The House in Poplar Wood

by K. E. Ormsbee

  They were terrible words, but powerful ones. Here, in the wood, as Felix shivered and ached over an errand that was a punishment, he was not afraid to say them out loud.

  If the Agreement could be broken, if a Whipple could be trusted, if the Rites were real . . .

  If.

  If, then everything might change.

  Gretchen gaped at Lee. “What—what did you say?”

  “Essie.” Lee panted. “And Asa. They were friends. And I think . . . um, I think that . . . maybe they were . . . in love.”

  Gretchen blinked. “You’re crazy. Essie and Asa?”

  Powdery bits of snow fell around them, catching on the fringes of Gretchen’s black hair. Lee’s lungs were burning from running so fast and for so long; his stomach was lurching, and his vision was splotched. He reflected that maybe he shouldn’t have run so soon after absorbing another memory.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” Lee admitted, “but I saw it for myself.”

  “How?”

  “I . . . I may have . . . looked at Asa’s memories.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  Lee had not considered how difficult this would be—telling Gretchen about the memories he’d stolen when they belonged to her brother. Still, he tried his best, explaining to her about the broken jar and the memories he had seen and the one remaining jar he had yet to open.

  “And they were planning something,” he finished. “That notebook you found in Hickory Park was Essie’s. She’s the one who wrote down all those Rites.”

  “But,” said Gretchen, who looked very pale, “where did she get them?”

  “She said she bought them from other summoners. She and Asa were using the Rites to ask for something, I’m not sure what. But whatever it was, I think maybe Death killed Essie for it.”

  Gretchen’s face paled further. “The Wishing Stone,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  “Asa told me he did a Rite with Death. He bought a Wishing Stone.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Something that gives you what you wish for. But what were they wishing for, that’s the question. . . . ” Gretchen met Lee’s gaze. “Vickery, I think we’re on to something here. But we’re on a tight schedule. My dad is in his office, so we’ve got to act now. And then I’ve got some news for you.”

  Lee wasn’t sure he would ever breathe right again.

  He was inside the office of Mayor Whipple—the Mayor Whipple—peering out in case the man himself should round the corner. His heart was hammering, filling his ears with a quick thump-thump-thump. He hadn’t been able to catch his breath from the time he’d begun running to the time he told Gretchen about Essie Hasting to the time Gretchen opened her hand and explained to him what a Wishing Stone was.

  “It’ll help us,” she’d said. “It gives you what you wish deep down, and what I wish deep down is to figure out what happened to Essie. And the first step to doing that is to get my dad out of his office.”

  Lee had stared at the stone with far less confidence. “But it’s a rock.”

  “No, it’s the Wishing Stone.”

  “But how did you—”

  Gretchen had raised a hand. “You’re not the only one uncovering juicy secrets, Vickery.”

  That had been the end of that. Gretchen had told Lee he would be the lookout, ensuring that no one came into the office. Then she’d stepped inside the house and set the coal-like stone on the floor, straightened, and closed her eyes. If Lee hadn’t known better, he would have thought Gretchen was praying.

  Then, in one blink, the stone vanished from the floor, and in its place stood a very large dog. It was a light gray Saint Bernard with darker gray spots. Suddenly, the dog took off, lumbering down the hallway. Through the glass doors, Lee heard Gretchen shout, “Dad, quick! There’s a dog in the house!”

  Gretchen ran out of sight, and as she did, Lee noticed a limp in her gait. Only a few seconds later she was back at the door and waving Lee inside.

  “Quick,” she said. “This is it.”

  They ran for her father’s office.

  Now, as Lee stood at the doorway, he could hear the sounds of a commotion from another part of the house—a man shouting, and an older women crying out, and the sounds of objects toppling and glass shattering.

  “Confound it! What in the Sam Hill is this!” shouted Mayor Whipple.

  Even though it was hard enough to breathe, and Lee thought his heart might break from fright, he found himself giggling. The whole thing suddenly struck him as ridiculous. Here he was, helping a Whipple steal from another Whipple, all with the help of a magical Saint Bernard! Lee managed to swallow his laughter as Gretchen opened and shut desk drawers with lightning speed.

