Fiona bit her lower lip until her eyes watered.
And then, through the blur, she caught a flash of green.
It was exactly the right shade of green. It was the dark green leather of an old book. And it was sitting on a shelf behind the circulation desk.
The book hadn’t been there when she talked to Ms. Miranda, Fiona was absolutely certain. The librarian must have found it for her after all.
Fiona shot to her feet.
She’d just taken a step toward the desk when all the library lights flashed.
“Library patrons, it is five fifty.” The gray-haired librarian working beside Ms. Miranda announced into a small microphone. “The Chisholm Memorial Library will be closing in ten minutes. Please bring your materials to the checkout counter or to the return carts. Thank you.”
Fiona halted, thrown off balance. Five fifty? She was already late to meet her dad. And a crowd of other people was hurrying to the desk before her.
Fiona rushed to join the line. She stood on her tiptoes, watching as Ms. Miranda turned around. The librarian’s bright brown eyes slid over the checkout line, and Fiona craned even higher, waving a hand. But Ms. Miranda’s gaze only slid away again. Fiona was sure the librarian had seen her—that there had been a moment when their eyes had met, and a knowing look had flashed across Ms. Miranda’s face. But the librarian just turned, holding the green leather book close to her chest, and disappeared down a narrow hallway behind the circulation desk. The sign at the hall’s entrance read STAFF ONLY.
Fiona rocked back on her heels.
It was The Lost One. It was her book. And Ms. Miranda was keeping it from her.
Why?
“Fifi!” said a familiar voice.
Fiona spun around.
Her dad stood behind her, looking exasperated. “Did you lose track of time?”
“Oh,” said Fiona. “Sorry. I just have to—”
“We need to go,” her dad interrupted. “We have to stop at the grocery store before it closes too. Come on.”
Before Fiona could argue, he steered her toward the doors.
“Hey, Dad?” Fiona asked a half hour later, as the two of them picked through a box of spinach leaves at the kitchen sink. “Can you take me back to the library before your first class tomorrow?”
Her dad gave her a small sideways grin. “You really like that place, huh?”
“There’s a book I couldn’t check out that I have to finish reading.”
“You’re hooked.” He nodded knowingly. “That’s the danger of good books. They’re a gateway to harder reading. One leads to another, and soon you’ll be up all night, mainlining encyclopedias.”
“I’ve done that,” Fiona admitted.
“Yeah.” Her dad sighed. “I think it might already be too late for you.”
“What time will you be leaving tomorrow?” asked Arden from behind them. She was chopping strawberries for the salad into perfect heart-shaped slices.
“Around ten,” said her dad. “Why do you ask, skater girl?”
“I don’t have practice tomorrow. Maybe I’ll come along.”
Fiona spun toward her sister. “To the library?”
Arden shrugged. “It sounds better than being alone in this house for the whole day.” She glanced around the kitchen, like it might be listening in. “It’s kind of quiet and creaky at the same time, you know? It doesn’t quite feel like it’s ours yet.”
“That’s a great plan.” Their dad smiled from one sister to the other. “You can keep each other company. We’ll head to the library at—”
“No,” Fiona blurted, so loudly that the others stared at her like she’d just shoved a handful of spinach into her ear.
She couldn’t have Arden at the library. Not now. Not when she was pursuing something complicated and odd and possibly forbidden, something Arden would never understand.
“I mean—you’d just get bored,” Fiona faltered. “I can’t keep you company. I need to find and finish this book, and I don’t want any distractions.”
“Fiona.” Her dad blinked at her. “There’s room for both of you in that giant library.”
“Never mind,” said Arden, before Fiona could speak again. “I just thought it might be less boring than being here. If I knew it would be some huge issue, I wouldn’t have suggested it at all.” She turned away.
“Arden . . . ,” said their dad.
“Never mind. Really.” Arden swished out of the kitchen, leaving Fiona and her dad alone.
