Jasper held his breath. Rosa bounced up and down on her toes a few times.
Mr. Ahmed straightened up and cleared his throat. “Welcome, students, to a new day at school. This is your principal speaking.”
Everyone who could speak cheered wildly.
Tracey went next. She drank, said a tentative hello to her twin sister, and then knocked Rosa right over with a tackling hug.
DECEMBER
30
IT WAS DAWN ON THE morning of the winter solstice. Tonight would be the longest night of the year. After that the days would lengthen and slowly remember what sunlight was like.
A procession wound through Ingot in the early morning light.
They carried lanterns. Most had made simple, temporary lamps out of paper and wire, or cardboard and cellophane, but a few used sturdy metal frames and glass panels to protect their candles from wind and snow.
The cold caused some grumbling. The whole procession wore medieval and renaissance garb made for summer festivals, not winter weather. A few townsfolk had wrapped blankets over their costumes. Others gave up on historical authenticity and zipped ski jackets over finery. The rest braved the cold and shivered in their archaic clothes. But they all marched together, despite the weather and their own apprehension about the place that they were marching toward.
Her majesty the queen of the Ingot Renaissance Festival led the procession on horseback. Her champion rode beside her in full and resplendent armor.
Jasper followed both of his parents on foot. He carried his quarterstaff in one hand and the refinery bell in the other. He felt reasonably warm, with long underwear underneath his squire outfit. He also felt horribly nervous about the whole march. It had been his idea. But the idea had its own momentum now that it was out of his head and moving through the world. Hundreds of footsteps carried it forward. Jasper couldn’t have stopped it if he tried.
Rosa did not feel nervous. She wore the improvised costume of a sixteenth-century Spanish traveler and whistled while she marched. Her ornate metal lantern held a dancing Tim.
Sir Dad leaned over to speak with her. “Thank you for your part in this, Lady Rosa.”
“Good sir,” Rosa said, “I am Catalina de Erauso, and no lady at all.”
Sir Dad grinned. He loved it when people stayed in character. “I do beg your pardon.”
“You have my pardon,” Rosa told him. “But I shouldn’t have your thanks. My part has been small. This was all your squire’s plan. And you probably shouldn’t thank him, either, until after we know that it’s going to work out.”
Jasper kicked the heel of Rosa’s boot. She kicked him back.
“I respectfully disagree,” said Sir Dad. “This is a fine thing to take part in, regardless of the outcome.”
“Oh. Okay. You’re welcome, then.” Rosa was surprised to notice just how happy that made her feel. We broke your festival, she thought. Maybe now we can fix it. All of us.
“Your father isn’t a terrible person,” she whispered. “That’s nice.”
“It is,” Jasper agreed. “Any news about yours?”
“Nope,” said Rosa. “Archivists aren’t very talkative. I don’t know how he’s doing, or what he remembers. But I know that they’ve got him. He’s there. He isn’t here. That’s enough.” She lowered her voice, a little embarrassed. “I don’t mind knowing that he was good at his craft—even though the things that he did with it were awful. That’s strangely comforting. I don’t know why. Maybe because we feel more alike now? I want to be good at what I do. The best. But I don’t want to be like him. And now I feel more solidly sure that I’ll never grow up to be like him. Never, ever, ever, in a thousand years of Thursdays. I’m also glad that he’s still alive.”
Some of the townsfolk struck up a marching tune. Rosa swung her lantern to the same beat, which Tim seemed to enjoy. “And I’m glad to be dressed up as my hero and wearing a sword out in public. Not my sword. That would be historically inaccurate by a thousand years. But Nell let me borrow something more period-specific. I like it. Maybe she’ll let me keep it.”
Nell made a noise of gruff bemusement behind them. “Only after years of free labor will I let you keep that sword.”
“Okay,” Rosa agreed. “I’ve been meaning to visit Tim more often anyway.” The fire wraith bowed inside his lantern. He was much happier in Nell’s forge than he had been in his library haunts.
