The king waved aside her worries. It was a small price to pay, he said, and agreed.
The man smiled. His sisters smiled, too, but the cat looked at the king’s sister as if to say she was right. And then all of them vanished.
For thirteen years, the kingdom did flourish. There was plenty to eat. The sun shone, the rivers flowed, the animals were hearty and healthy. A new sort of flower even began to bloom in the kingdom, and the people called it the Promise Flower, for the promise of prosperity the strange man had made. And even in the autumn and through the coldest winters the flowers bloomed: proof, it seemed, that the bargain held.
Now, just after the bargain was struck, the king had a daughter. Her name was Rose, and though he had never before loved anything that wasn’t his fastest horse or his most glittering gem or his shiniest piece of gold, he loved her, and he found himself suddenly uninterested in the treasures that filled his vaults. He no longer spent his days hunting in the forest with his hounds, but in the nursery, doting on the little princess.
On her thirteenth birthday, a visitor came to court. The king had almost forgotten, but he welcomed the strange man with open arms. “Come,” he said. “The treasure vaults are bursting; take your pick, and let the bargain be fulfilled.”
But the strange man smiled. “That is not your greatest treasure,” he said, and his eyes turned toward the princess. And the cat looked at the king’s sister, as if to say, You were right.
The king went pale. He refused. The man insisted. The king offered gold and jewels. The man stood firm. And finally, in a rage, the king ordered him thrown from the castle. He would not give up his child.
The man only smiled and went on his way, and the king thought that was the end of that. The people waited for the kingdom to fall again into ruin, but things continued as they always had. The flowers bloomed. And, in time, the day came for the princess to be married.
Of all her suitors, one was the finest: the most handsome, the strongest, the wealthiest, the most learned. He serenaded her with song and flattered her father and granted gifts from strange and distant places that dazzled everyone—everyone except the king’s sister, who did not like the look of him at all.
But the princess was smitten, and so, it must be said, was the king. They held a lavish wedding, full of dance and laughter and music, but the king’s sister was still suspicious. She scattered flour on the ground where the bride and groom would walk, and crept behind them as they passed. And she saw that the man’s footprints were pointing the wrong way.
She knew at once that the prince was the man who had come all those years ago, and she knew who he and his strange sisters were: the People Who Look Away, the worst of tricksters and spirits, who sneak through the cracks in the world to ensnare people with their bargains.
She raised an alarm, and the castle’s guards raced into the princess and her husband’s wedding chamber. But the man was gone, and so were his sisters—and so was the princess. All the king’s soldiers searched from town to town and kingdom to kingdom, but the princess was never found.
Months later, a child appeared in front of the castle gates. A baby girl. She looked just like the missing princess, save for one thing: her hands were turned the wrong way around, her palms facing outward instead of in.
The story ended there, without another word.
Eleanor had read the old versions of many fairy tales. The versions where witches danced in iron shoes until they died or were rolled off cliffs in barrels. The versions where even the happy endings were vicious things full of revenge and blood. She found them interesting, and sometimes more fun, and sometimes horrible—like when you could tell that whoever came up with the story didn’t think very well of girls.
But none of them just ended like that.
The illustration on the last page showed the king’s sister stooping to look at the footprints in the flour. She held something up to her eye, like a crystal or a piece of glass, and was peering through it. The caption said The Trick Revealed. And just beneath it, someone had inked, with a ballpoint pen: Mr. January.
Who’s Mr. January? she remembered asking her mother.
I don’t know, she’d answered. It was written in there when I found it.
Found it. Not got it or bought it, but found it. Here in Ashford House.
“January,” Pip said, stabbing her finger at the note. She was still lying on her stomach, while Eleanor sat cross-legged beside her on the bed. “Like the January Society.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Otto said, somewhat skeptically. He’d come to stand at Eleanor’s elbow, leaning over a little, his fingers fidgeting like he wanted to ask to hold the book but wasn’t sure he should.