Fiona stared down at the spinach. Still, she couldn’t help but notice the way her dad looked at her—like she was a specimen on a laboratory table, but one that he couldn’t quite identify.
Chapter Nine
In myths, important gates were often blocked by guardians. Fiona had read enough folklore to know this. These guardians could be three-headed dogs, or hungry crocodiles, or angry bears with indigestion.
Apparently, in the real world, they could also be librarians with Wonder Woman figurines perched in their hair.
“Good morning!” Ms. Miranda looked up from the circulation desk as Fiona charged through the library doors. “Fiona Crane, right? New in town? Nice to see you back so soon!”
“Good morning,” Fiona answered. She stepped to the desk, making her face and voice as innocent as she could. “I was wondering—did you find that book I was talking about? The Lost One? You said it wasn’t in the collection, but I was thinking that maybe somebody just left it here, and maybe somebody else found it when they were picking up at the end of the night?”
Ms. Miranda’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m afraid you’re still out of luck,” she said. “And I know how annoying it is to leave a mystery half finished. Believe me.”
“Okay.” Fiona took a step backward. “Just thought I’d check. Thank you anyway.”
Fiona turned her back on the circulation desk.
Sometimes the heroes of folklore had to use tricks, but they always found a way past the guardians eventually.
Fiona would do the same.
Taking a last glance at the STAFF ONLY hall, she sauntered casually toward the reference room.
The windows of the long rectangular room let in a green-gold haze of summer sunshine. A few strangers were seated at the big oak table, reading, making notes. They looked up as Fiona scurried by. Pretending not to notice, she browsed the tall bookshelves until she found something that looked interesting: a book about witch hunts in colonial New England. She turned around, gripping the book, and nearly smacked straight into someone else.
The boy with pale blond hair.
He frowned, leaning toward Fiona’s face. “What are you doing here?” he whispered.
Fiona had already felt unwelcome. But now she knew she was. Because this was a strange question to ask someone who was clearly picking out books in a library.
“I was just looking for a book,” Fiona whispered back.
The boy glanced down at the title in her hands. “You’re interested in local history?”
“Yes,” said Fiona, wondering why the boy said “local history” as though it was some kind of secret password. “I like history.”
“I thought so,” whispered the boy. Then, with another significant look at Fiona, he hurried away.
Fiona stood alone by the bookshelves as a wave of longing for her friends crashed through her. She and Bina and Cy and Nick were all a little bit odd, according to other kids at school. Most sixth-graders didn’t pass notes in hieroglyphs or have their birthday parties at museums. But they were odd together. Here, she was odd and alone. And the only other kid she’d met so far was obviously going to leave her that way.
With the witch-trial book in her arms, Fiona crept back into the central room.
She found an armchair with a clear view of the circulation desk. Ms. Miranda and another librarian—a white woman in a plaid blouse, whose name tag read MRS. BREWER—were still there, looking very busy.
Fiona settled in the chair, put the
open book in front of her face, and stared sneakily over its edge at the librarians. She was just pretending to turn a page when her phone buzzed.
She fished it out of her backpack. A text from Cy glowed on the screen.
Two days until Operation Birthday (aka Best Birthday Ever)!
Fiona grinned, the loneliness wadded inside her loosening slightly. Can’t wait, she typed back.
You and yr dad are meeting us in Springfield at 9:45, right? Then you’ll get in the minivan and we’ll head to Hartford!
Right, Fiona wrote back. I call a window seat!
Her phone buzzed again.
This is Bina. I’m stealing Cy’s phone to tell you WE MISS YOU!!! And that Cy is going to lose this game of Catan.
Fiona’s smile widened. Wish I was there. See you soon!!!!
As she slipped the phone into her backpack, she heard another phone ring.
Fiona scanned the room. Behind the circulation desk, Mrs. Brewer was lifting the receiver of the library phone, turning away from the room as she spoke. Ms. Miranda was gone. But gone where?
Fiona craned around in her armchair.
