Long Lost

by Jacqueline West

  Pixie didn’t follow. The dog remained in the doorway, waiting for Hazel.

  Pearl charged from the upper corridor onto the next flight of stairs. She and Hazel had rooms side by side at one end of the third floor. Mrs. Rawlins’s rooms were at the other end of the hall, with a maid’s chamber, storage for their mother’s out-of-season clothes, and a bathroom in between. Pearl had always liked this privacy, the way the sisters’ rooms were their own little realm. But now, the mere sight of her sister’s bedroom door made her angry.

  She had just endured the most terrible night of her entire life, and Hazel was to blame. Yet everyone was concerned for Hazel instead of her. Even Pixie had taken her sister’s side.

  Pearl stormed through her own bedroom door, locking it behind her.

  It wasn’t long before a fresh wave of noise filled the house. The sounds of Mrs. Rawlins scolding, and of Hazel’s replies, first wheedling, then cagy, then stormy, rose all the way to the third floor, along with interjections from Mr. Hobbes and Pixie’s happy barking.

  The quick footsteps of a girl and the skittering paws of a dog pattered up the staircase to the third floor. A door opened and closed.

  There was a moment of quiet.

  Then, following a short, shuffling sound, a voice whispered clearly into Pearl’s room.

  “Pearl? Are you awake?”

  Pearl, lying fully clothed in bed, turned toward it.

  Hazel was speaking to her through their secret channel. Years before, Hazel had stolen a drill from Mr. Hobbes’s tool chest and bored a small hole through the wall between their rooms. On Hazel’s side, the hole was hidden by the edge of a framed picture. On Pearl’s, it was shadowed by a chest of drawers. If there was light on either side, the girls could see straight through, and they could speak clearly without anyone overhearing, even when they’d been banished to their separate rooms.

  Pearl had not turned on her bedroom light. If Hazel peered through the hole, she wouldn’t see much but darkness.

  “Pearl,” Hazel’s voice said again.

  Pearl was still deciding on a reply when Hazel went on.

  “What did you tell Mrs. Rawlins?”

  Pearl sealed her lips.

  “Did you tell her I made you run home by yourself? And did you tell her the Searcher had been chasing you?” Hazel’s voice was mocking, chastising, without any need for an answer. “This is why I told you to wait. Then none of this would have happened. I would have gotten us out of everything, and you wouldn’t have scared yourself with some stupid old story.”

  Pearl swung her legs out of bed and stood up. The bedsprings creaked behind her.

  “Pearl?” Hazel asked.

  But Pearl still didn’t speak. She crossed the room to the secret channel. Planting her feet, she dragged the heavy chest of drawers in front of the hole.

  “Pearl,” said Hazel’s voice. But the voice was small and muffled now. It couldn’t reach her, not well enough to push or pull.

  Pearl crossed back to bed and threw herself down on top of the blankets. In a few minutes, she was asleep.

  A muffled buzz came from Fiona’s backpack.

  She pulled out her phone. How could it be twelve eighteen already?

  About to leave the rink, her mother had texted. See you in front of the library at 12:30.

  Fiona squeezed the back half of the book, feeling how many pages remained. Definitely too many to read in the next ten minutes. And she didn’t have a library card yet. She would have to leave without the book and come back to finish it tomorrow.

  Or, Fiona thought, she could just take the book home. She could slide it into her backpack and smuggle it out without anyone ever knowing. When she’d finished reading it, she would bring it right back, exactly like you were supposed to do with library books—just minus the library card.

  But second thoughts came swift and scary. What if she set off an alarm on the doors? What if the librarian searched her bag in front of all those staring people? What if she was never allowed inside the library again?

  The thought of a library-less life clinched it. Fiona ran her fingers one last time over the book’s soft leather cover. Then, stooping down, she wedged the book onto the end of the very bottom shelf, where hopefully no one else would find it before she came back. It wasn’t like she had misshelved it, Fiona told herself. There was no alphabetizing tag on the book’s spine. There wasn’t even an author’s name on the cover.

  That was a little odd, Fiona realized. But there wasn’t time to wonder about it right now.