“They’re evil,” Pip replied stubbornly.
“You keep talking about the January Society, but I still don’t know what they are,” Eleanor said.
“It’s a group for the descendants of the original town founders. They’re just a social club,” Otto said.
“Nuh-uh. They’re evil, and my mom’s their secret evil leader.”
“Everyone thinks their parents are evil,” Otto said.
Eleanor curled her fingers tighter, until her nails dug into her palms. Her mother wasn’t evil. She was sick.
But she supposed her father could be evil. She’d never met him. She didn’t even know his name.
“My parents actually are evil, though,” Pip said. Eleanor couldn’t tell if she was serious or playing around. Maybe both. It was safer to joke, she thought. It was safer to pretend it wasn’t real. “They skulk around and have secret meetings and talk in code. And they’ve got all this weird old stuff.”
“The January Society’s meetings aren’t secret, they’re just private. And it’s a boring fundraising organization. Also, if antique collecting makes you evil, my great-aunt Prudence is definitely evil,” Otto said. He almost sounded like he was enjoying himself now. “But Pip’s obsessed. She bought all this ‘spy gear’ online so she could catch them summoning demons or something, but mysteriously she hasn’t found anything.”
“Not true. Once I caught them lighting candles and holding hands over a weird table. Like it was an altar. Like they were casting spells,” Pip continued. “They were wearing these big black robes with hoods.”
“You were probably dreaming. And anyway, that doesn’t make you evil. My sister’s girlfriend is Wiccan, and she only does spells to feel confident and wish luck on people and stuff,” Otto said.
“Ugh. Otto. Can you just let me finish?” Pip asked.
“Just playing Scully to your Mulder,” he said.
“Double ugh. Why do you have to watch such old shows?”
“X-Files is classic.”
“You’re classic.”
“What is that even supposed to mean?” Otto asked, laughing, and they grinned at each other.
Eleanor found herself smiling a little. Not because it was funny, and not because she felt in on the joke, but because they obviously liked each other so much, and knew each other so well. She couldn’t remember the last time she had friends like that. It was like smelling food and suddenly realizing how hungry you were.
Pip’s expression got serious. “I know we joke around a lot,” she said. “But Otto, I’m serious. I don’t trust them. And my mom is . . . You know how she is.”
“She can’t be evil,” Otto said. “She’s not the nicest person ever, but she’s your mom.”
“It’s easy for you to say when your parents are so perfect,” Pip replied.
“They’re not perfect,” Otto said, but he made it sound like they weren’t far off from perfect, either.
“Well, I don’t know anything about the January Society. And we don’t know who wrote that in the book,” Eleanor said. “But I think we need to—”
There was a scratching sound above them, and then a scrape and somethin
g else—a rattle. A hollow, clacking sound. Something on the roof. They all stared up. Eleanor closed the book and pulled it against her chest as if to protect it. Clackclackclack. Clackclackclack.
Then there was a croak, and a great flapping of wings, and the rasping, rattling sound moved quickly away.
“Rattlebird,” Pip whispered. “I think we’re being watched.”
Nine
They listened for the rattlebird—if that was what it was—but heard nothing more. They clustered together on the floor at the foot of the bed and dropped their voices to whispers.
“We need to make a plan,” Eleanor said.
“We need to know what we’re up against,” Pip replied. “And what the January Society is up to. We should go back to my house. I’ve got tons of spy gear.”
“I don’t know. The answer’s got to be in the book,” Eleanor said. “We should read every story. And look at the pictures, too. There are clues in there, I know it.”
“Maybe we should—” Otto began, but then there was a knock on the door. They all jumped guiltily, and Eleanor shoved the book under the bed just before the door opened and Ben stuck his head in.
“Oh, hello,” he said, sounding pleasantly surprised to find them there, though Jenny must have told him where they were. Ben was a burly man with a bushy beard and hair that was going a bit thin on top even though he wasn’t very old. He was a writer, but that didn’t pay very well, so he also worked construction in town and did odd jobs. A lot of odd jobs now, since they were trying to save up for the baby.
