“Hi Dad,” she said, softly so her mother wouldn’t hear.
Breakfast was meager. They found the last of the bagels from their favorite shop in the city, picked up on moving day and kind of stale. They had no butter, cream cheese, or jam, and couldn’t find the toaster, so they had to content themselves with chewing dry bagels.
“I’ll get groceries later,” Rosa promised. “Just as soon as I figure out where the grocery store is.”
Mom looked like she wanted to handle such things.
“You can’t read the labels. You might come home with squid jerky and prunes.”
Mom furrowed her brow again. She looked wounded and dissatisfied.
“Do you know where we packed the tool belts?” Rosa asked, quickly. You shouldn’t need your voice to remember that. And you’ve always been able to find lost things. Always. Even the books that deliberately misshelved themselves couldn’t hide from you for long.
Her mother homed in on a particular pile of boxes, removed the two on top, and ripped packing tape away from a box in the middle. Then she pulled out both belts and handed Rosa her own.
The buckle made a satisfying noise when Rosa clipped it on. The weight felt right and fitting.
“Thanks,” she said. “Now I need to do a little research. And go for a hike. But I’ll be back soon.” She kissed her mother on the cheek. They made eye contact, and held it, but Rosa couldn’t tell what that meant—if it meant anything. Mom couldn’t seem to make it signify. She didn’t have a voice.
“I’ll find it,” Rosa promised.
Her mother set her own skills to finding the lost and disassembled pieces of their coffee maker.
Rosa filled a travel mug with water. She dumped an obscene amount of salt into the water and stirred up the mix until the salt dissolved. Then she plucked a loose hair from the back of Mom’s shirt. Mom didn’t notice. Rosa dropped a snipped-off piece of the hair into salty water before waving an unseen good-bye.
She took the borrowed first aid kit upstairs and headed directly for Special Collections. (She left the travel mug on the floor, just outside the doorway, because she knew better than to bring liquid into Special Collections.)
“Good morning, Mrs. Jillynip,” Rosa said. “Thank you for this.”
“Good morning . . . child,” said Mrs. Jillynip, who had not yet asked Rosa’s name and now pretended that she didn’t need to. “Your mother is well, I hope.”
Not really, Rosa thought. “Well enough,” she said aloud.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Mrs. Jillynip. She took the kit and turned away, clearly expecting the conversation to be over.
“Who hired her, exactly?” Rosa asked.
The other librarian raised her eyebrows like cautious boxing gloves. “Excuse me? We posted notice of the new position here, and your mother applied for the job. It was my understanding that she sought out a quieter life than the one she had previously led.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” Rosa said. “But now I’m thinking that somebody wanted the best appeasement specialist they could find to live in Ingot. Somebody knew to expect ghostly troubles here. Who was it? Do you know?”
Mrs. Jillynip turned her back on the forbidden spiral staircase to avoid glancing in that direction.
Rosa pretended not to notice.
“I really don’t know what you mean, child,” the other librarian insisted. “Is there something else I can help you with?”
Rosa let the matter of invitations and spiral staircases drop. There was one other thing that she needed.
“Yes, please. Thank you for offering. I’d like to go through the map collection.”
Mrs. Jillynip hovered like a vengeful hummingbird while Rosa picked through old maps with white-gloved fingers.
The paper made crinkling noises. The older librarian twitched.
“What precisely are you looking for?”
“Maps of Ingot,” Rosa said.
And the hills around it, she thought without saying. She paged back through time and watched the town shrink all the way down to a few buildings gathered around a single crossroads.
Main Street ran directly east-west between two mountain tunnels. The highway still ran through those tunnels. No one ever traveled over the mountains that surrounded Ingot—only underneath them.
Why build a town here at all? Rosa thought. This place is really hard to get to.
Isabelle Road crossed Main Street and ran south, away from the tiny center of town and into the surrounding hills. But the road ran out of map and disappeared off the edge of the paper before Rosa could see where it went.
