“She did,” said Justin. “Said there wasn’t any room in her equinox plans for unpredictable threats.”
“So she’s saying I’m a danger to myself and others?”
“Yep.”
“How’d it take her so long to notice?”
Justin snorted, sidestepping a few kids trying their hand at an old wooden ring-toss game. “You still have to do the pageant.”
“Seriously?” Isaac scowled. “I just destroyed the Diner. Does your mother really think the ceremony will make everyone less angry?”
“I think you should focus on making my mother less angry right now.”
Isaac rolled his eyes, but he followed Justin to the front of the town hall, where a crowd was already beginning to form at the edge of the giant founders’ symbol embedded in the square.
“Took your time getting here, didn’t you?” said May. Nestled carefully between her hands was the wooden Hawthorne crown, a delicate thing made of intricately woven branches that had been made by Justin’s great-grandmother, Millie Hawthorne, nearly eighty years ago. Their family had done a good job of preserving the wood, but Justin worried about it breaking as he took it from May and wedged it in his blond hair.
His sister looked at him, her normally expressionless face colored with longing as her eyes lifted to the crown upon his head. Justin felt a rush of guilt.
“Did you ask Mom if you could do it this year?” The words were out before Justin could stop them.
The way her face hardened around the edges told him she had. “Maybe next year,” she said, each word a bit too carefully formed. “When you’re at college.”
“Ah.”
“Yes.”
The tense moment was broken by Isaac sidling up to them, the steel, pointed Sullivan crown nestled in his dark curls. He must’ve gone back inside the town hall to fetch it. “Excited to show everyone how pretty you look?”
“Oh, shut it, Sullivan.”
Isaac grinned, but it was a bit ragged around the edges. Justin could tell he was worried about how the crowd would react to him.
Truth be told, he was worried, too. He wasn’t sure the Founders’ Pageant was the smartest thing to do today, but it would look weirder if the founders didn’t have it at all.
“Welcome, everyone!” called out Mayor Storey from the steps of the town hall, a microphone in his hand. His dark-skinned face was creased into a careful smile. After the Sullivans left town, Augusta had quietly dissuaded all potential founder candidates from running for mayor as a show of support for the rest of the town. Mayor Storey was a popular choice—a former principal of Four Paths High School and a well-respected member of the community. “Thank you so much for coming to this year’s Founders’ Day festival.”
A halfhearted round of cheering greeted the mayor’s announcement. Justin watched the crowd, noting uncomfortably that there was a neutral, unimpressed face for every smiling one.
A few deputies were strewn around the edge of the crowd, while Augusta herself stood at the foot of the town hall stairs, watching everyone carefully. So his mother hadn’t just been talking about the town’s changing morale to prove a point, then—she’d noticed it, too.
“As you know,” Mayor Storey continued, undaunted by the lukewarm reception, “Four Paths’ founding families have a special relationship with our town. For the last century and a half, they have dedicated themselves to keeping this town safe, healthy, and prosperous. We are honored to have all of you here today to watch this year’s Founders’ Pageant. Now, please join me in a round of applause for this year’s volunteers!”
Across the circle, Justin’s mother gave him a look, and he remembered with a start that he was supposed to go first.
He walked across the circle, kneeling on the southernmost line slicing through the founders’ symbol and placing his crown on the seal. In past years, this had felt like a victory lap—winking at girls and waving to the crowd as he walked out.
But this year, the applause was polite, nothing more.
He watched Mitzi Carlisle saunter out in a crown of red-brown stone that had been set across her auburn hair. She smiled at him as she knelt on the eastern line and placed her crown on the seal.
He faked a smile back.
Violet was next, a thicket of twisted ivory spires rising from her jet-black hair. Her mouth twitched with annoyance as she knelt on the northern line. She’d texted him that morning asking if she really had to do the pageant. Justin was impressed she’d actually shown up.
Isaac was last.
Justin held his breath as he strode out into the circle.
