampson said. “Turns out they did have stuff sent, but it was months ago, and for some reason it just arrived now.”

  Something in this sounded suspicious. “Really?” Elizabeth said. “They forgot about it? What about the crate?”

  “Like I said, it was just miscommunication. Then I got sort of carried away.” He looked to her dinner plate. “Norbridge wanted you to have something to eat, though, so here I am!”

  It all sounded very strange to Elizabeth, but she decided not to ask too many questions yet. “Well, at least I’m feeling better.” She wanted to leave Norbridge’s room and see for herself what was going on. “I’m pretty sure I’m feeling up to going to the party.”

  Sampson shook his head. “Orders from the boss. You’re staying put tonight.”

  There was definitely something going on, Elizabeth thought, but she decided for now she would go along with whatever plan Sampson had. He sat across the table, watching her eat, and talking the whole time, first about how much everyone was hoping she was fully recovered and then about how nice Grace Hall looked for the New Year’s Eve party.

  “I’m fine, you know,” Elizabeth said after a time. “I appreciate you staying here with me while I eat, but I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

  “Oh, no, it’s okay!” Sampson said. He patted his jacket at the chest and then along the sides, and then he pulled out a folded-up corner of a newspaper. “Hey, I know you’re good at these things,” he said, unfolding the paper to reveal a crossword puzzle he’d apparently torn out. “I got stuck on a few of these words and was wondering if you could help me.”

  Elizabeth’s perplexity deepened; it was clear Sampson had no intention of leaving. “Are you sure you don’t have to get back to work?” she said.

  “Positive. If you don’t want to do the puzzle, maybe we can play cards? Or Monopoly?”

  “Sampson, did Norbridge tell you to stay here and keep an eye on me?”

  Sampson set his teeth on his lower lip again, but this time he looked confused. “Uh, well, I was sent here to bring you dinner.” He grinned, like a student settling on the right answer after being questioned by his teacher in front of the class.

  “That’s why you came,” Elizabeth said, “but were you also told to stay?”

  Sampson scrunched his face, struggling to find the right words. “Kind of,” he said slowly.

  “What’s going on, Sampson?”

  He adjusted the small hat on his head and began licking his lips furiously. “Okay, okay, listen, Elizabeth, if I tell you, you have to promise me you won’t tell Norbridge or Jackson or anyone, okay?”

  “I promise! But what’s going on?”

  Sampson leaned back and gave out a heavy sigh. “Oh, brother. I know I shouldn’t tell you this. Okay, listen: Someone attacked Freddy.”

  “What! When did this happen? Tell me!” Without realizing it, Elizabeth grabbed Sampson by the wrist.

  “A little over an hour ago,” Sampson said. “Someone found him in the hallway.”

  “Who?”

  “One of the guests! He was out cold, and it looked like he had been beat up.”

  Elizabeth felt sick. She let go of Sampson’s wrist and put both hands to her face, wanting to hold back her tears and confu
sion—this news felt devastating.

  She looked up. “How is he now? You saw him?”

  Sampson shook his head. “They took him to the infirmary. That’s all I know.”

  “Why would anyone do that? Why would anyone want to hurt Freddy?”

  Sampson looked away.

  “Is there something else?” Elizabeth said. “What? You know something.”

  “Whoever it was … they took…” Sampson began. An awful feeling descended on Elizabeth—she knew exactly what Sampson was going to say. He looked to her. “His key to the workshop was missing.”

  “I’ve been trying to warn Norbridge,” Elizabeth said. “All of it. I knew this would happen.” A picture formed in her mind: Someone had surely entered the workshop, broken into the summer door there, and entered the secret passageway.

  Sampson stood. He was so agitated and worried suddenly that now, after doing his best to act calm and easy over the previous hour, he appeared able to let his guard down. “That’s all I know, Elizabeth. I’m sorry. It’s just a very bad situation out there right now, and Norbridge asked me to come here and keep you company.”

  “Like a jailer,” she said glumly.