“Hi, Uncle Ben,” she said. “These are—”
“Pip and Otto,” he said, pointing finger guns at each of them in turn. “I got the skinny from your aunt. Anyhoo, dinner’s ready if you’re hungry.”
“Dinner? But it’s only—” Eleanor jumped as the clock in the hall chimed out the hour. Six o’clock. She’d lost track of time.
“Clearly you’re having too much fun,” Ben said. “You can fuel up, and then, Pip, your mom’s coming to pick you up.”
“My mom?” Pip said, voice a squeak.
“Unless I talked to an imposter,” he said with a chuckle, then wrinkled his forehead when none of them so much as cracked a smile. “Anyway, food’s downstairs.”
Pip looked at each of them. Eleanor raised her shoulder in a half shrug. What could they do? And Otto was right—they didn’t have proof that Pip’s mom was evil, or that the January Society was anything other than a charity organization. But still . . .
“Uncle Ben, could Otto and Pip spend the night?”
“Oh. Um.” He scratched his chin. “Leaping ahead in my expected parental decision-making by a decade or so here, but let’s see.” He thought it over, then shook his head. “Nope, can’t do it. School night.”
“But—”
“Sorry, kiddo,” he said. “But let’s make a plan for Friday?”
Eleanor sighed. There was no way to explain so that he would understand. “Friday would be great.”
Ben clapped his hands together. “Fantastic. Now scurry on down those stairs. Wait too long, and I might eat your share.”
He turned and ambled down the hall, whistling.
“How did your mom even know we were here?” Otto asked Pip.
“She must have installed another one of those tracker apps on my phone,” Pip said. It could have been evil. Or it could have just been helicopter parenting. The three of them trudged downstairs.
Jenny had made pasta, which mostly meant thawing the sauce that Ben had made a few nights before. Jenny didn’t do much cooking, since she couldn’t reach the back burners anymore.
“So. You three already seem thick as thieves,” Jenny said while they ate. Ashford House had a dining room, but the table was so huge you couldn’t even reach across it to pass the butter, so they always ate in the kitchen. “What were you up to upstairs?”
Otto’s eyes widened a little, nervousness radiating from him, but Eleanor answered immediately. “Homework,” she said.
“I hope they’re not loading you up with too much right away,” Ben said.
“No, but there’s a lot of catching up to do so I know what’s going on,” Eleanor lied smoothly. Pip gave her an impressed look. Otto stared intently at his pasta.
“It’s good that you have help, then,” Jenny said. She smiled at Pip and Otto, who did their best to look virtuous. “So, Pip, you’re Delilah’s daughter?”
“You know her?” Pip said.
“Sort of,” Jenny said. “She was more my sister’s friend than mine. There’s a big age gap between us. But I knew she had a kid Eleanor’s age. I’m so glad that you three are spending time together.” She didn’t sound just glad—she was beaming. She’d been so worried that Eleanor would have trouble starting at a new school this late in the year.
Whatever Pip’s suspicions about her parents, Jenny and Ben had nothing to do with what was going on. Eleanor was sure of it. And she was sure that they would help, if they could. However clever three twelve-year-olds might be, they needed adult help.
“Aunt Jenny,” she said cautiously, not wanting to plunge in too quickly. “Was there always a clock in the hall outside my room?”
Otto widened his eyes at her. Pip shook her head in tiny, quick movements. Ben and Jenny glanced at each other, faintly puzzled. “Clock?” Ben asked.
Eleanor’s mouth was dry, her nerves buzzing, but she forced herself to sound only mildly curious. “Yeah. An old grandfather clock. Very fancy,” Eleanor said. Pip was slicing her hand over her throat in a “stop now” gesture, leaning back so Jenny and Ben couldn’t see.
“Are you sure?” Jenny asked.
“I could show you,” Eleanor said, though she wasn’t honestly sure she could.