There—Ms. Miranda was disappearing through the doorway into the children’s section.
This was it. This was her chance. And she had almost missed it.
While Mrs. Brewer’s back was still turned, Fiona darted past the circulation desk and into the STAFF ONLY hall.
She hurried down the narrow corridor, heart thumping. To her left, she spotted an open coat closet, a door marked STAFF RESTROOM, and a heavier-looking door labeled STORAGE. Would Ms. Miranda have put the book in there? Fiona hesitated. Or would she have taken it to the very end of the hall, through the door with the frosted glass window that read OFFICE?
The soft glow of the glass drew Fiona onward.
She pressed her ear to the office door. No sounds came from the other side. She touched the knob and the door swung inward, its hinges wonderfully silent. Fiona slipped through, shutting it again behind her.
The office was wood paneled and windowless. From its size, Fiona wondered if it had once been a pantry, or one of those rooms where rich Victorians kept their china and silverware. There were three desks inside. And the cluttered one at the front had a name plate reading DIRECTOR—GRACE MIRANDA.
Fiona dove toward it.
She pawed through the piles of books on the desktop, in too much of a hurry to leave everything just the way it had been. Her heart seemed to stick to the roof of her mouth. She could feel its pulse in her back teeth.
And there, at the bottom of a stack of damaged novels, she found it.
The soft green cover. The sketch of the inky woods.
The Lost One.
Fiona snatched it up, rubbing the green leather with her thumbs.
Ms. Miranda had pretended not to know anything about this book. But she’d obviously known where to find it. Then she’d sneaked it out of the collection and hidden it away, so Fiona couldn’t get it back. But why?
Fiona would have to figure that out later. For now, she would put the book in her backpack and take it home, where she could read the rest of the story at last.
She unzipped her backpack.
“Ah-ha!” said a voice from the doorway behind her. “I knew you were in here.”
And then the door thumped shut.
Chapter Ten
Fiona wheeled around with a gasp.
Ms. Miranda stood just inside the closed door. She gasped too.
“Whoa.” The librarian pressed one hand to her sternum. “Sheesh. I think I just had a mild heart attack.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “Fiona Crane? What are you doing in here?”
Fiona’s thoughts dashed off in every direction like kids playing hide-and-seek.
“I—I was . . . ,” she began. But wait. Ms. Miranda had seemed almost as startled as Fiona to find her in here. Had she been expecting someone else? “Who did you think I was?” Fiona asked. “When you said, ‘I knew you were in here’?”
“Oh.” Ms. Miranda reached into her canvas shoulder bag. “I was talking to my lunch. It got totally buried in my bag, so now my sandwich is probably more like a stuffed pancake.” She pulled out a flattened brown sack. “Yep. Fabulous.”
The thumping in Fiona’s chest slowed just a bit.
But it sped up again a second later, when Ms. Miranda repeated, “What are you doing in here?” Her eyes flicked to the books on her desk. She stepped closer, and Fiona skittered out of the way, shoving The Lost One into the bag behind her back. “Did you get lost?”
“Not really.” Fiona thought fast. “I know this area is marked staff only, but . . . I just think it’s so interesting that this whole library used to be somebody’s house. I wanted to explore a little more.”
“Ah. I get it,” said Ms. Miranda. “When you’re interested in something, you have to find out everything about it. Right?”
“Right,” said Fiona. How had Ms. Miranda guessed?
“I’m like that too. Needing answers. Loving to search for them.” Ms. Miranda raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever thought about becoming a librarian?”
“I’m planning to be an archeologist,” said Fiona. “Or a historian.”
“Pretty close.” Ms. Miranda perched on the edge of her desk. “So, you’re interested in old houses, then? That makes sense.”
“Yes,” said Fiona, thinking, Yes, it does! I came up with a perfect excuse without even trying! “I think it’s nice that Margaret Chisholm donated her house to the town when she died.”