And just as he’d feared, the applause from the audience faded from polite claps to dead silence.
Justin didn’t know what he would’ve done, but he was proud of the way Isaac’s face didn’t change. He just kept walking, slow and steady, his footsteps ringing out across the silent courtyard, and he dropped to his knees on the western line of the founders’ symbol.
He removed his steel crown and, with a flourish, set it on the seal.
Justin could see his friend’s hands trembling. And he saw in that moment that this was hurting Isaac more than he’d told anyone, being put on display like this, being publicly humiliated.
A single round of applause rang out across the courtyard. Isaac’s head jerked toward Justin—but it wasn’t him who was applauding.
It was Violet. She was still kneeling on the seal, clapping her hands together, the look on her face daring the crowd to protest.
A moment later, Justin joined her, and then the mayor was clapping, and so was May, and his mother, and at least half the crowd standing around the square. Isaac looked around at all of them, visibly stunned.
Justin was weak with relief as Mayor Storey reached for his microphone again. He caught his mother’s eyes across the circle—she was furious.
“Thank you, all,” the mayor said hastily. “As you know, in 1847, a group seeking a new life in upstate New York decided to end their pilgrimage here. On this day, we celebrate the leaders of that group—Thomas Carlisle, Lydia Saunders, Richard Sullivan, and Hetty Hawthorne.
“Today, their descendants strive to keep this town healthy and safe, and to help it grow in the same way their ancestors did. These representatives of each family are a symbol of Four Paths’ legacy and its enduring future. The crowns they have laid at their ancestors’ feet symbolize their dedication to serving the town.”
Justin heard a murmur sweep through the crowd. On his left, Cal Gonzales leaned over to whisper something to Suzette Langham, annoyance apparent on both of their faces.
“The Founders’ Pageant is complete,” Mayor Storey said, his dark brown hand clutching the microphone perhaps a bit too tightly. “Now go enjoy your day.”
As Justin stood up, it struck him how fake all of this was. All his lies clustered within him, the secrets that were his and the ones that weren’t, and suddenly he wanted to scream the truth at all of them, to tell them that he was just like the rest of the town. That he couldn’t protect them.
As the crowd dispersed, Justin’s eyes fell on the field beside the square. Some of the children had missed the ceremony, instead choosing to play on the stretch of grass in front of the town mausoleum. There were even a few kids squabbling over a bucket of play swords, whacking at one another with cheap wooden blades. He recognized two of them, one much taller than the other, laughing as they played at a sword fight.
Justin watched the sun tease its way through Harper’s curls. Nostalgia plucked at the inside of his chest like a harp string as she dodged each of her little sister’s attempts to stab her.
And although the thought of walking over there was scarier than walking into the Diner had been the day before, he shoved the Hawthorne crown into May’s hands and headed straight toward the field.
Harper hated the Founders’ Pageant. It was a display of all the worst parts of Four Paths—Augusta Hawthorne’s arrogance, Mitzi preening over a crown, and the town collectively
swooning over Justin.
She wanted no part of it, and so when Nora demanded they play instead of going to watch, she was happy to oblige her sister. She needed to think, anyway.
Daria Saunders’s death had changed everything, again. The Hawthornes were back in Violet’s corner, which meant Harper had to pretend to like them—right after Justin had proven that he was even less trustworthy than she’d originally thought.
Harper had reported everything she could back to the Church of the Four Deities, concerned they’d be upset that she was spending so much time with the Hawthornes, but they’d just told her to keep Violet close.
It concerned her that she had yet to meet their mysterious leader, or discover any more than she’d already known about their plans. Her father remained tight-lipped about the entire situation, only promising that Harper would get more information when the time was right.
Harper wanted to trust her father. But it seemed like, after all she’d done, he still didn’t trust her.
“I’m gonna be a warrior!” Nora said, brandishing a wooden sword at Harper’s knees as if they had personally wronged her. “I’m gonna hit Brett when he’s mean, and then he won’t be mean anymore.”