  Swinging her backpack over her shoulder, she hurried out of the mystery room and down the stairs to the circulation desk.

  The librarian with the upswirled hair was bending over a stack of returns.

  “Excuse me?” Fiona began.

  The librarian turned. Up close, Fiona could see that her name tag read MS. MIRANDA. “Yes?”

  “Is that your first name or your last name?” It wasn’t the question Fiona had planned to ask, but it slipped out first. This happened to Fiona a lot. Her curiosity tended to bump everything else—caution, politeness, other thoughts—out of the way.

  “It’s my last name.” The librarian gave a little smile. Her face was friendly. Friendly-ish, at least. Up close, the swoops and curls of her hair looked even more like magic to Fiona, who had never mastered a braid that didn’t look like it had been chewed on by a grumpy cat. A small yellow shape was tucked into the curls above the librarian’s ear. When Ms. Miranda stepped toward her, Fiona saw that it was a waving Lego man.

  “Can I help you with something?” Ms. Miranda asked.

  “Um . . . my family just moved here.” Fiona’s phone gave an impatient buzz. “What do I need to do to get a library card?”

  Ms. Miranda’s smile widened. “How old are you?”

  “Eleven.”

  “You’ll need a parent to come in with you. They’ll need ID and proof of your new address. Then we’ll set you up.”

  “Okay.” Fiona whirled toward the doors. “Thank you!”

  She bolted out into the daylight and down the walkway to the waiting car. Behind her, the heavy library doors thumped shut, sealing the thousands of books and all their stories inside.

  Chapter Six

  That evening, back at the creaky colonial house, the Crane family gathered around the dinner table.

  “You’ll take me back to the library tomorrow, right?” Fiona speared a large piece of grilled chicken. “And you’ll bring along your ID and proof of our new address, so we can get library cards?”

  “Yes, Fiona. Like I already promised.” Her mom straightened the pendant of glowing plastic aliens hanging around her neck. Fiona’s mother had a huge collection of weird accessories: furry socks, fuzzy animal necklaces, headbands with glittery cat ears and unicorn horns. She claimed she wore them to entertain her patients, but Arden and Fiona thought their mom just had ridiculous taste. It was one of the shrinking number of things they agreed on.

  Their mom smiled across the table at their dad. “How were your first classes?”

  “Pretty smooth. We took care of all the busywork, looked over the syllabus—”

  “Did you do any dissection yet?” Fiona asked, through a mouthful of rice.

  “No, unfortunately.” Her dad sighed, cutting a precise cube of chicken with the tip of his knife. “How was everybody else’s day?”

  “The drive to the rink feels like nothing,” said Fiona’s mom. “Sixteen minutes! We should have made this move years ago.”

  Fiona stiffened, mid-chew.

  “Hey,” said her dad, seeing the look on her face. “Now that we’re all a little less busy, we could consider getting a dog again. What do you think?”

  “I think yes!” Fiona shouted.

  “I think we could talk about it.” Her mom looked at Fiona, who was stuffing a shrub-sized bite of broccoli into her mouth. “Slow down, Fiona. The digestive system isn’t a garbage disposal.”

  “I’m playing Kon-Struct
with Nick and Bina and Cy at seven,” said Fiona, with full cheeks. “We’re starting a new city.”

  “I don’t understand that game,” Arden spoke up. “What’s the point? It’s just playing with blocks on a screen.”

  Fiona sat up straighter. “No, it isn’t. It’s engineering. And architecture. And it’s the only thing I get to do with my friends now that we live here.”

  “Ew.” Arden’s forehead crinkled. “Keep your broccoli in your mouth once you’ve put it there.”

  “I am,” said Fiona, wiping a fleck of green from her lips.

  “What are your plans for the evening, Arden?” their dad broke in.

  Arden’s eyes brightened as they left Fiona’s face. “Mom and I are going to watch that new dancing competition, Never Before Seen. The one where they have to pick their teams blindfolded, and then rehearse in the dark.”

  “That sounds way stupider than building with blocks on a screen,” said Fiona.

  Arden’s frown slashed back toward her. “No it doesn’t. ‘Stupider’ isn’t even a word.”

  “Yes, it is,” argued Fiona.

