In the Shadows

by Kiersten White

  Story (art and text) compilation copyright © 2014

  by Jim Di Bartolo and Kiersten Brazier

  Artwork copyright © 2014 by Jim Di Bartolo

  Text copyright © 2014 by Kiersten Brazier

  All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint

  of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC,

  SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/

  or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American

  Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse

  engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information

  storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

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  invented, without the express written permission of the

  publisher. For information regarding permission, write to

  Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557

  Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-56145-7

  First edition, May 2014

  The text type was set in Adobe Garamond Pro.

  Book design by Christopher Stengel

  For Elena, Jonah, and Ezra —

  my life, my joy, my three

  little wonders.

  And for Jim, for excelling at

  ears (and everything else).

  — KW

  First and always to my wife,

  Laini. My muse. Thank you for

  all the happy. Until the stars

  burn out, and then beyond . . .

  but it still wouldn’t be enough.

  To Clementine. Thanks for

  the silly. May your life and joy

  know no bounds.

  To Jane, my dream-maker. And

  Kiersten, a talent to behold.

  — JD

  one

  T

  HE WORLD SWAYED BENEATH CORA. She leaned her cheek

  against the tree’s rough bark, overcome with a dizzy wash

  of vertigo that wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

  She was in the witch’s tree.

  Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself higher through the

  branches. When her straw hat got in her way, she tossed it toward

  the ground to wait beside her shoes, stockings, and garters. Once

  she’d gone as far as she safely could, she wrapped an arm around the

  trunk and leaned out, letting the sun play on her face between

  the broad oak leaves. The smell of green overpowered the heavy

  salt scent of the ocean, and she could just make out the cross from

  the church and the distant top of the lighthouse.

  Minnie and the O’Connell boys hovered at the bottom of the

  hill, afraid to even set foot on the line that marked the witch’s

  property. Cora was fifteen, far too old for climbing trees, but now

  she had done something her sister never would. Their summer-

  long series of dares had escalated to this, and Cora knew she’d

  won. She waved a hand and crowed wildly, flush with her own

  triumph.

  In response, Minnie’s face went white with terror, and the

  boys yelped and turned tail, fleeing into the woods.

  Cora slowly turned her head. She’d come level with the second

  story of the house, where a single round window looked out like a

  dark eye.

  The witch was standing behind it, staring right at her. Pale

  face expressionless, she raised a hand and put it against the glass,

  fingers splayed wide.

  At that very same moment, a bird flung itself at Cora, a

  cacophony of feathers and screeching. As she raised her hands to

  protect her face, Cora’s feet lost their hold.

  Before she realized she was falling, everything went black.

  Cora awoke to blinding pain, contrasted by a cool hand at her

  forehead.

  A sweet voice hummed an off-key tune, and Cora peeled

  her eyes open to see a dim, curtained room lit by pillared candles.

  The walls were lined with stacks and stacks of books, so many that

  she couldn’t make out the pattern on the wallpaper behind them.

  She was lying on a stiff sofa. Next to her was a woman, hair

  dark around her face but gradually lightening to blond at the end

  of a braid draped across her knees with the sleek twist of a snake.

  She wore merely a slip, no corset or stays or even drawers. A neck-

  lace with a dark green beetle charm nestled in the sharp hollow of

  her collarbone. The woman’s eyes drifted down and then locked

  onto Cora’s. A heartbeat too late, Cora thought to squeeze them

  shut again and play at being asleep. Sleep had been safe.

  Once caught, Cora could not look away from the black depths

  of the witch’s eyes. She was in the Witch of Barley Hill’s house. No

  one — no one — had ever been inside.

  The witch smiled, but it was disconnected, like her mouth and

  eyes had forgotten how to speak to each other. “Hello, little bird.

  You fell out of your nest.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cora whispered. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “You don’t need me for that, do you?” The witch’s grin wid-

  ened to reveal teeth that looked impossibly old and yellowed in her

  unlined face. “People are very good at hurting themselves. I never

  have to do a thing.” She held up her fingers, which were dark with

  something.

  Blood.

  Screaming, Cora scrambled back along the sofa, falling heav-

  ily to the floor and knocking over a stack of books in an avalanche

  of dust and paper. As she lunged up and ran for the door, the

  witch’s voice came soft but inescapable behind her.

  “No need to fear death, my dear. It’s already at your door. Bet-

  ter to be caught than to run forever.”

  Cora’s sweat-slick hands fumbled, finally turning the door-

  knob. She fled into the sunshine, the cold sorrow of the witch’s

  voice clinging to her shoulders. Minnie, a knife clutched in her

  hand, was already halfway up the walk.

