by Dan Poblocki
Leaping to the front of the group, Poppy cried, “In here!” She swung the door inward, catching a glimpse of the space while everyone piled past her into the room. Then she shoved the door closed, turning the bolt to lock it.
Footfalls continued to ring out from the other side of the door, closer now, closer, followed by the moans and groans, screeches and rattling of the Specials, who were approaching faster than wildfire.
Stepping back to catch her breath, Poppy scanned the room. Think, Poppy! Thick curtains were drawn shut over several windows. Amber light emanated from two small crystal chandeliers that hung from the arched ceiling on opposite ends of the space—one in front of a wall of books, the other before a fireplace. In the corner were half a dozen musical instruments propped up on black metal stands. There were heavy chairs and tables just like she’d seen throughout the rest of the house scattered around the room.
If we can’t find a way out of the house yet, we need to make a safe place inside it, she thought.
“We need to build a barricade,” Poppy announced. She felt like Meg Murry from A Wrinkle in Time, saving her brother, Charles Wallace. “Bring anything heavy. And hurry!”
Marcus spun in place, carefully scanning what was available.
The twins practically attacked a substantial leather chair, dragging it to the door.
“Marcus!” Poppy called out as she made her way to a weighty desk. “Help me with this.” She and Marcus shoved it up against the door. Azumi carried several piles of books as the twins went back for a small table made of dense wood. “Hand those to me,” said Poppy, and then dropped the heavy books inside the desk drawers.
The twins’ table wobbled as they lifted it atop the desk. Marcus grabbed a leg to keep it steady. “I’ve got it.” Twisting it, the boys pushed it underneath the lip of the door frame.
“Give it a shove,” said Dash.
Boom! Boom! Boom! The Specials had arrived. They began to pound on the door from the outside as the group stacked up everything in the room against it.
“Put that there,” said Poppy as Azumi came lugging over a wide ceramic container with a potted palm sprouting from its center. The girls sat the plant on the leather chair’s seat.
The pounding at the door grew stronger. The barricade shivered.
Azumi and Dylan stared at the barricade as if they could will it to hold. Marcus wandered into the corner of the room, examining the musical instruments Poppy had seen when she’d entered the space.
Poppy looked around again, wondering if there were any other doors that needed to be reinforced, checking all sides of the room, remembering what Dash had said earlier. Poppy’s had a lot of good ideas. She blushed again. And that’s when she noticed it—a large painting in a gilt frame. Almost four feet tall, it hung over the marble fireplace at the far end of the room, near the spot where the heavy desk had been. Poppy blinked, certain that her eyes were deceiving her, that her exhausted brain was playing tricks on her.
It was a portrait of a girl dressed in old-fashioned clothes and a flower pendant hanging from her neck. The painting’s details were remarkably lifelike. But it wasn’t the clothing or the skill of the artist that had captured Poppy’s attention—it was the girl herself. Wide golden eyes. Pale skin that made the girl’s brown hair, which was pulled behind her ears, even darker by contrast.
No longer trapped in a mirror, the Girl was staring at Poppy once more.
This was her Girl.
She seemed to watch as Poppy approached.
A small brass plaque had been screwed into the metal at the bottom of the frame. Engraved there was a name: Consolida Caldwell—Beloved Daughter and Sister. When Poppy read it, she released a yelp that sounded around the room.
A hand grasped her shoulder, and Poppy jumped. Turning, she found Dash standing behind her. “What is it?” he whispered.
She pointed at the plaque at the bottom of the frame. “This is the Girl. My Girl. From the mirrors.”
“She has your name too?”
Poppy nodded.
Dash stepped closer to the fireplace mantel. “The painting is signed by someone named Frederick Caldwell. Who’s he?”
“Her father? Her brother? I don’t—” Boom! Boom! Boom! The pounding at the door rose in volume and strength, shaking the room.
Dash stared at Poppy in desperation, as if her answer would save them from all the trouble they were in. But she didn’t have any ideas.