Be wary of absence, Catalina de Erauso wrote. The empty circle. The silence that bespeaks a missing voice. The place where your opponent’s sword has not yet struck.
Rosa checked the dates. “These are barely a century old. Are they the earliest maps we have?”
Mrs. Jillynip made a disapproving noise, as though Rosa had cast doubts on the map collection—or on the town’s age and respectability. “They are.”
Rosa took off the little white gloves and gave them back. “Thank you for your help.”
“You are welcome, child,” Mrs. Jillynip said, clearly unsure what it was she had helped with, and possibly unsure whether or not Rosa was actually welcome.
Rosa hitched up her tool belt, retrieved the travel mug, and headed out. She had work to do. She marched underneath the elaborately mustached portrait of Bartholomew Theosophras Barron in the front lobby. Then she turned around and came back.
Both of the bathroom doors were propped open.
She looked inside the women’s room. Someone had removed all the pipes and fixtures. The sinks looked headless. Rosa peered into the men’s room. It was a grimier place, as expected. It also stood bereft of plumbing.
Someone had come in the night and confiscated a whole lot of copper.
“Be wary of absence,” Rosa said to herself.
She checked the front doors, but the locks and latches were not scratched or otherwise damaged. Nothing had broken into the library from outside.
Rosa went out and sat on the front steps. She took the lid off the mug.
“Find me another missing piece of her,” she whispered at the salty water. “Inside, or outside? Something is haunting the library. Something else is haunting the hills above Ingot. Where should I start? Which way should I go?”
The hair spun like a compass needle. The follicle pointed away from the library and into the hills. Rosa looked. She saw a patch of scarlet in the distance. Something had shocked several trees into an early autumn, right about where Rosa had seen a flash of light yesterday. Something had taken a piece of Athena Díaz back to that same spot.
Rosa sealed up her compass-mug and clipped it to her belt. She set off southward, toward the fairground and Chevalier Farm, toward the place where Isabelle Road fell off the edge of the map.
15
THE CHEVALIER FARMHOUSE WAS LARGE and painted grayish green. Rosa climbed onto the front porch. She whispered a courteous hello to whatever may or may not lurk underneath it. First impressions were always important to household spirits.
Nothing rustled under her feet. Rosa wondered if this household had any spirits. Maybe they kept low and silent, because this was Ingot. Maybe they had been driven out. Maybe they had never been here at all. Maybe this house, and this farm, and this whole town had always stood empty of all but the living.
She knocked. A blonde woman opened the door and stood in the doorway. The woman held a coffee mug shaped like a knight’s helmet.
“Good morning. My name’s Rosa. Is Jasper home?”
“Hello there,” the woman said. “I’m Mrs. Chevalier. Jasper’s mom.”
“Oh,” said Rosa. “But you’re white.”
“True,” said Mrs. Chevalier.
“Well noticed!” Jasper’s dad called out from somewhere inside the house. “She’s observant, that one.”
“Good morrow to you, Sir Morien,” Rosa called
after him.
“And to you, Lady Librarian,” he answered back.
“Jasper does look a little more like his father,” Mrs. Chevalier said smoothly. “And I think he might be back in the stables. You can look for him there. But try not to shout, or do anything sudden and loud.”
“Thanks!” Rosa said, and hurried off the porch. She didn’t think she had made the best impression on the Chevalier household.
The stable doors were open. The inside was dimly lit and full of thick, musty smells. Horses shuffled and stamped in their stalls. Rosa didn’t know much about horses, or how to listen to horse behaviors. She moved cautiously. These beasts were very much bigger than she was, and she didn’t speak their language or understand their rules. A chalk circle would be poor defense against a charging, kicking horse.
Jasper stood in the entrance to one stall. The beige horse beside him suddenly stuck its head in the air and bared its teeth. Jasper looked around. He spotted Rosa, and waved. Then he offered the horse an apple. It reached out carefully with its face, took the apple, and left behind a whole handful of drool in Jasper’s open palm. He wiped the drool on the leg of his pants.
