“Oh!” said Lee. “Hang on. I almost forgot.”
He fished a foil-covered lump from his coat and placed it in Felix’s hand. Felix peeled back the foil, and with it came a sticky coating of cinnamon and crumbled pecans.
“I was going to leave it at the back door,” said Lee. “Now I guess I don’t have to.”
The Vickery twins would be sharing their Thanksgiving pie after all.
Gretchen was waiting for him on the bleachers. From across the field, she was just a smudge of a purple puffer coat and a matching fleece hat.
Lee was late. He’d tried running, but he’d gotten sick after only a minute and had to stop and hold his stomach, sure he would puke at any moment. Even now, he was nauseated, and his head felt light, as though half of it simply wasn’t there. They were side effects from absorbing the memories, he knew. He’d thought the symptoms had worn off, but tonight they were worse than ever, slowing his steps as he walked onto the field.
He wished Gretchen hadn’t chosen to sit at the very top bleacher. The climb was dizzying, and just as Lee reached her, he stumbled, flailing out of balance and toppling toward her. Gretchen shrieked but threw out her arms, catching Lee’s fall.
“Okay?” Her lips brushed the question into his cheek, which Lee was sure had been an accident, because immediately after, Gretchen let go of him completely, and Lee struggled to find his footing and sit down.
Gretchen smirked. “What’re you trying to do, Vickery, kiss me?”
“What?”
Lee hoped the darkness hid his blistering blush. Emma may have held his hand under the orange table once, but no girl had ever pressed her lips to his cheek—which was almost the same as kissing and was completely Gretchen’s fault, which Lee felt very much like pointing out to her. Before he could, light burst into his eyes, and he yelped. Gretchen had turned on a flashlight and was shining it directly in his face.
So much for hiding that blush.
“You don’t look so good,” said Gretchen.
“I don’t feel so good.”
“Stomach bug or something?”
“It’s the memories.”
Gretchen perked up. “Tell me everything.”
“I already have.”
“But you said there was another memory! Why haven’t you looked at it yet?”
“It’s not that easy,” said Lee, clutching his head. “If I do, I think I’ll be puking everywhere. Looking at those memories is kind of like, I don’t know, riding a really twisty rollercoaster a hundred times in a row.”
“Ick,” said Gretchen, looking a little bit sympathetic. “But think of it as a sacrifice for the cause. That memory might contain all the information we need. It could confirm our theory.”
“And what’s our theory?”
“That Asa and Essie were friends.” Gretchen seemed to struggle getting those words out. “That . . . they did that Wishing Stone Rite together. Why they did it . . . well, that’s what we’re still trying to figure out. But Death got mad about something they did, and—and—”
“Killed Essie,” said Lee, softly.
“Yeah. That.”
Lee didn’t blame Gretchen for looking queasy herself. Maybe they were on to why Essie Hasting had died, but that didn’t make her alive again. Nothing ever would.
“I’ll look at the memory,” he said. “Soon. But for now, I’ve got other important news.”
Lee pulled the Book of Rites from his satchel and set it on his lap. Gretchen shone her flashlight beam on the cover. “It looks beat-up,” she said.
“It’s always looked like that.”
“Hm.” Gretchen touched the book, contemplative. “And? I assume you’ve already snooped through it all, so what did you find?”
This was it: the chance to tell her everything. Only, Lee’s stomach was molten lava and his mind an arid plain. He closed his eyes and breathed out of his nose. Then, he told Gretchen what he had discovered—about Shades and Whipples and history and, most important, the Trial Rite. When he was through, Gretchen promptly took the book and flipped through its pages. She read over the Trial Rite, silent. Then she said, “We put Death on trial.”
“Exactly,” said Lee.
“Though really, based on everything you’ve told me, I guess we could put all the Shades on trial. Passion throwing your parents together like that, as a joke, and Memory threatening to take away your father’s memories. That all sounds suspect. But Death’s the one we’ll go after. He’s the worst. Making the Agreement, locking Felix in the cellar, killing Essie—and we still don’t know why he did that—all of that’s out of line if ever there was a line to be out of. Well. Don’t you think?”
