It was a reasonable thought. Unlikely … but more reasonable than the alternative, which was that someone had broken into his room and placed the flute on the bureau for him to find. Although even that wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. His first thought was of Kirk.
But why would he do that?
God, who can explain anything that kid does? Will argued with himself.
Kirk had stolen the flute once before and used it to call the Sirens. Will wondered if Kirk had done that again, and an ugly feeling of dread crept over him. But the seekriegers are dead, he reasoned. I saw them die in the fire on the bay.
Still, Will didn’t like what the presence of the flute might mean. He thought back to the word that had been scrawled on his mirror—FURY. He’d written it off as a trick of the imagination. But the flute wasn’t imaginary. And the dog was definitely not imaginary.
Little by little, the drops were collecting into a pool. Will had a bad feeling that something evil was on the rise. Something connected with Gretchen.
So he sat down on his bed and watched her house. It looked the same as usual. Will didn’t know what he had expected—a dark cloud, an evil presence. It was just an old farmhouse, the porch flecked with falling leaves, a few yellow mums blooming in the front flowerbed. The house comforted him with its sense of usualness.
That was why he stayed there, on the bed, watching the house for the next hour. And it was why he came back to his perch after dinner and watched until darkness fell and the moon rose. He watched until Gretchen’s light went out and the night was broken only by a lamp on the first floor—a sign that Johnny was still awake, working on a song.
Will watched, unsure of what he was watching for. He watched the house beneath the cold, beautiful stars and wouldn’t tear his eyes away, not even to sleep.
He stayed that way for a long time. Finally he remembered that he had some reading to do for school. He dug out the novel and scanned the first page, looking up after every paragraph to check on Gretchen’s house. This half-captured attention made it hard to focus on the text in front of him. The letters didn’t want to add up to words. The more he tried to focus, the more their meaning dissolved before him. Even when he took a single word, agile. Was that even a word? Ag. IIe. A. Gile. Agi. Le. He looked at it, and looked at it, until the alphabet fell apart for him, useless.
Will tossed the book onto his bed and looked out the window, watching the light from Johnny’s window as it lingered, golden, on the small mound of yellow maple leaves beneath the tree outside Gretchen’s window. It was an unfinished pile, one that Johnny must have started and left in a moment of distraction. It wasn’t hard to remember jumping in a pile like that. Playing with Tim, Guernsey barking madly and rolling onto her back, sending yellow leaves into the air with her wild limbs. Will touched the edge of his ancient quilt, missing his dog with a persistent ache. Guernsey had been thirteen when she died. Will and Tim had gotten her as a puppy when Will was five. Almost all of the life he could remember had Guernsey in it.
He remembered picking her out when she was a wiggly puppy, graceless and curious. A friend’s dog had had puppies, and Tim was in charge of choosing the one they took home. Will got to pick the name. Somehow, it was as if naming the dog had bound Guernsey to Will permanently, and she was his dog ever after that. She slept on his bed and followed him through the house. Tim would complain, but even when he scooped up the sleeping puppy and put her on his own bed, she would eventually wake up, hop off, and clamber onto Will’s bed again.
A soft tinkle, like ice fracturing, broke into Will’s thoughts. Then a crash. Raccoons are into something, Will thought, but then he heard a muttered curse. Will looked out the window. A familiar shape was huddled beneath the tree. The shape groaned, then started to sing softly.
There’s no sign of canvas on the blue waves,
You’ll never return home to me.
For the waves beat the shore like a knock at the door,
And all things return to the sea.…
Will’s heart gave a sickening lurch, the tune awakening half-remembered images in his mind. Asia’s green, haunting eyes. Kirk’s voice. Yes, Will had heard this song before. Kirk had sung it once. Will had been with Asia then, and they had listened to the mournful tune, sweet and piercing as grief.
But this wasn’t Kirk’s voice. It was a deep, rumbling bass. A familiar, bearlike growl.
