“Kaaay!” He flailed his arms at me. When I walked back to him, he pounded on my head and shoulders with his bony little fists.
“Hey!” I yelled, laughing. “Are you trying to beat me up?”
“Kaaay!” He showed me a balled-up paper place mat in his hand, then threw it at me, giggling wildly.
I went along with it. “For me?” I gushed. Eric was always giving me beautiful crayon drawings. “Why, it’s . . . ”
My words stuck in my throat. The drawing showed a country meadow, which resembled the park in the middle of Whitfield, being torn apart by what looked like a tornado. Bodies were flying through the air, while the earth beneath crawled with rats and snakes.
“Hattie,” I whispered, my mouth dry.
She was putting Eric in his special high chair. “We don’t have time for . . . ” she began, until she saw my face. “What is it?”
I gave her the drawing.
“What on earth,” she said, shaking her head.
“It’s the Darkness.”
I saw her swallow. But she came back in a second as if the drawing hadn’t scared her senseless. “Don’t be silly,” she said.
“You know what his drawings mean.”
“I do not!” she snapped. “And neither do you. Eric makes dozens of drawings every day.”
“Erc!” Eric shouted.
“And some of them are prophecies.”
“Just stop it, Katy,” she snapped. “The Darkness doesn’t just appear like a puff of smoke. There are always harbingers, signs—”
“Always?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then,” I relented.
“Unless someone were to call it, of course,” she added. “Which no one in Whitfield would ever do.”
“Even by accident?”
“You don’t call the Darkness by accident,” Hattie said.
I looked back at the drawing. “But this shows the Meadow.”
“It does not. This”—she slapped the drawing with the back of her hand—“is nothing but some grassy place. And besides, if it is the Meadow, then you know it couldn’t happen, because the Meadow is the most protected area in Whitfield. It must have more than a thousand charms around it. You know that.”
It was true. The last time the Darkness had gotten near the Meadow, it had been expelled. If ever there was a Darkness-free zone, it was the Meadow.
And yet . . .
“What is it now?” Hattie asked as she opened a jar of baby food.
I shook my head. “I’m just remembering something Eric once told Peter,” I said quietly.
“Erc!” Eric bounced in his seat and kicked his legs.
Hattie knew what I was talking about. Last year Eric had said that one day Peter would destroy Whitfield.
“Just listen to yourself,” Hattie said. “Eric told Peter. In case you haven’t noticed, this child can’t tell anybody anything.”
“But he—”
“He was possessed,” she hissed. “Those words weren’t his. The voice wasn’t his. And that stupid prediction sure ’nuff wasn’t his.”
“All right,” I said. There was no point in arguing. Either the prophecy would come true or it wouldn’t, and there wasn’t much I could do about it either way.
“And don’t go talking about it either. Nobody even remembers that, anyway.”
Except for me. Because there was a second part to the prophecy that apparently even Hattie hadn’t remembered. Eric had said that Peter would destroy our world.
And also that I would help him.
CHAPTER
•
THIRTY-TWO
Such was the makeup of my winter: Peter, lost to Shaw Enterprises; Gram and Aunt Agnes, lost to wedding preparations; Morgan, lost to evil. Plus the slight possibility of imminent apocalypse.
In other words, everything was back to normal.
I tried to ignore the fact that I was alone and dateless as I prepared to take myself to Winter Frolic. I would rather have spent the evening having root canal work, but I’d promised Hattie, and she’d find out if I reneged.
“What the hell am I doing?” I muttered as I tried to figure out what to do with my hair.
Verity and Becca stopped in my room on their way back from the showers. Verity showed me a drawing of the bizarre upsweep she’d designed, complete with tulle butterflies to match the ones on her dress. It was a good thing that Cheswick was as strange as she was.
Becca, on the other hand, always looked fashion-model perfect. Her gold-blond hair naturally had the kind of bounce and curl that cost a fortune to achieve in a salon, and all she did was fluff it with her fingers. As for me . . . Well, I just wanted to get this evening over with. I’d promised I’d go, even though Peter was taking someone else. What was worse, I was probably going to be the only unescorted human being there.