“I’m not sure if hitting him will help that,” said Harper, shaking her thoughts away.
Nora pouted. “Can I practice on you?”
Harper stared at the crate of swords. It didn’t matter that the blades were wooden—she still itched to grab one. Besides, Nora was only six, and half the size of the other kids clustered around the play area who she could wind up play fighting with. Wooden swords were blunt, sure, but they could bruise if wielded with enough force. And she was not about to let her baby sister get hurt.
She smiled. “Let’s teach you how to be a warrior.”
Harper selected her own blade from the crate, one with a washed-out blue hilt, and knelt in the grass. At first, she tried to explain the basics of fencing to Nora, but her sister had no interest whatsoever in what a parry or a riposte was. She just wanted to jump around while waving her sword and yelling battle cries. So Harper let her, barely paying attention as she batted Nora’s blade away, occasionally letting her sister tap the blunted edge of the sword against her arm or knee or shoulder and yell, “I WIN!”
Things could’ve gone on like this indefinitely if Justin Hawthorne hadn’t appeared beside her.
“Mind if I cut in?” The sunlight blazing out from behind him turned him into an imposing backlit shape, blocking out the rest of Harper’s world.
Harper froze, completely unsure what she was supposed to say to him. Nora, however, had fewer qualms about responding to this new potential victim.
“I’m going to beat you!” she yelled.
Justin laughed as she whacked at his knees until he obligingly toppled backward onto the grass.
“You got me,” he told her, blond hair spilling across his forehead. The dimple in his cheek appeared as his lips widened into a grin. “I’m the deadest dead person on this field.”
“Dead people don’t talk,” Nora informed him, unimpressed.
“So?” said Justin, turning his head.
Heat kindled in Harper’s chest as the power of that carefree smile hit her. She tried to pretend it was rage. “What are you doing here?”
The smile disappeared. Justin propped himself up on the grass, the fabric of his gray T-shirt straining against his broad shoulders. “Apologizing to you. If you’ll let me.”
Harper had wanted an apology for years. Yet she could feel in her bones that his words wouldn’t be enough. When he spoke, he drew her back in. She couldn’t trust herself to hold out against him, even now, knowing that he was a lying hypocrite. Even as her hatred stirred to life beneath her skin, sending a shiver of fury through her.
Her hand tightened around the hilt of her blade—and, with the sudden rush of an idea, Harper lifted it up and pointed it straight at Justin’s chest.
“Go get a sword,” she said coolly.
His hazel eyes went wide. “What?”
“You heard me,” she said. “You want to apologize? Well, I want to fight.”
Justin sucked in a breath. But he didn’t protest, just got up, walked over to the crate, and grabbed the last remaining sword inside. It was dark yellow with stains that looked a lot like vomit, which gave Harper a petty rush of satisfaction.
“I guess I deserve this,” he said.
“Don’t you dare go easy on me,” she said, and they began.
It was clear in seconds that her secret midnight practices had paid off. It didn’t matter that Justin had a foot of height and half an arm on her. Her muscles knew what to do. She swatted his blade away and darted forward, nearly grazing his left arm. He stepped back just in time and met her sword with his.
Awareness dawned in his eyes. “You’ve been training.”
Harper’s skirt swished around her knees as she stepped forward, extending the point of her blade until it was a hair away from his chest. She had a sudden, fervent wish for it to be made of steel, not wood. “Stop talking.”
When they dove back into sparring this time, she could tell Justin was no longer holding back. They parried and wove around each other, Harper easing into the pattern of the fight. Somewhere in the past three years, Justin’s gangly frame had filled out, and that new strength showed in each of his lunges. His muscular arms batted away her blade with the easy confidence of someone who was used to winning.