“This is Agrippa,” Jasper said. “He’s been grazing on clover lately. Makes him spit more.”
“Hi Agrippa,” Rosa said.
The horse looked her over with one large, pale eyeball. Its—his—iris ran sideways, like a tipped-over cat’s eye. Rosa found that deeply unsettling. Then Agrippa exhaled a burst of warm air at her face. She flinched.
“That means hi,” Jasper explained. “You don’t need to worry about Agrippa. He’s old, wise, cold-blooded, and doesn’t lash out or spook easily.”
“Okay,” Rosa said. “I thought horses were mammals, though.”
“Cold-blooded temperament, not biology. He isn’t reptilian.”
“Okay,” Rosa said again. She still regarded the horse as though he might be some sort of dinosaur. “Do your parents spook easily? They’re both pretty relaxed after yesterday. Not braced for a whole stampede of haunted trees.”
“Yeah,” Jasper said. “I noticed that, too. So I dropped some pennies in their shoes and talked my mom into wearing copper jewelry. But I can’t really tell if it helped. They remember the tree. But they don’t want to. And it’s like they’re trying to ignore the memory until it goes away.”
“Have they always lived here?” Rosa asked. “Both of them?”
“Mostly. They’re both from here, anyway. Went away to college and then moved right back. Why?”
“I think this kind of amnesia is habit-forming. They’ve been forgetting for a long while. Longer than you have. Maybe it’s easier for you to remember.” Rosa didn’t want to dwell too much on parents and their missing pieces. “I hope it’s easier for you, anyway. Let’s test that out. Want to come hiking?”
Of course he wanted to come. Jasper grabbed his quarterstaff and set off, ready to face whatever haunted beasts might prowl around the borders of Ingot. But he balked when Rosa turned left at the end of the driveway and hiked south, up into the foothills.
She kept right on going. He took a breath, pushed himself after her, and hurried to catch up. The coin on his staff clinked against the road. Then pavement gave way to packed dirt and small weeds and the tip made a muffled thunking sound instead.
“Cars don’t come through here, I guess,” Rosa said. “But something does. It isn’t completely overgrown. The dirt in the middle is packed down and plant-free. Maybe people still use it on foot. Or bike. Or horseback.”
“We don’t ride horses up this way,” Jasper said quickly.
Rosa looked around. “But it’s a nice path through the woods. Good view of the valley behind us. No cars. Seems perfect for riding.”
“We don’t ride up this way,” he said again.
Rosa said nothing, but she said it loudly.
The road narrowed further until only the footpath remained, worn smooth but surrounded by forest. The trees and brush leaned close on either side and scratched at their arms and sleeves.
“You know a fair bit about history, right?” Rosa asked as they hiked on.
“Can’t help it,” said Jasper. “Both parents walk around wearing history. Medieval Europe is their favorite flavor, but they’re also members of the local Historical Society. They read up on all kinds.”
“When was Ingot founded?” Rosa asked, her voice casually innocent.
“Why?” Jasper asked, suspicious.
“Do you know?”
“Of course I know: 1899. Founded by Bartholomew Theosophras Barron and his wife, Isabelle.”
“Okay,” Rosa said. “Now why was it founded?”
“That’s . . . kind of a dumb question.”
“No it isn’t,” Rosa argued. “Something must have brought people out here. Did they throw darts at a map? Or shoot an arrow into the sky and say, ‘Let’s go that way and build a town!’ This place is pretty inconvenient. Hard to get to. Takes effort. The only way in is a highway punched through mountains. Why did settling people spend all that effort?”
“You don’t like it here,” Jasper said.
“No. I don’t. But that’s not why I’m asking.”
“Well, feel free to ask my parents about local history when we get back. I’m sure they know.”
“I’m sure they don’t,” Rosa said.
Jasper hit the ground harder with his staff as they hiked.