  “Any luck?” he whispered.

  That’s when he heard the clinking of metal. Gretchen’s determined face turned radiant, and she held up the key ring.

  But Lee couldn’t breathe just yet. They were only half done.

  He scanned the hallway once more. The commotion now seemed to be coming from right above their heads.

  “Coast is clear,” he said.

  They ran from the office, down the hallway and into the library.

  “Okay,” said Gretchen, approaching the locked-up Book of Rites. “Okay, okay.”

  She grabbed the lock of the glass box and attempted to fit the first of the keys inside. It slid into place but did not turn. Gretchen grunted, wiggled it out, and tried the next. There were at least a dozen keys on the ring. From down the hall, Lee heard the Saint Bernard bark.

  The second key did not work, nor the third. Gretchen swore as she tried the fourth. It fit. And then, it clicked.

  Lee jumped. “You got it?”

  Gretchen slid the lock from its place. She opened the door of the glass box, and as she did, her grin stretched as far as a grin could go.

  “That’s it,” she said, reaching in and—with more tenderness than Lee had expected from Gretchen—removing the Book of Rites.

  There was a crash from down the hall, and a series of playful barks.

  “Come back here, you mongrel!”

  The Wishing-Stone-turned-Saint-Bernard had led Mayor Whipple back downstairs.

  Gretchen’s grin vanished. She dropped the book in Lee’s hands.

  “Go,” she said. “Outside. Wait for me there.”

  “But if your dad—”

  “Go!” Gretchen shoved Lee toward the library door. He glanced back once, to see that Gretchen had yanked another large book from one of the shelves and set it inside the glass case. Any close look would show that the stand-in was most certainly not the Book of Rites, but it would satisfy a passing glance for a couple days. And all they needed was a couple days.

  Lee hurried down the hall, squeezing the book to his chest. When he reached the terrace, at last, Lee breathed in all the way, and, hidden in an alcove, he felt his heart stop pounding quite so loud. He held the book before him. It was old and tattered, made of browned pages, and sat heavy in Lee’s hands. The cover read, in faded gold leaf, Book of Rites.

  If Lee’s apprenticing ancestors could see him now.

  Minutes passed. Lee was too nervous to sit and too petrified to pace. He stood in the dark of the stone alcove, waiting, hoping Gretchen had not been caught. And if she had been, then what? Would she tell Mayor Whipple everything? Would she rat Lee out? Had that been her plan all along?

  The French doors swung open, and Lee froze. What were Vickeries and Whipples supposed to do if they found the other stealing private property? Would Mayor Whipple torture Lee? Lock him up? Lee thought again of the Hatfields and McCoys.

  “Lee?”

  It was Gretchen. She peered around the alcove where he hid, an almost-smile on her face.

  “What’re you doing there?” she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “I got the keys back to his desk, and just then . . . guess what? Dad hollered that the dog had disappeared.”

  “Do Wishing Stones do that?” asked Lee. “Just disapp
ear?”

  “I don’t know,” Gretchen admitted. “All I know is it’s nowhere to be found now—dog or stone. And the house is a wreck. Gram is beside herself, keeps saying it’s the work of anarchists. I guess it’s true that Wishing Stones aren’t what you expect them to be.”

  Lee got a feeling that Gretchen was now speaking to herself and not to him. He held the book out to her.

  “We did it.” Gretchen looked at Lee, the almost-smile growing. “You did good, Vickery.”

  Lee couldn’t help himself. He smiled, all the way. “Yeah, you too . . . Whipple.”

  For some reason, he couldn’t breathe again.

  “We’ve got a lot to talk about,” Gretchen whispered, “but I have got to get back in there. Gram is blowing a gasket, and it’ll look fishy if I’m gone.”

  She shoved the book back into Lee’s chest.

  “What—what’re you doing?” he asked.

  “You keep it safe. No way I can sneak it upstairs now.”

  “But—but—”

  Lee knew there was a good reason for him not to take the Book of Rites, but at the moment that reason wasn’t coming to him.

  “I trust you, Vickery.” Gretchen looked him in the eye. “I can trust you, right?”