Lee nodded, but he was giving Gretchen a funny look. “You heard what I said about your family, right? They’ve let all this stuff happen. Aren’t you . . .”
Gretchen frowned. “Aren’t I what?”
“Well. Angry at me for saying so?”
“I’m mad at you for making me use my bad elbow to catch you,” said Gretchen, touching her arm and wincing. “But not about the other stuff. That’s not your fault. Anyway, why should I be angry if it’s the truth? So my dad isn’t doing his job; I’ve guessed that since I heard him talking to Sheriff Moser and the coroner.”
Lee wasn’t sure if he should feel relieved or sad. Gretchen didn’t wait for him to be either.
“Death,” she said. “You agree, right? We put Death on trial.”
Lee nodded. “And if Death is banished, that means the Agreement is null and void. That’s what the book says. Felix and I figured it all out.”
“Felix, huh? You brought him into this?”
“Believe it or not, he’s on your side now.”
Gretchen snorted. “Is he?”
“Don’t look that way.”
“What way?”
“Like you want to punch Felix in the face.”
“Fine.” Gretchen shrugged. “It does make it easier for us to do the Rite. Did you see what it calls for?”
Lee recited the ingredients: “A memory, a flower, and a burning candle. Something from each of the Shades.”
“Right. So Felix can nab a candle, you can sneak away another memory, and I . . . well . . . what do you know about Passion?”
“You mean, the Shade?”
“Duh,” said Gretchen, and Lee wasn’t sure why he was hot in the face. “We’ve got to find out where Ms. Hasting lives and steal a flower. What kind of flower is it, anyway? A rose, or—”
“No, it’s not like any flower I’ve seen. In the memory it was purple, with these big, fat petals.”
Gretchen looked, thoughtful.
“I don’t know how I feel about stealing from Ms. Hasting,” said Lee. “I mean, Essie did just die, and . . . well, I know we’d technically be stealing from Passion, but—”
“Hold on. A purple flower?”
“Yeah.”
Gretchen closed the book. She turned the flashlight back on Lee’s face.
“Ow, what—”
“Give me three days.”
“What?”
“Three days. I have an idea. And you need to look into that last memory of yours. Soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Then all right. We reconvene in three days. You with another memory and Felix with his candle, and me—let’s hope—with that flower.”
“But, Gretchen—”
“But, Gretchen, what?”
This was the part of their meeting that Lee had been looking forward to least.
“You’re . . . not the firstborn.”
Gretchen’s nose crinkled. “So?”
“So . . .” Lee trailed off, the weight of the age-old rule hanging over them both.
“Who else am I going to ask, Lee?” Gretchen burst out. “My dad? Asa? No way.”
“Yeah, but if you can’t do the Rite, then—”
“I can!” Gretchen said. “I know I can, if I just get the chance. What, don’t you have any faith in me, Vickery?
”
Lee felt talked down to, so he stood and said, “You almost got me killed, remember?”
“Once.” Then Gretchen smiled a little. “Just once.”
Lee sighed. “Three days?”
“Three days.” Gretchen handed back the Book of Rites. “You have to keep this. No way I’m gonna risk anyone at home figuring out I stole it. Why are you looking at me like that?”
Lee sighed. “I feel weird having it at home. I’m worried Death or Memory will find it. That maybe they can, I dunno, sniff it out.”
“They haven’t sniffed it out yet, have they?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Three days. It’s not too long. Same time, same place. Deal?”
Lee wasn’t sure why he’d tried to argue with Gretchen. There was no point. “Deal.”
He expected Gretchen to leave then, but she remained, squinting at him. “Vickery,” she said at length. “Do you ever wonder why we’re supposed to be enemies? I mean, what’s the real point? ’Cause it sure seems like we can do a lot more when we’re working together.”
Lee nodded. “Maybe the Shades know that.”
“Yeah, maybe. Or maybe we humans are just too stupid to get along.”