“No, wait. A clock. Yeah,” Ben said, nodding slowly. “Sure. It’s . . . It was your dad’s, wasn’t it?” he asked Jenny.
“Right,” Jenny said, as if it was coming back to her. “Old family heirloom. Gosh. I can’t believe I forgot it’s up there. I must walk past it all the time to get to the upstairs bedrooms. Although I haven’t spent much time on the third floor lately.” She laughed a little and patted her belly.
“It’s kind of strange, isn’t it?” Eleanor pressed. “The way it runs backward?”
“It—what? Runs backward?” Jenny asked. Her brow was furrowed.
“The clock outside my room,” Eleanor went on. Otto and Pip had looks of absolute horror on their faces.
“That’s right. We were just talking about that,” Jenny said.
Ben looked confused. “Yeah, we were. Weren’t we? I totally forgot.”
“Well,” Jenny said. “Well—I—that is strange.” She was frowning and shaking her head in this odd little motion, wagging to and fro, to and fro. Ben stared down at his plate with a big frown half hidden by his beard.
Pip clanged her fork loudly against her plate. “This is delicious!” she declared. “I’m getting seconds. Ms. Barton, do you want more?”
“Oh! No thank you, dear,” Jenny said, snapping back to cheerfulness. “There’s not much room for my stomach these days. The little devil’s really throwing out her elbows.”
They didn’t talk about the clock or much of anything else for the rest of the meal. Otto volunteered the three of them for dish duty, which Jenny was more than happy to put in their hands so she could go lie down again while Ben finished putting together the crib upstairs. With running water to help cover their voices, they leaned in together over the soapy sink.
“You can’t tell people about the wrong things,” Pip whispered.
“They aren’t evil. They could help us,” Eleanor said.
“They can’t,” Otto said solemnly.
“They acted so weird. Why did Aunt Jenny freak out like that? She was shaking,” Eleanor said.
“Because she’s not used to the w
rong things. Her brain’s learned not to see them, if it ever saw them at all,” Otto said. “That’s part of why you never, ever tell people about the wrong things. If they’re not like us, they can get really strange. Hurt themselves, even.”
“I tried to show my therapist that there was a door in his ceiling and he had a seizure,” Pip said matter-of-factly. Eleanor flushed. She didn’t know anyone her age who had a therapist, other than herself. But Pip said it like it wasn’t anything unusual.
Her mother hated psychologists and psychiatrists, but now Eleanor wondered if that was because she was afraid—afraid of what they might do if they found out about the things her mother saw. The things she saw, too.
Pip went on. “Mostly, people just forget right after. But if you really want to get them to see without hurting them, you have to hint at it. Kind of trick them into seeing out of the corners of their eyes and build up to it. But it’s usually not a good idea. And even if you manage it, they don’t remember for very long.”
“We’ve done lots of experiments.” Otto nodded.
“But then someone decided it was unethical to test human subjects without board oversight,” Pip said with a roll of her eyes. “Like there’s a wrong things science board.”
Pip’s phone buzzed, and they all jumped. Pip pulled it out of her pocket. It had to be a brand-new phone—it was the latest model, which hadn’t been out long at all—but a crack already ran down the center of the screen. She had a text from a number listed as MOMBEAST: Three-minute warning.
“I guess that’s it,” Pip said.
“It’s okay,” Otto said. “We can talk more tomorrow. Figure all this out.”
“I’ll read the book tonight,” Eleanor said. “Cover to cover.” It wasn’t much of a sacrifice. Staying up late to read was the one thing that was always worth getting into trouble for.
“But what does the book have to do with us?” Otto asked. “What does it have to do with here? I don’t think we’re going to find everything we need in the book.”
“The wrong things happen more in Eden Eld. And we’re all here,” Eleanor said. “I think we need to know more about the town. The poem said ‘a bargain struck in days of yore.’ So we should look at the history of Eden Eld.”
Thirteens Page 6