“I don’t know!” Poppy cried. “All I know is that if we don’t find somewhere safe to hide, and soon, I might actually lose it.” Her bottom lip began to tremble, and she bit down on it until it hurt.
SOMETHING ABOUT THE instruments in the corner had mesmerized Marcus, and it wasn’t just the idea that he’d finally located an actual “music room” in this mad place. Somewhere far away, the Musician’s melody, “Larkspur’s Theme,” began to echo again.
Boom! Boom! Boom! The furniture at the door shivered slightly. Marcus knew he needed to do something to help everyone here. And quickly.
The last time he’d felt safe had been in the ballroom while playing the piano. The music had provided that serenity. It had protected him, a barrier to keep bad things away.
Marcus couldn’t decide what instrument to pick up first. There was a delicate violin, an antique cello, a guitar, a harp, an oboe. And finally, sitting against the wall of bookshelves was a baby grand piano, the twin of the one he’d played downstairs. Its lid was raised, its strings gleaming in the light that fell from the chandeliers.
The tune in his head grew louder, as if the Musician were begging Marcus to let it out. The ivory pieces almost grinned at him as he sat down at the bench. Then, inhaling sharply, Marcus began to play.
The banging at the door faded to a rattle. Poppy, Dash, and Dylan turned to look at him, while Azumi continued to hold herself against the barricade, as if it would break without her help.
Finally, Marcus had an audience. And he found that he liked it.
“Marcus,” said Dash, “whatever you’re doing, it’s working.”
“It’s the same song you were playing when we found you in the ballroom downstairs,” said Poppy quietly. “It’s like a … a spell.” Marcus closed his eyes, remembering how he’d sneered at Poppy when she’d mentioned the girl she’d seen in her mirrors. Was the Musician’s tune really so different from Poppy’s visions? Of course it wasn’t. And now Marcus couldn’t look at Poppy without wishing he could take everything back.
As the music echoed off the walls and high ceiling, Marcus found himself surrounded by memories again. Visions of happy family dinners. His oldest brother Isaac’s tearful apologies for messing with his instruments. Finding time alone in the house after school to rehearse without worrying about his mother’s response. He felt safe. He felt like he was home. And he knew the others could feel it too.
BLOOD WAS RUSHING through Dash’s head. The room seemed to throb with the rhythm of his heartbeat, like an echo of the banging that had disappeared from behind the door, and his skin felt like it was on fire. Poppy stood with Azumi at the other end of the barricade, transfixed by Marcus’s melody, oblivious to Dash’s sudden affliction. Something was wrong—more wrong even than being trapped in this insane building.
Dylan was right beside him, staring into nothing, but Dash suddenly felt like they were miles apart from each other. He blinked, and the past rushed at him. A memory as vivid as a dream.
The dressing room is dark. Dylan is at the door, soaking wet, reaching for the lamp. Everything is about to change, and it’s going to be my fault.
I’m so sorry, Dylan. I’m so, so sorry.
Dash shook the images away. Coming back into himself, he took his brother’s elbow. But Dylan didn’t seem to notice. After a moment, Dash shook his brother’s arm. Still nothing. “Dylan?” he asked. “Are you okay?” When Dylan still didn’t answer, Dash turned him like a rag doll so they were face-to-face.
But Dylan wasn’t there. His eyes were blank,
his jaw slack. And then Dash knew—whatever Marcus’s music was doing to this room, whatever protection the tune was offering, whatever it was that had driven away the Specials, was affecting Dylan too. But how? Why?
“Dylan! Dylan, can you hear me?”
Dylan’s eyes focused slightly, zeroing in on Dash’s face. Then tears welled up on his lower lids.
“What’s wrong?” asked Dash. “What is it?”
Dylan opened his mouth as if to say something. “You … you … ” Saliva clicked in the back of his throat. “You … were … there … ”
Dylan’s mouth went wide in a silent scream.