Gretchen sighed, got to her feet, and stomped down the bleachers. Then she stopped and turned to Lee. Her flashlight lit up her face. It could’ve looked ghastly, but actually, Gretchen Whipple was very pretty in harsh light. Her dark hair spun out from her, tangling in the wind. Her ruby lips were smiling.
“I’m excited, Vickery.” She was no longer all business. The way she spoke now, Lee could almost imagine she was an ordinary girl from school. A girl who might be his friend. Or even . . . something more.
“I think this could be it,” she said. “I think we’re about to solve everything.”
“I hope so,” said Lee, and Gretchen turned to leave. But when she reached the field, Lee couldn’t help himself. “Gretchen!”
She turned once more. “Hm?”
“Did you, uh, want me to kiss you?”
Gretchen laughed. The laughs tumbled over each other, loud and crystalline, and at last they stopped, and Gretchen said, “What a stupid thing to ask.”
She turned and left him in the dark, alone with his thoughts and the Book of Rites.
Three days.
Three days to open the last of his violet-ribboned jars.
Felix stood on the cellar stairs, a red wax candle in hand. It was against everything he had been taught, to steal a candle from Death’s collection. But then, what Lee and Gretchen were doing for the Trial Rite was dangerous too. Lee had stolen memories from his mother’s collection. Gretchen was doing her own work in town, on the hunt for Passion’s flower. If they were going to break the Agreement, all three of them had to pull their weight. Felix reminded himself of this now, as he clutched the stolen candle.
Felix knew that no ordinary force like wind or breath could blow out the flame. It would only go out when Death took its corresponding life. Still, he held the candle with care, afraid he might stumble on his way up the stairs, or that he would get caught, despite his careful planning to slip into the cellar while Death and Vince were busy with a patient in the examination room.
Felix was supposed to be stirring a concoction of herbs and beet broth in the kitchen. He didn’t have much time to sneak the candle into his room and hurry back to the stove as though nothing odd had occurred.
Felix did not have time to doubt.
Yet here he was, paralyzed on the cellar stairs, staring at the flame of not just a red wax candle but of a life—a resident of Boone Ridge that could be one of Lee’s teachers or the man who’d served Felix fried pickles at Creek Diner or even Gretchen Whipple herself.
“Don’t think about that,” Felix told himself. “Just go.”
And to his relief, his feet obeyed, leading him up the creaky stairs. He fit the candle into the waiting candleholder he’d placed in the corner of his bedroom, its presence hidden by a tall armoire.
Here he would keep the candle hidden for two more days. Here it would burn until Sunday night, when he, Lee, and Gretchen would meet.
Just two days, Felix thought. Two days is nothing compared to the rest of your life.
He hurried into the kitchen, where the beet broth was already gurgling. He stirred its contents, and with every slosh, he reassured himself: Just two more days.
It was Saturday, the night of the annual Christmas gala, and the atrium of Whipple House was draped in lights, wreaths, and chiffon garlands. The smell of mulled cider and pumpkin pies wafted from the kitchen. Somewhere in the house, a harpist was practicing arpeggios. Gram was in the hallway, yelling with unadulterated vehemence at poor Jolene. The door to Mayor Whipple’s office was shut—he wouldn’t emerge until five minutes before the gala, when he would straighten his bow tie and extend his diplomatic arms to the early arrivals. And Asa was in the backyard, behind the shed, smoking. Gretchen could see the glow of his cigarette from the parlor windows.
This was the moment Gretchen had been waiting for—one of the rare occasions her brother was not holed up in his room, blasting music. Now was the time to act on her suspicions. Gretchen crept toward the back stairs, her toes barely touching the steps as she swept upward and straight for Asa’s bedroom. The fluorescent signs taped to his door may have warned dire consequences for anyone who trespassed, but Gram refused to let either of the Whipple children have locks on their doors. So Gretchen ignored the ominous order to keep out and pushed inside.
Black curtains were drawn over the windows, which forced Gretchen to flip on the overhead light. Band posters covered the walls, their subjects invariably muscled and angry-faced. What Gretchen found surprising was that the room was so clean. The bed was made, the dresser and desk dusted. There was no trash or dirty clothes on the floor. All was ordered and put away. Gretchen wasn’t sure why she’d assumed Asa’s room was a wreck; it had simply fit her idea of him. But she couldn’t think about that now.