“This all sucks,” I muttered.
“I guess it would . . . for you,” Verity said. Becca jabbed her with her elbow. “Ow.” Verity rubbed her ribs. “Well, it’s true.”
“No, it isn’t,” Becca argued. “Besides, it’s just one stupid night.” She twirled my hair experimentally. “And you know Peter loves you.”
“Yeah. That’s why he’s taking Fabienne.”
“Oh, get real, Katy. She’s a child.”
“She’s French, though,” Verity said. “I think they mature faster than we do.”
“Good to know, Verity,” I said.
“So you’ll show her up by looking gorgeous,” Becca said, smoothing her hands over my dress that hung in the closet. “How could you not, in this?”
True, the dress was pretty spectacular, a navy blue satin Albert Nipon with a lot of crisscrossing straps across the low-cut back. It was a castoff from Madam Mim, but I had to admit, it still looked pretty fabulous.
“I’ll do your hair,” Becca volunteered. This was okay, because Becca never overdid things.
“My mom’s hairdresser is doing mine,” Verity said, “so I’d better be going. Toodles.”
“Toodles,” I repeated, deadpan.
Becca waited for the door to close behind Verity. “How much do you want to bet she ends up looking like RuPaul?” she asked.
“No takers on that,” I said.
The style Becca chose for me was pretty simple, pulled back on the sides and held in place by a clip made of pearls. The rest of my hair hung straight over my shoulders. The only jewelry I had on, aside from the hair clip, was the blue ring on my finger.
It still made me wonder. I mean, you’d have thought that would be the first thing that Gram and the other witches would have noticed, especially since Morgan had given it to me, but they hadn’t said anything about it. No one had ever said anything about it.
But let’s be honest, that wasn’t the real issue. The question I had to ask myself was, why hadn’t I said anything about it? Why did I make a point of wearing it wrong way out, so that the stone didn’t show? Why had it become a habit to keep my other hand held over it?
It didn’t have anything to do with Morgan. I’d gotten over being hurt that she’d used me the way she had. Morgan was just one of those people who didn’t value friendship. Actually, I was glad that she’d turned out to be the way she was, because now I wouldn’t feel bad for her when Bryce did whatever he had to do to her.
No, that wasn’t true. I would feel bad. I did feel bad. I’d liked Morgan, even if she didn’t care a thing about me. But there was nothing I could do for either of us. At least I knew that she wouldn’t be imprisoned in amber again.
But she wasn’t the reason I still wore the ring. It was because of how it made me feel. Whole. Strong. Confident. But then why . . .
“Whoa,” Becca said. I’d jumped in the chair. She stepped back, holding the comb aloft. “Did I pull your hair?”
“No. No, it’s not that. I just wanted to know . . . ” I turned the ring face out and held up my hand. “Can you see this?”
“Your ring?”
“Oh.” Fo
r a moment I’d thought that maybe it was invisible.
“Sure,” she said. “Nice. Did Peter give it to you?”
“Uh . . . yes,” I lied.
“Cute.”
Cute? That seemed like an odd word to describe a dimesize glowing blue stone in a gold rococo setting.
“You’re not going to wear it with that dress, though, are you?”
I frowned. “Why not?” Nothing, I knew, could possibly be more appropriate. Nothing. In the fading light from my window, the stone began to glow.
“No reason,” Becca said. “Just different tastes. I’m sure it’ll look great. Well, I’ve got to get myself together.” She waved to me at the door. “See you.”
“Thanks, Becca,” I said.
I turned off the lamp on my vanity. It was dark outside, and my ring suffused the room with its eldritch blue light.
Perfect, I thought.