He bolted down the hall, his heart hammering. His mother didn’t look up from the television screen as he passed her room, then hurried down the stairs. Out the back door, out into the yard.
The man looked up at him but didn’t speak.
“Uncle Carl?” Will said gently.
Carl peered at him with bleary eyes. “Dropped my bottle,” he said.
Shattered glass shimmered across the flagstones. The label was facedown, the only thing holding together several shards of glass cut by a spiderweb of cracks. But Will didn’t need to see the label to know what the bottle had contained. He walked over to his uncle and knelt beside him. “Are you okay?” he asked.
Carl held up a hand. A bloody cut ran across his palm. “Tried to pick up some of the pieces.”
“We’ll have to get this cleaned up.” Will’s brain burned with ideas—ways he could get Carl into the house without his parents knowing. Dad threw a total fit when I got a parking ticket. What will he do if he thinks Carl is drinking again?
“I’m sorry, Will,” Carl said, his words thick and slurred, as if his tongue were now a heavy sponge. “I know I’ve made a mess.” He looked at the broken glass, his face distraught.
“It’s okay,” Will told his uncle, although this was a lie. It wasn’t okay. It wasn’t. Will hadn’t seen Carl drink in years. Not even a glass of wine with Thanksgiving dinner.
“Don’t tell your parents.”
“I won’t.”
“They won’t let you ride in the truck with me anymore.”
Carl muttered something unintelligible, then started to sing again. Will cut him off. “What are you even doing here?” he asked as he struggled to help his uncle to his feet.
“Just checking,” was the obscure answer. Carl clearly remembered that they had to be quiet—he was whispering.
Will helped him to the steps that led to the mudroom, which opened into the kitchen. From there, they could get to the downstairs bathroom without passing his parents’ bedroom or his father’s office.
“Checking on what?”
But Carl didn’t answer.
Will trod softly on the wooden steps, but it wasn’t easy when he was half dragging a two-hundred-pound man with him. He watched carefully where he put his feet, and guided Carl toward the mudroom using the outer edges of the boards, which creaked less.
But in the end, it was wasted effort. Mr. Archer was sitting at the table when they walked into the kitchen. His face was a mask of alarm as he set down the glass he had been drinking from. “You’re bleeding,” he said to Carl.
“He cut his hand,” Will explained.
“I cut my hand,” Carl repeated in his thick voice.
“You’re drunk.” Will’s father’s face betrayed no emotion—not surprise, not anger. He turned to Will, and for a moment Will feared that his father was going to accuse him of letting this happen. Instead Mr. Archer just said, “Make some coffee while I get him cleaned up. And be quiet about it. If your mother hears, we’re in deep.”
Will nodded and transferred Carl’s bulk to his father’s steady shoulder.
“I’m sorry, Bert,” Carl slurred. “I don’t know what happened. I was just buying some things at the store, and I don’t even know what made me grab it—”
“Quiet,” his brother told him.
Clearly chastened, Carl clammed up as Mr. Archer led him to the downstairs bathroom. Will opened the freezer and pulled out the ground coffee, then measured the water and set it to brew. He was more than a little surprised by his father’s reaction—concern but not judgment. Will had expected his
father to storm, to scream. That’s what he would have done if Will had ever come home drunk … and Will wasn’t a recovering alcoholic.
When Will was small, he would tell his mother, “I love you with my whole heart.” And his mother would say, “What about Daddy?”
“I have another heart for Daddy,” Will would reply, in complete ignorance of human anatomy. That response always made his mother laugh.
But maybe, somehow, everyone does have different hearts for different people, Will mused. The way his father loved Carl was different from the way he loved Will. Just as the way he loved Will was different from the way he had loved Tim.
Carl and Tim, for some reason, got a more forgiving love. The Mr. Archer they knew was different from Will’s father. Different, but the same.
Pink light stole through his window, and Will woke with a start. He was half covered with a blanket and the lamp on his bedside table had been turned off, and he realized that his mother must have looked into his room on her way down to start the early-morning baking. A glance out the window showed only the unchanged house, which revealed no clue as to Gretchen’s safety.