Athena Díaz made a thoughtful and skeptical noise. She wore a long, flowing gown somewhere under a very thick blanket. “Are you sure about taking on extra work? School appeasements still keep you busy.”
“I’ll manage,” Rosa promised. “The school has calmed down lately. And now we’ve got The Thing from Behind the Cafeteria Refrigerator patrolling at night. That helps.” She savored the weight of the sword at her side. “Hey, does our school have a fencing team?”
“No,” Jasper said. “It really should, though, given the number of festival folk in this town.”
“Let’s start one.”
“Sure. But one thing at a time.”
Rosa poked him with her elbow. “You’re nervous.”
“And you have become more skilled at noticing very obvious things about the living.” He expected them to swap insults back and forth for a bit, but Rosa didn’t take up his challenge.
“This is going to work,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Nope. It might work. Maybe. Possibly. Probably. But no matter what happens I can promise that it’s going to be fun.”
“Two entire armies of ghosts might attack us,” Jasper pointed out.
“I know!” Rosa loosened her sword in its sheath. “Fun.”
The procession left the roads and sidewalks of Ingot. They crossed over fields and came to a halt at the festival gates.
Jasper told his parents to dismount. “We’ll have to leave the living horses out here. They might freak out inside.”
“We might freak out inside,” Nell said.
Rosa’s mother stepped on Nell’s foot.
Sir Dad and Queen Mom hitched their horses. Jasper opened the padlocked gates with the approximate birth year of Geoffrey of Monmouth. Then he threw a pebble at the ground.
The cold stones that were Jerónimo pulled together through frozen dirt.
Both living horses whinnied unhappily. Murmurs of alarm spread through the gathered townsfolk. Some people turned around and marched right home at the sight.
“The freaking out has begun . . . ,” Rosa said.
“Good practice for what they’re about to see inside,” said Jasper. “And I need Ronnie for this. I need to be noticed. None of this will work if I can’t command attention.”
“You hate attention.”
“True. Hold all of this stuff for a second?”
She took the staff and bell while he mounted up.
Jasper could see every face in the crowd from astride his haunted horse. Doris the fortune-teller watched him hopefully. Odds Bodkin whispered something to Duncan Barnstaple. Most of the acrobats from the Human Dice Game were here, and so were the mermaids who were sometimes piratical warrior maids. Every member of Zwerchhau Whirligig had come home for this, and brought trumpets.
Almost half of Ingot stood in that snowy field. They all fixed their gaze on Jasper. He took a breath. Then he took the staff and bell back from Rosa. A nudge with his knees steered Ronnie through the gates.
Ghostly figures made of leaves and snow gathered around the far edges of the market square. They watched the procession in absolute silence.
The day’s battle had not yet begun, but both ghostly armies had already lined up on opposite sides of the jousting grounds.
Jasper led the procession onto the field between them. Zwerchhau Whirligig announced the arrival of the living with trumpeted fanfare.
The scarecrow army stirred at the sound. The scarecrow queen and her champion rode forward on horses made of wood and cloth. Both the riders and their steeds moved as though dange
rous and solid, despite their flimsy raw material. Sir Morien bore a new shield sculpted out of ice.
A squire followed behind them on foot. He carried the tattered remains of a royal banner. Jasper was surprised to see a patched-together version of himself. Didn’t think that I’d played the character memorably enough to leave any lasting echoes behind. I guess this is a good sign.
Sir Morien drew his sword, and so did Sir Dad.
That’s not such a good sign.
Jasper quickly spurred Ronnie between them. He was not merely a squire today, but a messenger, and he pitched his voice to carry far.
“Your grace,” he said, addressing both versions of the queen. “This place is yours in summer. It will always be yours in summer, and in summertime the living will return to bring life and breath back into our shared roles. The festival will live again. But this place is yours in no other time or season.”