The flower.
She scanned the room—bed, dresser, computer, speakers, books—but there was not even a glint of purple. Gretchen opened the closet and, standing atop Asa’s desk chair, searched its top shelves. Nothing. She checked all the desk drawers, the nightstand, under the bed. No flower. A whispering panic rose in Gretchen’s stomach. Maybe she had not seen right on the day of the burial. Maybe the flower in Asa’s jacket pocket had not come from Essie. Maybe she had only remembered what she wanted to remember.
Then she fixed on it: the windowsill. She pulled back the heavy, black curtain from the window nearest Asa’s bed. There, hidden from view, was a thin, porcelain vase, and in that vase was a violet flower, with large, thick petals, opened mid-bloom.
Very suddenly, everything Gretchen had doubted till now seemed possible: that Essie Hasting could love someone like Asa. That Asa could love anyone at all.
Of course, she thought. Of course the memories are true.
Gretchen looked down at Asa, still smoking by the shed. He tugged the cigarette from his lips and tilted his head up, staring at the bedroom window, directly at Gretchen. She gasped, realizing her mistake: She’d let out the light of the bedroom onto the darkening lawn below.
And Asa had seen her.
Gretchen watched in horror as Asa threw down his cigarette and went running for the house. She grabbed the flower from its vase and flew from the room, down the front staircase—another misstep. Asa had not taken the back stairs, like Gretchen expected. He caught her on the landing.
“What do you think you’re doing with that?” he growled.
“Asa, please. I know what it is, and I need it.” She tried to move past him, but Asa blocked her path.
“Need it for what?”
“I—I—” Gretchen’s mind puttered and stopped, incapable of producing a lie. Instead, she spat out the truth in one big glop: “I stole the Book of Rites. That’s what I used the Wishing Stone for. And now I’m going to do a Trial Rite, and it’
s going to make everything better.”
For one moment, Asa was speechless. Then he began to laugh, low and dark. “In case you didn’t realize, there are things you need for that Rite you can’t get. And even if you had them, who’s the firstborn here?”
“But I do have what I need! The Vickeries are helping me, they’re getting the other ingredients. And maybe I can do Rites, you don’t know. I’ve got to try. It’s the only way to free them. It’s the only way to punish Death for . . . for what he did to Essie.”
Asa’s face turned rigid, but his eyes were aflame. “What did you say?”
“I know, Asa,” said Gretchen. “About you and Essie. That’s why you have Passion’s flower, right? She gave it to you. You wore it to her burial, I remember.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Asa’s words cut the air like sharpened knives, but Gretchen was no longer afraid.
“I do know. You and Dad can keep all the secrets you want, but I know what I’m talking about.”
“You don’t know the truth!” shouted Asa. “Dad hasn’t told you the things he’s told me.”
“Then you tell me!” Gretchen shouted back.
“Fine,” said Asa, fiercely. “You want to know the whole truth? Then here it is: Dad made a deal with Death. Not the usual deal, for the good of Boone Ridge or anyone else. He asked to live forever. And Death said Dad could break the rules, but only if Death could break rules, too. So Dad lets him. He lets Death do whatever he wants.”
Gretchen’s throat felt strangely sticky. “Just so he can live . . . forever?”
“He told me, my sixteenth birthday. And you know what? I didn’t care. I was fine, same as him, letting Death do whatever he wanted to this town. So it’s my fault. It’s my fault Essie’s dead.” Asa’s voice broke on the final words, and Gretchen felt suddenly weak.
“That’s . . . not true,” she whispered. “How could that be your fault?”
“It is. And if you keep messing with this, with those Vickeries, you’re going to get yourself killed, too. And it’s got to stop, Gretch. It’s got to stop for good.”
“Where are you going?” cried Gretchen. Asa was taking the stairs three at time, and then he was out the front door. Before Gretchen reached the porch, she heard the roar of Asa’s motorbike. She watched, helpless, as he sped from the driveway.
The House in Poplar Wood Page 17