  “Go!” Cora yelled, and, arms wrapped around each other, they

  stumbled back home, breathless and weeping with terror.

  The next morning their father was dead.

  Maine

  End of Summer, 1900

  two

  T

  HE CASE IN ARTHUR'S HAND HELD ALL THE EVIL IN THE

  WORLD. He could almost feel darkness and death swirling

  off it.

  Walking from the train station to the Johnson Boarding

  House took far less time than he had wanted it to. Once he finished

  this, once he delivered what he had been given, he would have

  nothing left. No one. Nowhere to go.

  Maybe that was best. He was tired down to his bones,

  exhausted and weary like a seventeen-year-old wearing an old

  man’s body.

  Arthur had scarcely dropped his hand from knocking when

  the door was flung open and he was greeted by a woman, every-

  thing about her soft and curled and warm. Her cheerful expression

  died in the breath o
f time it took for Mrs. Johnson to realize

  exactly who it was he reminded her of. She let out a whoosh of

  breath, collapsing beneath it, suddenly diminished.

  “You must be Arthur.” Her eyes searched his face as though

  she could make him look like someone else. Anyone else.

  He couldn’t blame her.

  His own smile felt like a guilty lie on his face, tight and itchy as

  a sunburn. “I am. I have a letter for you.” He dropped his case and

  pulled the resealed letter out of his suit jacket pocket.

  A letter for Mrs. Johnson, he thought. Accursed items for Mr.

  Johnson. Nothing for me.

  Mrs. Johnson took it, her palm sinking beneath the weight of

  unread words. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  Arthur wanted to go inside. He felt exposed, standing alone

  on the porch. Maybe she wouldn’t let him in. He wouldn’t blame

  her. Maybe if she let him in, he’d immediately slip out the back

  and keep going, keep traveling, keep hiding.

  He thought of his mother. Her pale, cold toes.

  “Yes, she died last week.”

  He was unprepared for Mrs. Johnson to wrap her arms around

  him, trapping his arms at his sides and pulling him close. She

  smelled like flour and brown sugar.

  What mothers are supposed to smell like.

  His had always smelled of smoke and fear. The latter was her

  gift to him, his only inheritance. Her fear had chased her to the

  end of a rope. Arthur kept his fear at an angle, tucked it around

  himself. It was his friend, his constant companion.

  Mrs. Johnson’s white cotton cap rested against his chin and

  he didn’t know what to do, how to move, how to accept this.

  He’d been uncomfortable in his body ever since he’d begun to

  outgrow the adults around him. Being a small boy had been eas-

  ier. Quicker. There’d been more places to slip through, more

  places to hide. His mother had chided him for growing straight

  and tall, so he’d cultivated a talent for making other people’s

  eyes slide past him. But how could he be unnoticed while being

  embraced?

  Sniffling, Mrs. Johnson pulled back, keeping her hands on his

  arms and looking up into his eyes. Her face rearranged itself into

  a determined warmth. “Well, then. Come in. I’ll make something

  for you to eat while I read this, and then we’ll get you settled.”

  “Where is Mr. Johnson?” Arthur asked, nervously pulling on

  his tie, trying to tuck it into his vest, though both were too small.

  He wanted to leave. This town was beautiful, homes and a main

  street idyllically curled around the bay like a sleeping cat. But

  Arthur knew better. This was one of the bad places. One of the

  

  worst. His mother’s voice whispered frantically in the back of his

  head, telling him to run, run, run.

  Mrs. Johnson’s expression deepened in its determination, more

  an act of will than anything else. “Mr. Johnson’s been dead going

  on a year now. Come in, dear.”

  Arthur’s shoulders collapsed. The case at his feet had no home.

  There was no one to pass it along to, no one left to inherit the curse

  of knowledge that had orphaned him. He drifted inside, pulled in

  the flour-wake of Mrs. Johnson’s path. He was not free of it, then.

  And, even worse, now he had no path, nothing to keep him going,

  no goal.

  Everything hurt much, much more.

  “Make yourself comfortable, dear. I won’t be a few minutes.”

  Mrs. Johnson’s assured steps into the kitchen were a well-masked

  retreat, and he wondered at how careful she was to hide what she

  was really feeling. Was she trying to protect him?

  Hopeless.

  The room he was in had two sofas, light blue with lace doilies

  on the arms, and a table between them. He didn’t want to sit. His

  hand hovered over the case. He’d leave.

  “. . . will not make excuses for you again! If you don’t do your

  own chores, so help me, I’ll —”

  Two teen girls, nearly mirror images of each other, stumbled

  to a shocked stop after entering the room. Both gaped at him.