They had trained together as children, and it did not take Harper long to catch on to the familiar rhythms of Justin’s moves. He’d grown up but his technique hadn’t, and so she knew every feint, every weak point. But the way Harper fought had changed since her ritual. Her missing arm had altered her balance and footwork, forcing her to develop different attacks, different defenses.
He didn’t know who she was anymore. Which was why she would win, and he would lose.
Justin’s easy confidence was dissipating, a thin sheen of sweat collecting at his temples as his chest rose and fell in small, shallow breaths. Harper could feel her own body starting to tire, her muscles straining with the effort of outmaneuvering Justin’s larger frame. It was too easy for him to get close to her; a well-timed parry left their torsos only inches apart. Harper jerked away from him, but not before his scent filled her nostrils, a familiar mixture of soap and woodsmoke.
She steadied herself and lunged, whacking the hilt of Justin’s blade hard enough to send it flying out of his hand.
Harper stepped forward, her muscles burning, and tipped her sword up to his throat. “You lose.”
Justin’s eyes met hers. There was something unsettled in his gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“Stop it.”
His voice was husky and low. “Harper, if you’d just let me explain—”
“Like you let me explain after I failed my ritual?” She extended her arm up, pressed the tip of the blade against the skin above his Adam’s apple. “You never gave me a chance. Now you know how it feels.”
Justin’s eyes widened, his hands raising above his head. A clear surrender. “If it’s any consolation,” he said quietly, “it feels like shit.”
Harper realized, dimly, that her hand was beginning to shake, the edge of her sword trembling against Justin’s throat.
She wanted him to hurt like she was hurting. Was tempted to try to run Justin through with a wooden blade, for the past three years of her life, for the things he’d done to her, the damage he had caused.
Yet she was still overly aware of the proximity of their bodies. It would only take a half step for those muscular arms to close around her, for her forehead to nestle against the planes of his chest.
All this, and she still wanted Justin Hawthorne to touch her.
Harper lowered her blade, disgusted with herself.
“Just go,” she said. “Please. Just go.”
For once, Justin listened to her. Harper watched his slumped shoulders as he loped back toward the fair, the sword he’d l
eft behind discarded in the grass.
Violet watched the clouds gather from her bedroom window, tendrils of gray that reached toward the trees below them like claws.
It annoyed her that her mother knew nothing of the Saunderses’ heritage—except for the Founders’ Pageant. Violet had woken up that morning to find a crown on her dressing table and a text telling her that the sheriff had asked her to participate, and wouldn’t it be good for Violet to go hang out with her new friends?
Violet was pretty sure the crown was actually made of bone. She’d wanted to examine it more closely, but Augusta Hawthorne had taken it away after the pageant, claiming it needed to be stored in the town hall.
There was something different in the air tonight. She’d been able to feel it back at the Founders’ Day festival, a slight charge in her fingertips like a static shock. That strange pulsating energy she’d felt when she was near Orpheus bubbled within her now, and she could tell it wasn’t just because the cat was nearby, mauling a toy mouse from his perch atop her pillow. This was more than the tether she’d felt between them, stronger, even, than the tether she’d felt between her and that resurrected body.
It was power. Her power. And it was everywhere, fizzing through her blood, frightening and exhilarating in equal measure.
The Hawthornes had already told her that the fall and spring equinoxes were the days of the year when the prison was at its weakest, and the Beast inside it was strongest, but Justin had made a point to remind her again today. He’d warned her to pull down her storm shutters and stay inside until dawn. But Violet didn’t feel scared—she felt strong. Stronger than she had since she’d arrived in town. And she could not shake the urge that there was something more she could be doing.
Violet stared down at the sheet music binder in her lap, at the phrases that were so basic, so flat, and sighed. She could feel the way she wanted the notes to change just by looking at them.
On a whim, she leaned forward and penciled in an extra flourish in the margins of Abegg Variations, op. 1. She wondered what it would be like to start from nothing, to improvise on an empty page. To create music the way Rosie had created art on a blank canvas.
The Devouring Gray Page 19