His father had taken Carl to the hospital to get stitched up. Mr. Archer had come home after two hours, looking grim. “Your uncle’s going to be all right,” he’d said, but Will had to wonder. What made him take a drink in the first place?
The adventure had left Will feeling tired and confused. He’d gone back upstairs to watch Gretchen’s house. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for, but he’d planned to be there all night.
He tossed away the covers, and the flute tumbled out of them. Will’s heart sank. What if Gretchen went sleepwalking again? What if I fell asleep and missed it? What if something …
Cursing himself, he flung himself out of bed and across the room. He dashed down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Gretchen was sitting at the table, drinking from a chipped white mug.
She cocked her head in calm confusion. “Pulling an all-nighter?” she asked, nodding in the direction of Will’s rumpled clothes.
He stopped short and rubbed his face with his hands. Then he sagged, leaning against the counter-top. “I just—thought I was late.”
“You are late.” She smiled and walked over to him. “But not hideously. I was a little early, so I decided to come in and help myself.” She tilted her face to him, and he leaned down, tasting the coffee sweetness on her lips.
The back door flew open, and Will looked up into his uncle’s startled face. Gretchen moved away and took a sip of her coffee as Will scratched at his arm and said, “Hey, Uncle Carl.”
“Hey. Is your dad around?” Carl nodded at Gretchen but skipped his usual cheerful, blustery greeting.
“He’s at the farm stand,” Gretchen said.
Carl nodded again.
“What happened to your hand?” Gretchen asked, indicating the white gauze that rested between his palm and the door.
“Cut it,” Carl said sharply. His chin trembled, as if he wanted to add something, but he just flashed Will an unreadable look and headed out the back door.
“Pretty subdued,” Gretchen said.
“Yeah.” Will could think of a few reasons for that, given his drunken ramblings the night before. But what popped into his mind was Carl saying that he was “just checking.” Checking on what? Will looked up and realized that she was watching him. “I’d better change my shirt.”
“And put on some shoes,” Gretchen agreed. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“Do you—do you want to come with me?” Will blushed as he asked.
“Up to your room?” Gretchen sounded wryly surprised. “Then we’ll never get out of here.”
“I didn’t mean—” Will shook his head. All he’d meant was that he didn’t want to let Gretchen out of his sight. But it did sound suggestive … not that he was opposed to that idea, either. “Okay.” He grinned sheepishly and headed up to his room, alone.
Gretchen is fine, he told himself. She’s fine.
But when he opened the door to his room, the flute was still on his bed.
Chapter Nine
Circe Invidiosa
John William Waterhouse, 1849–1917
Here, Waterhouse achieves brilliant narrative effect with a few telling details. Circe Invidiosa means “envious Circe,” and in this image we see the famous sea witch dripping green poison into the water where the beautiful sea nymph, Scylla, bathes. When sea deity Glaucus confessed his love for Scylla, Circe became filled with jealousy. Her poison turned Scylla into a hideous sea monster, seen here—at the moment of change—below Circe’s feet.
Mafer had asked Gretchen if they could meet at her family’s apartment, which was down the street from the library in Waterbreak. Waterbreak was actually smaller than Walfang but had a tiny movie theater, a few shops, a decent Italian restaurant and an excellent Polish one, and a library.
Mafer lived in a complex of duplex apartments, brick with white trim. The grass was mowed, but a few stray tufts at the edges showed a lack of attention to detail. Every apartment revealed the character of its residents. In front of one, there were two toddler bicycles and a pink striped toy stroller. Another bore a collection of wind chimes that tinkled with crazy merriment as a breeze blew by, tickling them. A third sported a few mums in pots and a fat orange cat, watching Gretchen with calm reserve from its perch in the window.