The trail veered around the banks of a small lake. It looked pretty. But someone had nailed several signs to the trees around it. DO NOT SWIM. DO NOT DRINK. WATER UNSAFE. NO FISHING. NO HUNTING. NO TRESPASSING.
Rosa picked up a pebble and tossed it in.
Jasper flinched when it plunked into the water.
“What happened here?” she wondered aloud.
Jasper shook his head. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. He felt the opposite of curious—an intense and flinching distaste for ever knowing.
Rosa gave him a long look. He looked away first, and felt himself growing angry. He couldn’t figure out why he would be. He expected to feel excellent and adventurous about accompanying an appeasement specialist on her ghostly errand. But he didn’t.
“You’re pissed,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“You’ve been getting grouchier as we go.”
“You’ve been getting more and more rude as we go.”
She turned to face him. “What’s at the end of this road?”
The question felt like a sharp stick poking at his face. “What?”
“This road,” Rosa pressed. “You live on it. The center of town is that way. What’s this way?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Nothing is.”
“Then the trail wouldn’t be here. The road would just stop at the farm and fairgrounds. Why is it here? Where is it going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why not? You should.”
“I didn’t think this hike included a quiz.”
Rosa crossed her arms and cocked her head sideways. “You’re getting seriously angry.”
“You’re always angry!” His own voice surprised him. Jasper didn’t shout much.
“True,” she said. “I like to feel angry about things that need fixing. Helps me try to fix them. I like to burn that feeling as fuel. But this seems to be burning you instead. And I’m pretty sure that your mom, your dad, old Mrs. Squillypip, and the full membership of the Ingot Historical Society have no idea where this road goes, either.”
Jasper stood and seethed.
She dropped her voice. “I also think this anger isn’t entirely yours. Some of it might be. But some of it’s borrowed.”
The seething lessened, just a little, as soon as she said that.
“I can feel it,” she went on. “Not as strong as you do, I’m guessing, since I’m not local. But I can still feel it. And it definitely isn’t mine. I’ve got plenty. I know what it tastes like. I can tell the difference. This is coming from s
omewhere else. And it’s making your bracelet send off little wisps of smoke.”
Jasper considered his smoky bracelet. It felt cold around his wrist. So did the two pennies stuck to his shoulders with Band-Aids.
He tried to figure out whether any of the anger he felt was his own, and decided that some of it was. “Quit being such a snob about my hometown.”
“Okay,” she said cheerfully, and started hiking again. “Teach me that sea chantey. The one on the Zippo. If it’s good for hoisting sail, it should be good for hiking.”
Jasper taught her the chorus.
Away, haul away, we’ll heave and hang together,
Away, haul away, we’ll haul away soon.
Away, haul away, we’re bound for bitter weather.
Away, haul away, we’ll haul away soon.
“Is the whole song like that?” Rosa asked. “ ‘Something bad’s about to happen and we probably deserve it?’ ”
“That’s every sea chantey,” Jasper said. “Something bad is always about to happen to sailors. Might as well sing through it.”
16
THEY SANG UNTIL THE TEMPERATURE dropped around them. The sunlight weakened above them. The forest thinned beside them. They walked on in silence, and they walked more slowly.
“The leaves are red,” Jasper noticed. “They’re dying. Like this is October instead of midsummer.”
“Maybe it is,” Rosa said. “Here, anyway.”
Jasper tripped over something, and shouted.
“Shhhh,” Rosa said.
“Don’t shush me, librarian,” Jasper shot back. He wanted to shout again. He held his breath instead. That didn’t really work. The breath came sputtering out. He expected Rosa to laugh at the noise, but she didn’t.
“You’ve made it this far,” she said. “All the way to the red trees. We’re close.” She uncapped her travel mug and checked the compass. “You can do this. You can make it to the top of this trail. Call me names if you want, but try not to shout.”
She kicked at the dirt to see what he had tripped over. “It’s a rail. A rusty iron rail, like a train track.”
A Properly Unhaunted Place Page 6
