by Amy Ephron
PHILOMEL BOOKS
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
Text copyright © 2017 by Amy Ephron.
Map and illustration © 2017 by Vartan Ter-Avanesyan.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Ephron, Amy, author. | Title: The castle in the mist / Amy Ephron.
Description: New York, NY : Philomel Books, [2017] | Summary: “Sent for the summer to their aunt’s sleepy village in the English countryside,Tess and Max find the key to a castle hidden from time and learn that wishes can come true, if they wish carefully”—Provided by publisher. | Identifiers: LCCN 2016014561 | ISBN 9780399546983 (hardback) | Subjects: | CYAC: Castles—Fiction. | Wishes—Fiction. | Magic—Fiction. | Brothers and sisters—Fiction. | England—Fiction. | BISAC: JUVENILE FICTION / Fantasy & Magic. | JUVENILE FICTION / Family / Siblings. | JUVENILE FICTION / Social Issues / Friendship. | Classification: LCC PZ7.1.E62 Cas 2017 | DDC [Fic]—dc23 | LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016014561
Ebook ISBN: 9780399546990
Edited by Jill Santopolo.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Jacket art © 2017 by Jennifer Bricking
Version_1
For Zachary and Madeline
& their Great Aunt Delia
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
COPYRIGHT
DEDICATION
MAP
ONE
THE WARNING
TWO
THE CASTLE IN THE MIST
THREE
THE HAWTHORN TREES
FOUR
THE CURIOUS ANTIQUE STORE
FIVE
KEEPING SECRETS
SIX
AN ELECTRICAL STORM
SEVEN
A VISIT TO THE CASTLE GARDEN
EIGHT
CLOSET TALK
NINE
A VISIT TO THE SCULPTURE GARDEN
TEN
THE FIRST WISH: A WILD RIDE ON A CAROUSEL
ELEVEN
AN INVITATION TO DINNER
TWELVE
WONDERING IF THEY MIGHT HAVE IMAGINED IT, AFTER ALL . . .
THIRTEEN
AUNT EVIE’S GARDEN
FOURTEEN
TRYING TO FIND THE MEANING OF THE HAWTHORN TREES
FIFTEEN
ENTERING THE CASTLE FROM THE FRONT DOOR
SIXTEEN
THE PORCELAIN DOLL, THE CAR COLLECTION, AND TABLE HOCKEY
SEVENTEEN
A DANCE BEFORE DINNER
EIGHTEEN
STRANGE THINGS HAPPEN WHEN THERE’S A BLOOD MOON
NINETEEN
THE RULES OF THE GAME
TWENTY
THE DANGERS OF STARING DIRECTLY AT THE MOON
TWENTY-ONE
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HAWTHORN TREES
TWENTY-TWO
IF ONLY THERE WAS ONE LAST WISH . . .
TWENTY-THREE
THE TERRIBLE MORPHONS AND THE STRANGE SKY
TWENTY-FOUR
TRYING TO GET BACK TO WHERE THEY STARTED . . .
TWENTY-FIVE
SOMETIMES WISHES DO COME TRUE
TWENTY-SIX
THE CURIOUS STORY OF THE CASTLE IN THE MIST
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
~ CHAPTER ONE ~
the warning
Hawthorn trees.”
“Please stop saying that.”
But Tess said it again, “Haw-thorn trees,” emphasizing each syllable.
They were having breakfast at their aunt Evie’s house in Hampshire, England, where they were staying for the summer.
“Aunt Evie,” said Max, being careful to pronounce her name properly—Awnt the British way, and Ev-ie, short for Evelyn, nothing to do with Eve. “Please make her stop, Aunt Evie. She’s driving me crazy.”
“Hawthorn trees.” Tess said it one more time. And then she added, “He told me to be careful of the hawthorn trees.”
“I did not,” said Max. “I don’t even know what a hawthorn tree is.”
“Who is the ‘he’ in that sentence?” asked Evie, suddenly paying attention to Tess.
“A boy I met yesterday—” Tess hesitated since she knew this next part could get her into trouble “—who was walking on the road leading away from town.”
“And how old was this boy?”
“Hmm, maybe my age. Or a little older, twelve? I didn’t ask. He’s very pale and he has a—umm—accent, British sort of, so I’m pretty sure he’s from here.”
“I don’t know an eleven- or twelve-year-old boy who lives around here,” Aunt Evie replied. “Maybe he’s visiting relatives. Did he say anything else to you?”
Tess thought for a minute. “Umm, no. I mean, he said hello. And then he told me to be careful of the hawthorn trees.”
This wasn’t exactly true. They’d had a much longer conversation than that, but she didn’t know what Aunt Evie would think of the real story . . .