Opening his eyes, Marcus blinked away tears and looked down at his hands, still moving across the keys, hammers hitting the strings that vibrated the air around him. Sounds of a scuffle came from the doorway, but he knew he had to focus on the music.
To his surprise, Marcus heard another instrument chime in—the high hum of a violin beginning to accompany the piano. At first Marcus thought it was only in his head, but then he glanced across the room; the violin was hovering in the air, its bow slowly sliding across the strings. Marcus nearly fell off the bench, but he steadied himself, not daring to pause, hoping that his momentary break in concentration wouldn’t end whatever enchantment seemed to have blessed this space. The atmosphere around the violin shimmered, as if someone invisible to ordinary human perception was standing there playing it. The violin’s high voice swooped and swirled, not matching the tune of the piano but adding something to it that made the melody even more hypnotic and lovely. Soon, it was joined by several other instruments. Marcus watched in awe as the guitar leaned forward and began to play by itself, followed by the cello and the flute.
The music swelled as a boy materialized, the conductor of this magical orchestration. He glanced at Marcus and then turned back to the instruments. He lifted his hands and the instruments almost seemed to nod at him. Marcus recognized the boy’s red curls, his deep brown eyes. It was his uncle, Shane. It was the Musician. Of course. He felt a surge of love for this person, whom he’d never met and yet had always known. They didn’t need to speak. This music was their conversation. It always had been.
“Marcus!” Poppy called out from across the room. Was she kneeling on the floor beside Azumi? “Who is that?”
“Don’t worry,” said Marcus, raising his voice over the music. “He’s a friend.”
THOUGH POPPY WAS worried about Azumi, who was looking blankly on the floor at her knees, she couldn’t peel her gaze away from the strange figure that had appeared by the piano—a redheaded boy who looked, if not exactly like Marcus, then at least like a close relation. Where had he come from?
Poppy shook her head. She felt the same sense she’d gotten whenever she’d seen the Girl in the mirror. Marcus looked happy to be playing with him, as if he’d known this boy for a long, long time.
He’d called her crazy.
Crazy!
He must have known she was telling the truth about the Girl. He’d known, but he’d still made her feel … wrong. Wrong about herself. Wrong about her own story.
A flash of rage rushed over Poppy’s skin, a hot wave that pushed away the chill of fear in the house. She wanted to rush across the room and knock Marcus from the bench, throttle him. But before she could even move, she heard a deep rumble of laughter. She looked around for a moment before realizing that the laughter had come from inside her head.
Poppy knew: Something very bad was about to happen.
THERE WAS A loud crack, and the piano trembled. Marcus nearly jumped out of his skin. He forced himself to continue playing, but several of the piano keys went mute. Peering into the body of the instrument, he could see snapped strings, their hammers hitting only air.
His uncle’s tune was suddenly missing part of its register, and to Marcus, it was as jarring as if he’d just witnessed someone lose a limb.
One by one, the silver keys of the flute snapped away from the body, clattering to the floor until it could only yelp out a flat whistle.
Shane vanished, and Marcus screamed. “No!”
There was another shocking SPROING as eight more of the piano’s strings broke, silencing another octave, weakening the strength of the melody.
From a few feet away, there came a shattering smash. The string section of the concerto was eradicated. The violin and the guitar lay on the floor in wooden slivers, as if they’d exploded.
A wave of nausea swelled from Marcus’s stomach and knocked at the top of his head. That feeling of safety that had come from his uncle’s music was quickly disappearing. Something in the house, in the room, was determined to send the music away, to stop the good memories, to frighten him. He closed his eyes, trying to picture his uncle’s face again, but all he could see now was black.
Across from the piano, the shimmering spots that had surrounded the instruments were disappearing, replaced now by the oddly visible notion of stillness and quiet.
The only instrument that continued to accompany him was the cello—its melody began to stretch and strain, losing pitch, as though someone were wrenching the tuning brackets this way and that. Then, with a finality that was almost painful, the last strings on the piano and cello snapped. All that was left of the music now was a distorted echo.