  Lee swallowed, speechless. He nodded.

  “Then okay. Keep the book safe, and tomorrow night, eight o’clock sharp, meet me at the bleachers. We’ll make a plan. One that takes into account all this new information.” She pointed a finger in his face. “And don’t you dare double-cross me.”

  Lee watched as Gretchen hurried away, still with that limp in her step, and it was only after she had slipped into the house that the protests filled his mind:

  You can’t expect me, a Vickery, to take the Book of Rites home.

  I don’t want to walk through the dark wood again.

  Make what plan?

  But it was too late to do anything but walk away with the Book of Rites clutched in his arms.

  Felix had still not found the chrysanthemums. It was long past midnight, and he had spent hours in the cold, circling Poplar Wood and casting his lantern light into every nook and burrow, peeling away tangled vines and thorny shrubs without success. The snow had picked up and begun to stick on the night-cooled ground, and Felix had been forced to head back to the house. He did not want to return home empty-handed, but he knew that he would be of even less use if he got lost in this wood and froze to death.

  Felix found the cellar door was shut and latched, a sure sign Death was below, retired for the evening. He crept to his bedroom and set his alarm clock for dawn, when he would find the flowers with the aid of the sun. And maybe by morning, the snow would have stopped.

  “Felix?”

  Felix peered out from his bedroom doorway. Vince stood down the hall, in the kitchen. He looked large there, a hulking outline with no features.

  “I’m going out tomorrow,” Felix said. “I swear, I am. I’ll find them. It just got so dark and cold, and the snow was falling so fast I didn’t think I’d be able to—”

  His father strode toward him, but Felix shrank back.

  “Felix,” Vince whispered. “Are you afraid of me, too?”

  Felix wiped at his raw, running nose. “I thought you’d be mad at me.”

  His father’s arms were suddenly around him, and Felix’s breath caught. Then he closed his eyes and rested his head against a familiar knit sweater. Beneath the warmth, he could hear the faint thrum-thrum of his father’s heart.

  “I can’t stand to see you suffer,” Vince said. “You were right, Felix. This was meant to be my burden. Mine and no one else’s.”

  “Then why did you even have me?”

  Felix discovered that he was crying, and crying hard. The effort pushed out too much breath—gasp after gasp. His father lifted him clean off the ground, into his bedroom, and onto his bed.

  “I’m sorry, Felix,” he said, sitting beside him. “I’m sorry you were born into this life. I thought that with you at least, Death might be kinder.”

  “But he’s not kind at all,” said Felix. “And I’d rather die than be his apprentice, like you. You’re not happy, are you? You hate what he makes you do, I know you do. So what kind of life is that?”

  “It isn’t a life I chose willingly, Felix. I wasn’t even meant to be Death’s apprentice. I wasn’t the firstborn; my brother Jeremiah was. But he passed away when we were young.”

  Felix’s father had never told him this, and Felix suddenly experienced the sort of sick he felt when he had gone too long without eating.

  “How old were you?” he asked.

  “I was six.”

  “How did he—?” Felix swallowed his first question and tried another one. “Were you scared?”

  “Very. And as I grew older, that fear turned to anger. I was angry with my father for signing his own contract. I was angry with my cousins and friends for escaping my fate. I was even angry with my brother for dying. I was a very angry young man. I was until I met a certain girl.”

  The sick feeling grew stronger. “Mom?”

  Vince nodded.

  “You never meant for Lee and me to come along, did you?”

  “I thought that I would be the one to suffer most from the Agreement. I didn’t think through what it would do to you, Felix. Your life has been harder than your brother’s, and it’s bound to get harder still.”

  Felix said nothing. He had always known that his life was the harder one, but hearing that said out loud, spoken by someone else—somehow, that made him feel better. Not a great deal, but it was something.

  “I realized tonight,” said Vince, “I may not be Death, but living under him means that his actions become, in some part, my own. When I stand idly by at his punishments, it’s as good as if I myself threw you into the cellar or sent you out in the dead of night.”

  “But you can’t do anything,” said Felix. “You’re his apprentice, you have to obey him.”

  “I’m a bad man, Felix.”