~ CHAPTER TWO ~
the castle in the mist
the real story
She and her brother, Max, had had a fight the day before. Over nothing. It was always over nothing. They were playing Monopoly. The British version, because that was all Evie had in the house besides Scrabble. Tess was winning. Tess had three hotels and she rolled double sixes for the second time in a row, and Max had thrown the board at her. Well, not really at her, but in her direction . . . Tess got mad, too. But rather than having a fight with him, she’d stormed off on her own into the back garden and kept on walking.
Tess never could stay mad at Max for more than half an hour, but it was nice to be outside, the air was fresh, and so she continued walking up the path to where the pear and plum trees were planted on the hill. She stopped and ate a plum and then was surprised to see the path continued beyond the small orchard. She kept on walking, higher and highe
r. The path stopped at a moment, dead-ended against a hill, but then she took the narrow trail to the right and there was a clear view across a field of tall grass sprinkled with wildflowers. Tess didn’t know why she’d never been up here before.
She walked across the small meadow, back onto a path, and up the hill, which was now becoming almost rocky, as if she’d happened onto a cliff. Off to her left, she could see something she’d never seen before; certainly it wasn’t visible from the main road, she didn’t think. It was an old house, ancient maybe—well, house might not be the right word, as it looked awfully large, but it was hard to tell, since it seemed as if it was covered in a cloud of mist.
She stopped on the path, struck by the image of what looked like a castle in the mist, so startling and yet so still, almost as if it was a painting.
There seemed to be steps in the cliff side, carved into the rock, and Tess followed them, slowly. She stopped to look back for a moment. She could see the top of her aunt’s house seemingly far in the distance. She realized she might have walked farther than she’d thought. And then the path stopped and there was just the face of a rocky hill above her. She turned to the left and saw a tangled rose bush; its tiny pink flowers reminded her of her mother’s garden at their small country house on Long Island.
She sat down on the highest step and looked out over the dark green moors, seemingly endless grass, and what looked like a herd of cows, which must be the dairy farm a half mile down the road from Aunt Evie’s. They would go there to get eggs and cream for the week, and fresh butter if he’d made any. They always went to the dairy farm on Mondays. Her aunt said it was a good thing to have a bit of a schedule, especially if you lived alone.
Tess stood up and realized she was a little out of breath from the climb or else she was up so high, the air was thin. She looked again at the tangled rose bush and was surprised to find, just next to it, a wooden gate that was carved. It looked a little like a gingerbread cookie with a funny symbol in the middle, not quite like a heart, more like a coat of arms. The curious thing about the gate, though, was it didn’t seem attached to a fence. Tess had noticed that about England—people weren’t as big on fences as they were in America; everything wasn’t all closed in. She’d asked her aunt about it. Evie had thought it had something to do with old horse trails that linked the neighborhood together and the fact that the houses were so far away from one another. Tess hadn’t pressed her on this, but she did wonder if there wasn’t a stable nearby and one day her aunt might let them take a riding lesson or at least go out on a ride. Tess loved horses and the way it felt to be up on one. Max wasn’t as keen on it, so she hadn’t suggested it yet. Still, it was curious that there was a gate and there wasn’t any fence. She thought she might as well just walk around it.
She was surprised when she tried. It was as if she’d hit a flat surface. First her toe banged into it and then her shoulder. But there wasn’t anything there. Not anything you could see, anyway. She took a step back and put her hand out. It had a smooth surface, cold, almost like polished marble. But there wasn’t anything there that she could see and she couldn’t quite see through it, either. Like an invisible wall. It was very odd. She walked down to the other side of the gate and tried again. But once again, her toe hit the wall and then she bumped it with her elbow. Something didn’t want to let her in. She traced that side with her hand as well, and well, it was curious . . .
She was a little frightened. It didn’t make a lot of sense. She wondered if she might have had too much sun and she was imagining things. If she’d had any sense, she probably would’ve run back down the path to her aunt’s house, where everything was just as it was supposed to be.
The gate itself was also odd. It was a carved wooden gate, but it didn’t have a latch or a keyhole and its surface was flat, no edges of wood to get a foot on so that you could try to climb over it. It was just high enough so that no amount of jumping could get her to reach the top—not that she was enough of a gymnast to have hoisted herself over, and if she could, she wondered how she would ever get back . . .
She was just about to give up when she looked down and saw a round piece of metal, almost like an iron ring, buried in the dirt. She leaned down and, using her T-shirt like a glove, clawed at the dirt and pulled out what looked like an old skeleton key.