  “Well, gosh, you don’t have to put it like that. I’m just supposed to stay with you until Norbridge returns. More like a bodyguard.”

  Elizabeth nodded. She didn’t want Sampson to get in any trouble, but the fact was she had to get out of Norbridge’s apartment and see what was going on, had to help Freddy if she could. And then it struck her that what she really needed to do was stop whoever had broken into the secret passageways and make sure they didn’t find whatever it was that was hidden underneath Winterhouse. There was no way she could ask Norbridge for “permission” to do this, and there was no way—if he had the slightest idea she intended to enter the passageways—he would agree to let her go inside. But now, right at this very moment, someone—or maybe more than one person—was inside the passageways and looking to find a charm that, if Elizabeth’s deductions were correct, would bring Gracella more power than The Book ever would have. If she could get inside the passageways and somehow find the object, maybe she could get back into Norbridge’s room before anyone else found anything and before anyone even knew she was gone. There was a maze of passages beneath Winterhouse; and she had no idea how she herself might find the charm, but she could only hope anyone else down there might be lost wandering.

  “I understand, Sampson,” Elizabeth said. She ran a finger along the edge of the tray on the table. “Still, I can’t believe what happened, and I just hope Freddy is all right,” she said, putting a hand to her forehead. “My head is killing me again. Maybe I should go lie down for a while, and you can just hang out here.”

  “That’s probably about the best way we can handle it for now,” he said, sitting back down at the table. “If you want to rest, go ahead. I’ll just wait here.”

  “I think I will,” she said, standing. As nonchalantly as she could, she removed the flashlight from where she’d left it on a shelf, and then she took her notebook from the sofa. “I’m super tired.”

  Sampson gave her a thumbs-up. “Get some rest.”

  She smiled at him, then retreated into Norbridge’s room with a quick “I will,” tossing in a yawn for good measure. She closed the door and silently locked it behind her. And then, after she’d listened at the door for five minutes to make sure Sampson wasn’t going to check on her, and after she was certain he would assume she was asleep, Elizabeth put on her sweater, lifted the painting of Norbridge, Maria, and her mother away from the wall, pressed the door open silently, and clicked on her flashlight to look within. She lowered the painting behind her and stepped inside and felt the chill air filling her lungs, the strange quiet all around.

  She was alone in the secret passageway.

  CHAPTER 31

  JOURNEY THROUGH A MAZE ENTRY

  Elizabeth opened her notebook and shined the flashlight on the eight lines she’d written before tucking the pad into her sweater pocket. She had no idea where to go now that she was inside the passageway, and she didn’t know what she was looking for. All she had were the eight lines—and she didn’t know what they meant.

  She held the light up and looked ahead. From somewhere came a low hum, like the sound you’d hear if your sleep was disturbed by the noise of a truck idling or an airplane passing far overhead. It was the same sound she’d heard each time she’d pressed her ear to one of the four doors. As she recited the eight lines to herself, Elizabeth began to walk; when she had moved forward thirty feet, there was a fork in the passageway. She listened. The humming was louder to her left, and so she turned that direction and continued—though before she did, she made a mark on the wall with her pen so she could retrace her steps.

  If I just follow that sound, she thought, maybe I’ll find what I’m looking for.

  She was glad to be able to focus on the humming noise, because otherwise she knew that the many things lurking behind this distraction would take over: She was alone inside a maze of corridors, looking for she didn’t know what, and trying to avoid running into anyone else. She wondered if maybe she should have left a note in Norbridge’s room; she wondered if the batteries in the flashlight would hold out; she wondered if it would get even colder the deeper she went, because she was already very cold and her frosty breath came like heavy steam from her mouth and nose. She tried not to think about Freddy, either, and hoped he was being taken care of and was not injured badly. Most of all she tried not to let the fear inside herself take over, even though she thought that at any moment she might turn a corner and see Elana or Selena or—worst of all—Gracella Winters staring at her from the gloom of a long passageway.

  “They can’t scare me,” Elizabeth said, recalling the words that had sustained her through so many of the troubles last year. “They can’t scare me.”