The two monarchs regarded each other.
“Agreed,” said Queen Mom.
Her scarecrow self nodded once, and then collapsed.
Sir Morien raised his sword to salute Sir Dad. Then he fell apart.
All of the festival ghosts became random pieces of wreckage and debris.
The living procession took their place.
“That went well,” Rosa said cheerfully.
“That was the easy part,” Jasper reminded her. “I figured the scarecrows would probably listen to us. They are us. We made them. The other crowd of ghosts is older and angrier.”
“But you do have something that they’ll listen to,” she said. “Probably.”
Jasper nudged Ronnie forward, toward the gathered company of the mining dead. They hoisted their pickaxes, clearly itching for their daily battle. Blinding headlamps all focused on Jasper. He squinted and blinked in the glare.
The miners came forward, a roiling crowd eager to break things.
Jasper struck the refinery bell with his quarterstaff. It rang clear and clean in the winter air. The sound had marked every break and the end of every workday at the old refinery. It meant stop.
The ghostly army stopped, and they listened, though they did not set down their arms.
“This place is yours in winter!” Jasper called out. “This is your home. Welcome home. Be always welcome here. Recognize it. Cease your search. Treat the theater stage as your town meeting hall, and hold midwinter dances undisturbed by the living. This place is yours in winter. Claim it. But understand that the fairgrounds belong to you in no other time or season. Stand aside and find your rest when summer comes.”
Nothing happened. No one moved. Jasper waited for some kind of answer, still squinting in the glare of so many headlamps.
The miners moved closer. Jasper’s hand tightened on the leather-wrapped grip of his quarterstaff, prepared to fend off pickaxes and shovels. But those tools dissolved into powdered stone. Their work was done. The bell had sounded.
Ghosts removed caps and helmets, ending their searchlight glare.
Jasper tried to keep calm while he led the procession away, but two words shouted inside his head: It worked, it worked, it worked, it worked, it worked!
Most of the living set their lanterns on the ground. Lost wisps filled the air and found warmth and welcome in each candle flame. Two poltergeists juggled snowballs. Larger, stranger things came down from the mountains. The procession processed more quickly to keep well clear of their lumbering way.
Piano music sounded from the Mousetrap Stage. Franz Talcott, still a child, played ice-sculpted keys. More and more ghosts made shapes for themselves out of falling snow. They began to dance.
The living departed through the open gates, yielding the fairgrounds to the dead of winter.
Rosa swung her Tim-lit lantern, skipped a quick dance step, and whistled along with the music.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to Alice Dodge, Kekla Magoon, M. T. Anderson, Peter S. Beagle, Karen Meisner, Amy Rose Capetta, Cori McCarthy, Nova Ren Suma, David Macinnis Gill, Cynthia Leitich Smith, Susan Fletcher, Anne Ursu, Laura Ruby, Nicole Griffin, Colleen A.F. Venable, Rio Saito, Leah Schwartz, Kasey Princell, Ellen Oh, Lucy Bellwood, Ivan Bialostosky, and Nathan Clough for their knowledge, wisdom, inspiration, friendship, and support.
More thanks to Barry Goldblatt, Tricia Ready, Nicole Fiorica, Karen Wojtyla, and Kelly Murphy for their endless professional excellence.
Raise a glass.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William Alexander won the National Book Award for his debut novel, Goblin Secrets, and won the Earphones Award for his narration of the audiobook. His other novels include Ghoulish Song, Ambassador, Nomad, and A Properly Unhaunted Place. William studied theater and folklore at Oberlin College, English at the University of Vermont, and creative writing at the Clarion Workshop. He teaches in the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA program in writing for children and young adults. Like the protagonist of Nomad and Ambassador, William is the son of a Latino immigrant to the US. Visit him online at WillAlex.net and on Twitter via @WillieAlex.
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ALSO BY WILLIAM ALEXANDER
Goblin Secrets
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