Movement by the portrait of Poppy’s girl caught his eye. Dirt and dust fell from the chimney.
Poppy and Dash were staring at the instruments from the barricade by the door. Azumi was lying on the floor, lifting her head as if coming back to consciousness. And Dylan stood wide-eyed, frozen, as if in shock.
Then two figures dropped from the chimney. Dust dissipated as the figures slowly stood up, revealing their masks. The music had stopped, and the dog and the cat had found their way in.
“WHERE AM I?” Azumi asked, color returning to her cheeks.
“You fainted,” said Poppy. “You’ll be okay. We just have to move away from here. Like, now.”
“What’s going on?” Azumi turned to see Matilda and Randolph stepping slowly away from the fireplace, toward the group.
Dash helped her to her feet. The trio gathered around Dylan and then backed away from the intruders, staying along the wall for safety.
Poppy’s mind rushed through the events of the past hour. Back at the elevator, Matilda had been lucid for a moment, as if she’d regained her sense of self. Maybe, Poppy thought, if I talk to her now, she’ll answer me.
“Matilda—” she began, but the girl in the cat mask threw back her head and shrieked, as if hearing that name pierced her like an ice pick through the forehead.
The group hurried away from the two orphans, quickly meeting Marcus at the wall of bookshelves at the opposite end of the room.
Poppy squeezed her eyes shut, trying to reason out what exactly had happened in the elevator. You came, Matilda had said. You actually came. There was a tussle and then … Poppy had yanked off the stupid cat mask.
That was it. The mask! The orphanage director had written it himself in the SPECIALS file: The masks remove the children’s identities. What if they only needed to recognize one another, to share their true selves? To forge a connection, like Poppy had done with her Girl whenever she’d looked in mirrors?
Poppy blinked.
The Specials were now only a few strides from the group. Randolph, the dog, the music prodigy, carried his smashed violin. He dragged its battered body along the ground behind him, where it bounced and skittered, its strings squealing as they twisted and rubbed against one another. Matilda, the cat, held one of her ruined dolls by its matted hair, as if she intended to bludgeon someone with it.
The pounding noise at the barricaded door started up again. Now that the house, or something, had stopped Marcus’s music from playing, the other orphans had returned.
“We have to take off their masks!” yelled Poppy.
Dylan pressed his head firmly against the stacks of shelves behind him, gasping for breath.
The two Specials lunged for
ward.
THE GIRL IN the cat mask came at Dash, scratching at his arms, his neck, his torso. He howled at her cold, sharp touch, trying to bat her away, but she was too strong. “Help!” he called out to Dylan, but Dylan was still weak from whatever had happened to him by the doorway.
A trilling of notes sounded nearby, shocking everyone out of the struggle.
Turning, Dash saw that Marcus was beside him, blowing into a harmonica—Where did Marcus get a harmonica?—performing the same tune that he and the ghostly young conductor had played several minutes ago.
The orphans began backing away from the group. They held their hands to their ears, as if this new noise was painful to them.
This song filled Dash with a sense of warmth and calm, but Dylan was squirming, as if in discomfort. Azumi sat hunched over him. Was she trying to help him somehow? “Dylan, what’s wrong?” Dash screamed.
“Now!” said Poppy at the same time. “Grab them!” She leapt toward the masked pair.
Poppy flailed with Matilda, their arms locked around each other’s necks. “Dash! Please! Help me!” Poppy’s fingers strained toward the edge of the cat mask. Randolph sprang toward them.
Adrenaline flashed through Dash’s system. He leapt to his feet, taking the dog boy by surprise. “Got you!” he yelled, and ripped off the mask.
Everything stopped. Slowed. Even the dust went still. It was as if the entire house was listening to the drawl of Marcus’s harmonica. Matilda and Randolph’s masks were on the ground, torn.
Matilda and Randolph straightened, their jaws slack in disbelief. Their eyes were wide with hope and fear, glistening with what Dash could only think of as life.