• • •
The Winter Frolic decorations committee had done a good job, considering that no magic had been used. All of Ainsworth’s dances were held in the theater, since it had been designed to have no permanent chairs. This was far preferable to the gym, with its basketball hoops and foul lines painted on the floors. The result was a pretty good illusion of a snowy fantasyland. The stage, where the band played, was done up like Santa’s workshop. The musicians—who, I understand, had objected strenuously—were dressed and made up to look like mechanical toys. Drink stations resembling ice floes were scattered around the walls, and white snowlike confetti dropped languidly from a silk aurora borealis that stretched across the ceiling.
The only awkward thing was the entryway, where Mr. Levy, the football coach, was announcing everyone who came in. He was dressed up like Santa Claus. On either side of him two freshman girls in elf outfits handed out decorated candy cane favors, while a photographer from Snappy Shots took pictures of the couples as they strolled in, arm in arm.
When I saw what was going on, I was tempted to get out of line and go home, but I figured that a sudden flight would brand me as a coward in addition to being a loser who’d had to go to the dance alone. So I gritted my teeth and climbed the three steps to the platform that had been erected to ensure that everyone at the dance could witness my solitary entrance.
“Miss Katy Ainsworth,” Santa intoned, while a giggling elf handed me a candy cane and a flashbulb popped in my face.
“I’ll come by later,” the photographer said, “to show you the picture.”
“Don’t bother,” I answered as I climbed down the steps onto the dance floor, where I hoped I’d be swallowed up by the crowd.
Becca, resplendent in a white one-shoulder silk dress that looked as if it were made of rain, made her way over to me and basically forced me to dance with her, even though I felt weird about it. Bryce caught up to her a minute later. I felt jealous watching the two of them together, but at least I wasn’t sitting by myself in a corner.
We all danced together, along with a few other people who felt more comfortable dancing in a group. Verity and Cheswick came over too, doing their unrhythmical version of the dance in Beyonce’s “Single Ladies” video. And Becca had been right: Verity’s hair looked like an ad for Dairy Queen.
Soon a whole bunch of us, witches and Muffies alike, were dancing together. Even Miss P joined in, dancing with Mr. Dominic, the geography teacher. He was short and fat and sweaty, and was hauling Miss P around the floor like she was a sack of potatoes.
“Go, Dominator!” one of the boys shouted. That was their sarcastic name for Mr. Dominic. I don’t think he could have cared less what his students were thinking about him at the moment. He just seemed to be enraptured with Miss P, who had this frozen smile plastered on her face as the Dominator squashed her closer to his sweaty chest.
“We need to find her a boyfriend,” Becca said, shaking her head.
Santa Claus struck a giant candy cane on the floor. “Mr. Peter Shaw,” he announced from the platform. “And Miss Fabienne de la Soubise.” An audible “Ooh” rose up from the crowd like a vapor. I glanced over, my heart racing involuntarily.
She was about a hundred times more gorgeous than she’d been that day in the library, and she’d looked pretty good then. And by “gorgeous,” I mean fabulously, indescribably, makes-me-look-like-I’m-wearing-a-feed-bag gorgeous. Worse yet, Peter was grinning like an idiot beside her.
“Like I said, she’s got a big butt,” Becca said.
“Oh, shut up,” I told her.
CHAPTER
•
THIRTY-THREE
That was when the nightmare began.
It wasn’t Fabienne’s fault, really, although I thought so at the time. Despite her great beauty, she was just kind of scared, the way any fourteen-year-old who didn’t speak English would be. I tried out my third-year French with her, which helped a little, although it wasn’t easy to make conversation at a dance, in any language. But before long some younger girls came over to our table with their dates. The dates were freshmen—the sort of freshman boys who leered at all the girls, even though they didn’t have the nerve to talk to any of them. Instead they shared private jokes with one another, leaving the girls they’d escorted to fend for themselves. No wonder Fabienne’s dad had insisted that Peter take his daughter to the dance, I thought. I wouldn’t trust those fools with a day-old sandwich.
Then the band took a break, and recorded music came through the speakers. An old song was playing, Whitney Houston singing “I Will Always Love You.” I didn’t want to look at Peter—our arrangement at the dance was, to say the least, awkward—but my eyes sort of wandered his way. He was looking straight at me.