  After two more turns—and after making marks on the wall at each—she stopped and listened. The humming noise had grown louder. She shined the beam of her flashlight along the wall beside her, and then ran her hand over it—it was smooth and white, plaster that hadn’t crumbled or spotted over the many years. She pulled her sweater closer to her, although it didn’t feel like the temperature had changed. There was something she was trying to remember from one of her classes at school about how maybe, because she was now deep underground, the air wouldn’t get any colder than it already was. She listened, turned her head left and right; the humming noise to the left was slightly louder, and she resumed walking in that direction.

  When she made the next turn to the left, the plaster walls of the passageway stopped abruptly, and Elizabeth stepped into a rock-sided chamber.

  I’m in the mine, she thought. She aimed the flashlight at her feet—dirt and gravel covered the ground, and she kicked at a pebble and heard it echo eerily upon the walls. The air smelled musty, tinged with something metallic. The humming noise was louder; everything around her grew darker, loomed over her more ominously.

  “I will not be afraid,” she said, and as she stood she thought she heard a voice from far off. She listened, tense with concentration. But after hearing nothing more despite standing for at least a minute, she felt sure it had all just been her imagination, and she continued onward through the tunnel of the mine.

  At the next turn, as she listened to determine which direction to walk, she stopped and considered a chilling thought: If a person didn’t know exactly which route to travel, it would be a simple matter to get lost in here forever among the scores of passageways. She shuddered to think of what it would be like to wander lost in the mine, alone in the cold and the dark.

  The humming sound grew; Elizabeth shook off her gloomy thoughts and considered: If it’s true that I’m the only one who can hear the humming, then maybe anyone else would just get lost down here in all the tunnels. She continued onward, and because the ink of her pen didn’t show up on the dark walls, she made a small pile of pebbles at each corner to mark her wa
y.

  The charm seems such a common thing, she thought. In form as simple as a ring. The words of the rhyme had been echoing in her head since she’d stepped through the doorway. What could those lines mean? she thought. Is the charm a ring, or does it just look like a ring?

  Its might is all but hidden till / It sees itself in glass you fill. The lines she’d discovered on the first three doors had been strange enough, but she’d believed that when she found the final door, the poem would become clear. This hadn’t proved true, and as she walked and held the flashlight before her, she kept thinking of the rhyme and tried to make sense of it.

  Then alters to an object strong / Its power used for right or wrong.

  Does that mean the charm turns into something else? Elizabeth thought.

  The holder, heeding silent voice / Alone must make the fateful choice.

  And then the person who has it has to decide what to do with it? she thought. Maybe, she considered, once she found the charm—whatever it was—everything would become clear. Now, though, with the buzzing in her ears and the gloomy walls of the mine all around, disturbing thoughts came to her: What if, despite how oddly Mrs. Vesper—or, rather, Selena Hiems—had expressed herself in the café a few days before, there was some merit to her words? What if the charm, the power of the charm, was something that ought to be not only discovered but used? What if it ought to be controlled, even possessed—and by Elizabeth herself?

  She was the heir to Winterhouse, most likely the only one who had the ability—the right—to find the charm, and so what would be wrong in keeping it for herself to use for her own ends? Maybe Selena, despite her evil ways, was correct: Power was something to cultivate. How often had she felt powerless at Winterhouse when she was certain she was on the path of something important? How often had Norbridge tried to lead her away from pursuing a trail of clues, not just this year but the year before, too? He might mean well, but the fact was he so often became overly cautious, even disregarding—and this bothered Elizabeth. It made her feel that even though she had escaped her aunt and uncle, she was still only a girl who didn’t have much to contribute to the adult world, couldn’t be taken seriously because she was so inexperienced. Even in the library, where she’d been eager to learn and contribute, she felt inept half the time, and Leona had kept sending her to the office and out of the way, where she couldn’t mess anything up. Maybe the charm was what Elizabeth needed. It would be just the thing to finally confer upon her the assurance that she was capable and accomplished.