Somehow Gretchen knew which apartment was Mafer’s even before she saw the brass number beside the door. Bright yellow heliopsis grew in a tall, wild bunch, the yellow blooms falling over each other like friendly, affectionate drunks. An orange and black butterfly sat on a flower, pulsing its wings as if in concentration. Below, a riot of blue Michaelmas daisies carpeted the ground. This apartment was brilliant with color and life and seemed to hold hidden depths, just like Mafer herself.
Beside the door was a cross the size of Gretchen’s hand. It was covered in small tin charms, each one unique: a pair of praying hands, a dancer, a sock. Gretchen rang the doorbell and heard it chime through the apartment. A young boy, about eight, answered the door. He had large black eyes and looked up at Gretchen with excitement. “You’re Mafer’s friend?” he asked, and before Gretchen could answer, he darted off.
Gretchen stepped into the living room, which was cramped despite being uncluttered. There was a tiny blue plaid love seat placed across from an ancient-looking television. A large bookcase, holding framed photos and volumes in both English and Spanish, lined one wall. Gretchen walked over to inspect a photograph of a young woman in uniform. Beside that image was one of the Virgin Mary—again, the frame overlaid with small tin trinkets.
A rustle behind her made Gretchen turn. She had expected to see Mafer, but instead a small woman with gray hair was watching her. Her face was round, her bright eyes watchful and merry.
“Hi,” Gretchen said awkwardly. “I’m Gretchen.”
The woman nodded.
“Are you Mafer’s grandmother?”
A shrug. “Yes.” Perhaps it was just her accent, but her tone of voice communicated perfectly how little she was interested in stating the obvious. It didn’t hurt Gretchen’s feelings, though. On the contrary, it made her want to laugh.
“Is this your daughter?” Gretchen pointed to the photograph.
“She’s in Afghanistan. Third tour of duty.”
“That must be hard for you.”
“We are very proud of her.”
“Of course.”
The old woman narrowed her eyes. She looked deeply into Gretchen’s face. “Y dónde está tu mama, mija?” she asked gently, but in a voice that expected no answer.
Gretchen understood a little Spanish—enough to translate the question. And where is your mother, my dear?
The old woman’s smile chilled her. Not because it held any malice—only because it seemed to know the answer.
Just then Mafer bounded down the stairs, followed by her little brother. The noise broke the spell.
“We’re just going to the library,” Mafer was saying.
“Can’t I come?”
“Ask a friend to come over, Joaquin,” she replied. She touched his hair gently. “Or go outside and play.”
“I’d rather be with you.”
Gretchen wondered how Mafer could resist those big eyes, that adoring gaze.
Mafer gave Joaquin a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be back in two hours. You’ll survive. Keep an eye on Abuelita.”
“You come with me,” Mafer’s grandmother said. “We’re going to make churros.”
Joaquin grinned. “And we won’t make any for Mafer.”
“What?” Mafer screeched in mock horror. “Malcriado! Gretchen, let’s get out of here. Have you met my grandmother? Abuelita, this is Gretchen.”
“Yo conozco esta huérfana,” Abuelita said. “La hija del fuego.”
Silence pulsed through the room. Gretchen felt as if she could hear the sound of her own blood traveling through her veins.
She caught the sideways glance Mafer tried to sneak at her, and felt her friend’s embarrassment.
“What does that mean?” Gretchen asked finally. “Daughter of fire—what do you mean by that?”
Mafer’s grandmother smiled. “You speak Spanish.” She didn’t seem at all surprised, and she didn’t offer any further explanation.
Mafer yanked open the door. “Okay, we’ve got to go,” she said quickly, half shoving Gretchen out the door. When it closed behind them, Gretchen felt as if she had just returned to the real world, leaving a confusing dream on the other side of the wall behind her.
“God—I have no idea why she just said that.” Mafer grabbed Gretchen’s hand as soon as the door was shut behind them. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“She’s a little crazy, my grandmother.”
Gretchen nodded, but she didn’t believe what Mafer said. The older woman’s mind was so sharp it could slice through metal. No, she wasn’t crazy. Not at all. “I’m adopted,” Gretchen said.
Mafer bit her lip. “That only makes it worse.”
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