She knew instantly it was the key to the gate. But then she had what her dad would call a dilemma. If she’d found the key to someone’s “house,” did it mean she had the right to use it? Well, it wasn’t really the key to the house, she reasoned, it was just the key to the gate. And if there were dogs on the other side, they would’ve been barking already.
She brushed off the key as best she could, completely forgetting that there wasn’t any keyhole to put it in. It was as if she was compelled to try it. She held the key up to the gate and then realized how ridiculous that was, but as the key neared the place where the keyhole should’ve been, the rust flashed away in an instant—she swore she saw sparks—and the gate seemed to lighten as if it had been built in this century after all. It was almost as if it was a magnet, or two sides of a magnet anyway, as her hand pushed the key into a shiny brass keyhole that appeared out of nowhere. She was a little frightened now, but the gate swung open before she could even turn the key . . .
She could see a pond, the water pale blue, with white swans in it and what seemed like water lilies growing around the banks. There were hedges in the distance, staggered in lines, that reminded her of the maze at Hampton Court. She wondered if it was a maze. The hydrangeas were blooming, their lush white flowers looked like pom poms. It was definitely somebody’s estate. And now she was worried that the invisible “wall” on either side of the gate was like an electrified fence or something—her father had told her about those—and she really shouldn’t be there at all.
But before she could shut the gate and run back down the hill, a voice called out, “Hello-o.” There was a boy who looked to be almost her age kicking a yellow ball, practicing soccer moves. He stopped the ball adeptly between his feet and called out again, “Hello.” And then he added the strangest thing, “I’ve been expecting you.”
Tess put her hand on her hip and said, “Really? What’s my name, then?”
The boy stammered, “I didn’t mean, I didn’t, I meant I’d been expecting someone.” And then he smiled and added, “But I’m awfully glad it’s you.” Leaving the ball on the grass, he started to walk towards her. “I’m William,” he said. “What’s your name?”
“Tess,” she answered. “Tess Barnes.” Something made her want to tell him her last name, too. There was something about the house that made her want to seem proper. She wondered if he was a Prince or his father was a Lord or something. The property was awfully grand.
“I didn’t mean to burst in,” she said.
He laughed at that. “You hardly burst in. You were just standing at the gate.”
Tess turned back to look at the gate, which was still ajar. She turned back to ask him about it, but before she could, he said, “It’s better that we not speak about that. Take the key. Don’t shut the gate. Take the key out of the lock and put it in your pocket. That way you can come back and visit me again, if you want.”
There was something about the way he said it, quickly and as if it was an instruction, that made her wonder what would happen if she didn’t take the key out of the lock. If the gate could close and neither one of them would be able to get out. She was letting her imagination run away with her. Not really, the whole thing had been a little strange.
She quickly put her hand on the gate though and pulled the key out from the lock. In an instant the keyhole disappeared. The key, though, was still the bright brass color it had turned when she’d put it in the lock.
“You don’t need it?” Tess asked.
“No, it doesn’t work from this side.” He saw her looking at the sides of the gate, the invisible wall she ha
d run up against. “It’s a trick,” he explained. “My father’s big on privacy.”
Tess sort of understood that. Her father was a little cautious, too. They had emergency kits and all kinds of things stacked up in a closet. There were flashlights in almost every drawer, not to mention the extra bottles of water and ridiculous amounts of votive candles packed away in the pantry.
“What does he do?” she asked. “Your dad?”
“He’s a banker. I think that’s what he does. It’s sort of complicated, something to do with investing. He spends most of his time in London.”
“My dad’s a reporter,” said Tess. “He’s in Afghanistan now.”
“Oh,” said William, “that’s very far away.”
Tess laughed. “I guess it is.” She was very appreciative that he hadn’t said, “Oh, dear,” or “That must be dangerous,” or given her one of those looks that grown-ups did, as if they were quite concerned, and then they would be extra nice to her.
He told her that Marie, the woman who took care of him, had made him a picnic and he asked if she was hungry. She was, actually. It had been a bit of a hike to get there and she’d stormed out before lunch.
She took a look around the garden. She walked over to the pond and put her hand in the water just to make sure that it was water and not some odd illusion. The flowers smelled the way they were supposed to. And, just there, laid out on the lawn behind where he’d been playing, was a cloth tablecloth and a wicker picnic basket.
“She always makes two kinds,” said William. There was ham and cheddar on a kind of brown bread, and cream cheese and strawberry preserves on white bread. The crusts had been cut off and the sandwiches cut into four triangles, very neatly, the same way Aunt Evie cut them. The jam and cream cheese was delicious. She was hungry. The ham was good, too. She could tell it was home-made and not from a package. After they’d finished lunch and folded up the tablecloth, she started to leave. But he kicked the ball to her and, instinctually, she kicked it back.