  The taller of the two wore her dress with an apron pinned

  precisely in front. Her face was round, her dark eyes solemn and

  piercing over a button nose and full lips. Everything about her was

  neat and marble, save a single curl that had escaped her cotton cap.

  The shorter girl took nearly the same features and managed to

  look wild and fey. Her cheeks were pink and flushed, her eyes

  bright with mischief, her blouse untucked from her skirt. One

  stocking bunched around the top of her scuffed black shoe. Her

  hair, however, was perfectly pinned back beneath a blue ribbon.

  “Who are you?” the shorter girl asked, chin tipped up and eyes

  narrowed in consideration. Arthur felt as though he were being

  read like a book, and wondered whether this girl would like his

  story. It was not a story he particularly liked.

  “Minnie!” the other girl hissed, before turning back to him.

  “Hello. I’m Miss Johnson, and this is my sister.”

  The door to the kitchen banged open, held by Mrs.

  Johnson’s hip as she balanced a tray. Without being asked, the

  taller girl rushed forward, taking the tea service. Minnie stayed

  where she was, her eyes never leaving their increasingly delighted

  study of Arthur.

  “These are my daughters,” Mrs. Johnson said, setting a plate

  of rolls and gravy on the low table in the middle of the room.

  “Cora, my eldest, and Minnie.”

  Cora smiled sweetly. Minnie went cross-eyed, then looked

  smugly at Cora to see her reaction.

  “Girls, this is Arthur. He’s family, and will be staying with

  us now.”

  Arthur didn’t know who was more shocked, the girls or him-

  self. “I —” he started, but Mrs. Johnson shot him a look that

  brooked no argument. He couldn’t correct her, not now. He’d slip

  out tonight, into the darkness and shadows.

  “Cora will show you the attic room when you’ve finished eat-

  ing. We’re very glad you’re here. It will be nice to have a man in the

  house again.” A tremor in her voice was the only indication that

  anything was wrong. That, and the way she looked just to the side

  of Arthur’s face as she spoke, never making full eye contact.

  Wiping her hands on her apron, she nodded and went back

  into the kitchen.

  Minnie clapped her hands in delight. “Are you a cousin? I’ve

  always wanted a handsome cousin!”

  Arthur shook his head, noticing a framed photograph hanging

  on the wall. “I don’t think I am.”

  “A cousin, or handsome? Because you are certainly handsome,

  even if you aren’t a cousin.” Minnie’s impish expression was

  knocked away by Cora’s elbow digging into her ribs.

  Wanting to escape Minnie’s energetic attention, Arthur

  walked forward, looking at the sepia-captured face of the man

  who was supposed to inherit his secrets. Out of his reach forever.

  “I am sorry about your father’s death.”

  “Did you know him?” Cora asked quietly.
/>
  “Yes.” Arthur’s voice matched her whisper. Mr. Johnson had

  been the one constant of his childhood. Wherever they were, he

  found them, brought food and money. He’d been the only thing

  that ever felt safe, the only man his mother trusted after his father

  disappeared.

  Cora and Minnie shared a look heavy with questions and the

  conclusions they were jumping to. Primly clearing her throat,

  Cora asked, “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “So you were born before our parents got married,” Minnie

  said, raising her eyebrows pointedly at Cora, as though demand-

  ing Cora ask the question they both wanted answered.

  Arthur opened his mouth to correct them, but the truth felt

  too twisted. A part of him was deeply hurt by Mr. Johnson’s

  absence when Arthur needed him most.

  Let the girls think poorly of their father. I’m not staying, anyway.

  Sensing that no explanation would be forthcoming, Cora

  leaned forward to grab the case. “I’ll take your things up to your

  room, then,” she said.

  “No!” Arthur shouted, startling her so much that she dropped

  the bag. “I’m sorry. It’s heavy, is all,” he added, gentle guilt filling

  him. “You don’t have to do anything for me.”

  “I don’t mind,” she assured him, with a genuine friendliness

  that he was deeply unused to.

  For a moment Arthur hated them, hated that they had never

  known evil, had never had to hide.

  But they’ve known loss, he reminded himself.

  Mr. Johnson had left him, but he’d left his family, too. Alone

  and unprotected in this deadly town.

  He watched as Cora carefully picked up his case. Minnie

  looked on, so innocent despite her attempt to look mischievous.

  They have no idea.

  And they have no one to protect them.

  These words came to him in his own voice . . . but he could

  hear Mr. Johnson’s safe haven of a voice underneath.

  Protect them.

  But that would mean staying.

  For as long as it took.

  That night, as the house lay sleeping, he slipped outside and into

  the trees surrounding the cheerful yellow boardinghouse, color