We both blushed. Then Peter said something to Fabienne, and she nodded, giving me a wink. Peter came over to me and held out his hand. “Dance?” he asked.
And I floated into his arms, as if that were where I belonged. The music rose around us like a shield. Inside it nothing in the universe existed except for the two of us, holding on to each other.
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered.
“It won’t be forever.”
He pulled me closer to him and pressed his lips against my forehead while the song expressed the real words that were in my heart.
Then the freshman boys started making a scene over something stupid—cars, I think. Anyway, there was a lot of shoving and shouting, and then one guy grabbed another, and a pint bottle of Wild Turkey fell out of his jacket and smashed onto the floor.
Across the room Coach Levy must have seen all the action from his perch near the door, because he blew a whistle as if he were calling a penalty at the ten-yard line, but the freshman boys weren’t paying any attention to him because it was pretty clear by that time that they’d all been drinking, apparently for some time before the dance had even started. The one who’d been carrying the bottle was the worst. Whenever someone tried to get him to quiet down, he’d slap them away, cursing loudly.
Still dressed like Santa Claus, Coach Levy climbed down the stairs and was walking purposefully toward our table, where the boys were skidding on the spilled whiskey and broken glass as they argued among themselves. Then one of them—the drunkest one—lurched over to Fabienne and latched on to her arm. She gave a little shriek and tried to pull away, but the little creep just hung on tighter, grabbing her hair for good measure.
“I’ve got to stop him,” Peter said, disengaging from me.
“Mr. Levy’s . . . ” I began, but Peter was already walking into the fray. He came up behind the drunken freshman and forced the guy’s arms behind his back. This probably wasn’t that hard to do, since Peter was at least a foot taller than the freshman.
What neither of them seemed to notice was that they were sliding around in a rapidly widening smear of liquor. On rubber legs the drunken freshman managed to twist around enough to throw Peter off balance. At the same time one of the freshman’s buddies shoved Peter, and all three of them fell to the floor.
Things happened fast after that.
Fabienne screamed. Mr. Levy slipped on the wet floor just as he approached the scene, and went down. Drunk Freshman’s buddy scrambled to his feet and ran with his friends toward the exits, leaving Drunk Freshman to fend for himself. Peter sat up on the floor, his tuxedo studded with pieces of broken glass. A gash across his forehead was pouring blood over his eyes.
“Peter!” I ran over to him.
“Stay where you are, Katy!” Peter shouted. He was probably afraid I’d fall too, but I didn’t care about that. I just needed to get to him. I wasn’t giving a thought to the drunken freshman, who chose that moment to use my dress like a rope to hoist himself to a standing position.
The dress tore right above the knee, where I could still feel the imprint of Drunk Freshman’s hot little wet hand. “Get away from me!” I yelled, pushing him straight into Mr. Levy, who dragged him by the collar toward the exits.
Peter was getting to his feet and wiping the blood from his eyes. I was walking toward him when Fabienne scampered up and flung her arms around his neck. “Oh, Pee-tair,” she gushed, dabbing at his face with a dainty lace handkerchief. “How brave you are!” She burst into tears. “You deed this for me, I know.”
“Yeah, dude. Awesome!” Cheswick shouted, offering Peter a high five. Other guys gathered around, slapping him on the back and congratulating him. Peter was drinking it in like lemonade on a hot day.
Then, in a moment of abandon—maybe—Fabienne lifted her head, gave Peter her finest imitation of a French deer, and kissed him on the mouth.
Oh, God, yes. That really happened.
While my world crumbled, the guys around him cheered. Someone yelled “Score!”
I couldn’t believe it. I felt my fingernails cutting half-moons into the palms of my hands while my knees shook beneath my torn Albert Nipon dress like leaves in the wind.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Verity pull away from Cheswick and move toward me. She looked as if she wanted to ask me something, but by then it was already too late. I was no longer seeing anything except a fiery red vista that enveloped everything. Hot air rushed out of my nose. My tongue felt parched. My throat constricted.
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