  Felix looked up at his father. “I don’t think that. What I said earlier . . . I was angry.”

  “No. You were right. The Agreement was painful for me, but it was good, too. It kept what I loved alive. It gave me you. But for you . . . for you it’s only painful.”

  Felix did not know how to reply. “I’m tired,” he said, honestly.

  “Then good night, my boy.” His father kissed him on the forehead and left the room.

  Felix wondered if he should feel sad, or confused, or angry. He thought that perhaps he ought to feel all of those things. But at the moment, the only feeling left in him was exhaustion.

  He fell asleep fully clothed, down to his boots.

  “Chiffon, Jolene! I said chiff-on!”

  It was Thanksgiving Day, and Gram Whipple stood at the foyer balcony, a fearsome thing to behold. Her cotton-white hair was rolled up in curlers, her silk dressing gown sashed in a double-knotted bow. She leaned over the bannister as she yelled, her face contorted into an expression that Gretchen knew very well indeed. Gretchen also knew very well what to do when she encountered that particular expression: stay out of Gram’s way.

  Jolene, the new event coordinator from the mayor’s office, was enduring the full force of Gram, who was on a rampage after discovering that Jolene had ordered tulle and not chiffon for the bannister hangings. Gretchen felt bad for Jolene, but not too bad, because she got to go home at five o’clock, whereas Gretchen would be subjected to at least an hour of Gram’s griping over supper that night. She was already in a particularly foul mood after the havoc the mysterious Saint Bernard had wreaked on the house the night before. The dog had shattered two vases, turned over an antique armoire, and even knocked family portraits from the walls—most notably Gram’s own portrait, painted when she was a young socialite decked in diamonds.

  “It’s a sabotage!” Gram had cried the night before, pacing the parlor as Mayor Whipple spoke to Sheriff Moser on the phone. “Some ruffian broke into our house
and let that horrible creature loose!”

  No one had an explanation for how Mayor Whipple had trapped the dog in the pantry, only to open the door and find it gone. Vanished.

  No one save Gretchen, of course—and Asa. She’d felt his eyes on her as they sat in the parlor, forced to endure Gram’s tirade. Asa knew what the Saint Bernard was and why it had disappeared, and he knew Gretchen had used it on purpose, though he didn’t know why. She didn’t meet his gaze the entire night. She said nothing when Gram finally released them to their bedrooms, and Asa said nothing to her.

  Gretchen felt guilty, which was an odd sensation. She rarely felt guilty, whether she was in trouble with Gram or with the school counselor. She’d certainly never felt guilty when it came to Asa. He was the bad one. The cruel one. The guilty one.

  Only now, Gretchen wasn’t sure what to think. In recent days, she had seen flashes of an Asa she did not recognize—a kind, almost caring brother. And now her mind was abuzz with what Lee had told her yesterday: Asa had known Essie Hasting. They had been working on something together. Maybe he had even been in Hickory Park when Essie had died.

  Gretchen didn’t know what to make of these facts, no matter how she snipped and stitched them together. She only knew that Asa had shared something important with Gretchen. He had told her a secret and acted kind—as kind as Asa could be, anyway. In return, Gretchen had ignored his warning. The guilt had been stinging inside her chest ever since. But then, her ankle had been stinging, too. And Asa was the reason for her hurt foot, Gretchen reminded herself, as though this fact justified her use of the Wishing Stone.

  Thanksgiving was just another reason why Gretchen wished she weren’t the daughter of an important man. Movies and television shows made Thanksgiving seem like such a pleasant time for other families. It was supposed to be one long day of feasting and card games and football and running around piles of leaves in golden afternoon light. But Thanksgiving hadn’t ever been that in the Whipple household. No relatives came into town; Gram was the only surviving grandparent, and Gretchen had neither aunts nor uncles to speak of, and therefore no cousins. The Whipples didn’t play card games or run around. Thanksgiving only meant that Gretchen had a few days off school and that, instead of a big meal, the Whipples were left to scavenge the kitchen for food while Gram began her party preparations. Because the real event at Whipple House wasn’t Thanksgiving Day but the Christmas gala that took place just two days later.