  “I’m pretty sure it isn’t,” said their dad thoughtfully.

  “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter.” Their mom reached for the pitcher. “Anyone else need more water?”

  “So, what time can we go to the library?” Fiona asked as her mom refilled her glass. “It opens at nine. I want to be there right away.”

  “I’ve got to be at the clinic by eight thirty,” said her mom. “Steven?”

  “Dad’s taking me to the rink tomorrow morning. Remember?” said Arden, with a sharp look at both parents. “I’m practicing for my next test. Remember?”

  “Right.” Their dad nodded, although he looked slightly surprised.

  “Then who’s going to help me get our library cards?” Fiona asked.

  “Well,” said her dad, “I guess I could take you to the library when I drop Arden off at home and head back to campus, although timing will be pretty tight . . .”

  “But you promised!”

  “I did?” Her dad looked surprised again.

  “No. I did.” Her mom sighed. “We’ll get the library cards, ladybug. It just won’t be first thing in the morning.”

  “But—”

  “Oh my gosh,” Arden interrupted. “It’s a library. It’s not going anywhere.”

  Fiona whirled toward her. “The book I want might go somewhere.”

  “Then pick another book.”

  “Why don’t you pick another practice time?”

  Arden’s face pinched. “I can’t pick another practice time. It isn’t—”

  “Enough,” their mom cut in. “Who needs another piece of chicken?”

  “I’m done,” said Fiona, still frowning at Arden. “Can I be excused?”

  After clearing her plate, Fiona hurried toward the stairs, leaving the sound of her family’s voices behind.

  Even with the hallway lamps shining, the old house was thick with shadows, holding pockets of darkness where light couldn’t reach. The floorboards groaned under her feet.

  Arden’s skating bag hung over the newel post at the bottom of the steps.

  Fiona froze beside it. Making sure no one else was in sight, she reached into the bag and drew out Arden’s left skate.

  Its white leather boot felt stiff and sturdy, nothing like the weathered cover of an old book. A purple skate guard covered the blade. A small knot was tied at the end of its lace.

  Fiona knew why. At Arden’s very first skating competition, the lace in her left boot had been a tiny bit too long. To shorten it, Arden had tied a knot near the end of the lace before soaring onto the ice and earning her first gold medal. Arden had tied a knot in her left lace, for luck, ever since.

  Fiona worked her fingernails into the knot. It unwound, leaving nothing but a kinked spot in the lace. She slid the skate quickly back into the bag.

  A thrill of secret power shot through her.

  She hadn’t really harmed anything, Fiona reassured herself. It’s not like a little bit of knotted string was the key to Arden’s success. Besides, Arden could retie the knot as soon as she noticed that it was undone. And, knowing perfectionist Arden, she would notice.

  That was the whole point. Arden would notice, and she would wonder, and maybe she would worry. Just a tiny bit.

  Smiling to herself, Fiona raced up to her own bedroom. She was just in time to join her friends for some Kon-Struct.

  Chapter Seven

  As it turned out, the next afternoon, her dad got scheduled for a last-minute meeting and could only drop Fiona off at the library walkway. Her mom would have to help her get the library cards when she picked Fiona up. But the irritation Fiona felt about this—and the uncomfortable, prickly feeling that came with the stares of the locals when she burst through the library doors—faded away the minute she reached the mystery room.

  The Lost One was waiting right where she had left it, at the very end of the very bottom shelf. Fiona threw herself down on the brass-tacked rug and flipped through the opening chapters. She would finally learn what happened to Hazel and Pearl, whether the Searcher returned, whether it was Hazel or Pearl who disappeared.

  Her hands twitched with anticipation as they found the right page.

  The day after the carnival departed, a powerful thunderstorm struck the lakeside town.

  Torrents of rain chilled the waters of the lake and pushed frothing waves against the riverbanks. Lightning struck an old oak at the meadow’s edge, sending its split halves crashing to the wet ground. Edmund Crain’s docile old horses spooked in their paddock, kicking down a fence rail and galloping off into the graveyard. And a group of young people who had been camping on the lakeshore fled, shaken and pale, to a local inn. It was not the storm that had rattled them, they insisted. It was the dark, towering figure they had seen watching them from amid the trees.