“I do too.” Ms. Miranda tossed the squished lunch bag onto the desk beside her. “The Chisholm family built a huge fortune and this huge house. Thanks to Margaret, we have this beautiful library.”
“Did you know her?” Fiona asked. “Margaret Chisholm?”
“I never met her. But I think she’s one of my best friends.” Ms. Miranda gave Fiona a grin. “Margaret Chisholm died before I was even born, but spending every day in her house, handling her things, thinking about her wishes . . . it makes me feel like I know her. You know what I mean?”
The librarian’s eyes coasted around the room, coming to rest once again on the stacks on her desk. When they returned to Fiona, her eyes seemed to carry something with them—something that might have been an accusation, if it had been said aloud. But Ms. Miranda didn’t say it.
Fiona took another step toward the door. “So would this room have been a pantry or something?”
“Exactly,” said Ms. Miranda. “This was the butler’s pantry. And the big storage room next door was the kitchen.”
“Well . . . thank you.” Fiona took three more sidling steps. She clutched her backpack, keeping it out of sight. “And I didn’t mean to break the rules. I was just curious.”
“Oh, I know,” said Ms. Miranda. But her eyes were still sharp.
Fiona could feel them against her back as she blurted, “Goodbye,” wheeled around, and bolted out the office door.
An hour later, shut safely inside her own bedroom, Fiona sat on her rumpled bedspread and pulled The Lost One out of her backpack.
She had never had a librarian stop her from reading before. There must have been a reason, something inside this book that Ms. Miranda didn’t want her to see. And now Fiona would find it.
She riffled desperately through the pages to the spot where she’d left off.
Very, very late that night, the grand house and its grounds were quiet.
Quiet, but not asleep.
Lights still burned upstairs and down. Hazel’s parents remained shut in the parlor with Father Carson. Mrs. Rawlins paced between the front and back doors like an aproned sentry. In her bedroom, Pearl lay with eyes closed, checked by the doctor and covered in soft blankets.
Charlie Hobbes had likewise been sent to bed. Although he’d climbed obediently up the steps of the carriage house, once again, he found it impossible to sleep. Instead, he lay staring at the ceiling, where a moth fluttered back and forth among the rafters, catching hints of the
window’s moonlight on its papery wings.
Gradually, the lights in the house went out, except in the parlor, where the adults kept their vigil. The sky darkened to inky black, strewn with a silver spray of stars. Charlie heard his father tread slowly up the stairs and throw himself into his own bed, his body heavy with the exhaustion of someone who hasn’t found what he was searching for.
Still Charlie could not sleep.
He rolled toward the window. For a moment, he wondered whether he might be having the same dream as the night before.
Again, he spied a figure moving through the trees. But tonight the sky was clear, and a bright half-moon cast its glow over the lawn. By that glow, Charlie could see that the figure belonged to a girl in a trailing white nightdress.
Pearl.
Charlie sat up straight.
Pearl was far enough from the house to be concealed from its sight, surrounded by a knot of the largest oaks on the property. She moved strangely, bending and disappearing from his view again and again, as if she was struggling with something on the ground. Even from a distance, he could see her trembling. What could she be doing outside, alone, in the black of night?
Without disturbing his father, Charlie padded downstairs, slipped his feet into his boots, and hurried out the carriage-house door.
He headed toward the white glow of Pearl’s nightgown. It fluttered in the distance, pallid and limp, like a broken-winged moth.
Could Pearl be sleepwalking? Charlie wondered as he approached. Had she wandered out here to search for her sister when everyone else had given up?
“Pearl!” he called softly.
His voice, muffled as it was, split the quiet of the night like a crack in glass.
Pearl spun around, her face stricken with terror.
Her feet were daubed with mud. The hem of her nightgown was heavy with dew. Before Charlie could get a look at what it held, her hand shot out from her side, flinging a small, dark object deeper into the trees.
“Pearl, what are you doing?”
Pearl stood as if frozen, her eyes wide, until he stepped closer.
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