  Naturally, Hazel and Pearl knew none of this.

  They had spent the day apart, Pearl shut in her bedroom, Hazel rambling the woods, not exchanging a single word. They even took their dinners separately, Pearl with Mrs. Rawlins and Mrs. Fisher, the cook, in the kitchen, Hazel claiming a headache and withdrawing early to her room. By the time Pearl went up to bed, her sister’s room was dark.

  As quietly as she could, Pearl pulled the dresser away from the secret channel. But when she peered through the hole, ready to whisper Hazel’s name, something about the silence on the other side pushed her back again. If Hazel still wouldn’t apologize, Pearl wouldn’t do the peacemaking for her. Fuming, she climbed into her own bed instead.

  A few hours later, when the man and woman of the house returned from the gala in their chauffeured automobile, they found the girls in bed, thunder receding into the distance, and faithful Mrs. Rawlins waiting up for them with a pot of hot tea.

  The grand house settled into silence.

  But outside, on the second floor of the carriage house, young Charlie Hobbes lay awake.

  The clamor of the storm had woken him, and something in the air, something heavy and watchful, refused to let him sleep again. He rolled onto his side to gaze out the window. And there, at the very edge of the lawn, he spied something moving through the trees.

  It was tall; taller than any wild animal that made its home in those parts. Its body was dark and indistinct, and whatever face it had was concealed; by clothing or shadows, Charlie couldn’t tell. It walked like a human, on two legs, and yet there was something inhuman about the scale of its body, the hunch of its head into its shoulders, and the way it moved, twitching, groping, then going perfectly still.

  Charlie’s lungs seemed to freeze.

  He watched, breathless, as the dark shape trailed along the yard’s edge. It halted once more, staring up at the grand house.

  Charlie blinked hard. The dark shape appeared to waver. Where before it had seemed solid, now it looked more like the emptiness between wind-shifted trees. Had his eyes been deceived by a shadow? As
Charlie squinted at it, the shape seemed to dissolve into the woods, swallowed up by the darkness like a wet leaf sinking into a stream.

  Many minutes passed before Charlie moved again. At last, overcome by exhaustion, he sagged back onto the pillow. Come morning, the memory of the dark shape seemed no more important than a dream, though it was one that remained, clear and strange, in his mind.

  That is, until a nightmare took its place.

  Fiona turned to the next chapter with an eager little shiver.

  It was late the next afternoon when Mrs. Rawlins looked up from polishing the silver to glance out the kitchen windows. A serving spoon slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor.

  As she would describe it to everyone later, Mrs. Rawlins’s first thought was that she had seen a ghost.

  The pale, fragile form drifting out from between the trees with trancelike steps and haunted, hollow eyes barely looked alive at all. But as it tottered nearer, Mrs. Rawlins recognized the linen underdress that she herself had hemmed. And finally, beneath its blue pallor and stunned stare, she recognized Pearl’s familiar face.

  Mrs. Rawlins let out a scream.

  The man and woman of the house were out paying calls, but in an instant, Mrs. Rawlins, Mrs. Fisher, and the housemaid had all rushed out onto the back lawn. Mrs. Fisher wrapped Pearl’s bare limbs in a quilt. Mrs. Rawlins shouted for Mr. Hobbes and Charlie to leave the gardens and come quick.

  Pearl was bundled inside.

  The others clustered around as Mrs. Rawlins steered her to an armchair.

  The girl was too cold even to shiver. Her hair hung wet and lank down her back. Mud clung to her shins. Scratches and scrapes covered her bare arms. Her eyes, when they chanced to meet anyone else’s, would stare without focusing, as thoughtless as mirrors.

  “Pearl!” Mrs. Rawlins shouted again and again. She shook the girl’s chilled arm. “What happened? Did you fall into the river? Pearl?”

  But Pearl did not, or could not, answer. Her unseeing eyes drifted past the housekeeper’s face.

  “Mrs. Fisher, run and fetch the doctor,” commanded Mrs. Rawlins. “Pearl, can you hear me? Pearl, what happened to you?”