by Teri Terry
Or even just working out who I am, or what I should do. I sigh.
My fingers stroke the pendant and close around it, and all at once I know: the truth. That is what is most important to me. Truth and half-truths, too—the sort that hide behind lies, that I must fight to reveal.
Though my truth just now is straightforward: I want to leave this place. I must leave this place, alone, for all our sakes. Winchester and Dad and the lovely house there fill my mind. But if he isn’t our father, I have nowhere to go.
Piper
Gran pulls the key from under her clothes and unlocks the only locked door in her house: the one to her reading room.
“Come in, both of you,” she says.
Quinn is pale, with dark smudges under her eyes. I gesture for her to go first, so she shields me. She steps in slowly. I turn and cough by the door, then follow her in.
I stand there, trying to take it all in at once. A small room, or does it just feel that way because it is so full? Of chairs, a table. Shelves everywhere, packed with books, ornaments. Crystals and drawings hang on the walls.
While there are some books, I’m guessing this isn’t called a reading room because of that.
“Sit,” Gran says. There are two seats in front of the table, one behind. Gran lowers herself into that one.
I sit down. Quinn sits next to me slowly, as if she is reluctant to be here. I look at her, but her eyes are cast down.
“Quinn, Piper,” Gran says, and Quinn’s eyes are drawn up to her along with mine. “I’ve given this situation some thought. I’ve decided that if you find the right questions to ask me, I will answer them, in hope it will help you find your way. But there is a cost.”
“What is it?” Quinn asks, her voice quiet.
“The truth. Only the truth can be spoken in this room.”
“I have a question,” Quinn says. Her voice is stronger. We both look at her.
“Go on,” Gran says.
“Who is our father?”
Gran looks back at her and sighs. “Not who you thought he was.” Distaste crosses her face.
“That isn’t much of an answer,” Quinn says.
“True. My room, my rules.”
“My turn,” I say. “Mum said something about there being an inheritance.”
“Only speak truth,” Gran admonishes, an eyebrow raised.
“It is the truth! Well, Dad said Mum said that. That there is an inheritance, one only a Blackwood can have. What is it?”
“Straight to the point.” Gran smiles thinly. “There is. Only a direct blood descendant can inherit, and women of our family do not change the Blackwood name. Now that Isobel is gone, it will come to one of you when I die. Only one of you can inherit. You cannot imagine how high the cost. Or maybe you can.” She stares at Piper. “Think about that.”
“What could it be?” I ask Quinn.
“What?”
“The inheritance.” Could she really be that indifferent to it?
“I don’t care.”
“Really?”
“It’s true! I want to leave this place. You can have it, whatever it is.”
“Do you mean it? Will you help me find it?”
“Yes.”
I throw my arms around Quinn. Her shoulders are stiff at first, but relent. She droops against me.
“What is that stuff about not changing the Blackwood name?”
Quinn shrugs. “I’ve heard Gran say before that names are powerful, that some power is tied up in our name. I don’t know what it is.”
“What can I do for you in return?” I ask her.
She shrugs.
“There must be something you want . . . wait. I have it!”
Quinn pulls away, looks in my eyes. “What?”
“Our father. You want to know who our biological father is. If you help me find my inheritance, I’ll help you find him.” I hold out a hand. “Deal?”
Quinn pauses, as if digesting what I said, and the words I used to claim it—my inheritance.
Then she shrugs. “Yes. Deal.” She puts her cold hand in mine.
Quinn
Isobel’s bracelet itches on my wrist as Piper drags me back toward Gran’s reading room. It felt so wrong to be in here before, when Gran was opening the door and beckoning us in. That’s nothing to how it feels now.
“Come on,” Piper says, impatient. “She left the door unlocked, didn’t she? That’s practically a written invitation. We need to search her room. She’s asleep, and Zak won’t be back for ages yet.” He volunteered to walk to the car and go on a supply run when Gran professed a craving for lemon cake this morning, knowing we didn’t have any eggs or lemons—a craving I was sure she’d invented to have us alone with her this morning.
I pause at the threshold. The last time I entered this room uninvited, I got locked alone in the dark for two days.
But this time I’m sure Piper is right. Gran took us in there this morning, then left it unlocked? I can’t believe that was an accident; she must have done it on purpose. I finally follow Piper in.
“What are we looking for?” I ask Piper.
“I was hoping you’d know. For now, let’s just check out everything.” Piper starts on one side of the room; I take the other. I’m randomly looking on shelves, in drawers, at drawings of strange symbols, etched crystals, tied charms of dried herbs and grasses that Gran had me collect for her.
The time I was here on my own as a child, I had barely a moment to admire the shiny crystals before Gran caught me, my hand on a book I’d just taken from the shelf. My bracelet itches again, and I scratch at my wrist. The book that had the same symbol on the front as the pendant on this bracelet. The book Gran reacted so strongly to seeing in my hand, even though I promised her I’d never even opened it.
With more purpose now, I scan the shelves, searching my memory for details. The book had a dark red cover of ancient, worn leather; the binding was hand sewn. It’s not here.
I sigh and sit on Gran’s chair, fiddling with Isobel’s bracelet. My fingers stroke the surface of the pendant and close around it. What are we really looking for? Two things: information about our father and whatever it is that Piper wants to inherit. Once we find these things, I can leave this place and never come back.
With everything else that is going on, why do I feel so desperate to find out about my father? Gran’s face earlier said it all: she didn’t think much of him. But even if he is a total waste of a human being, I feel almost compelled to find him. Is it because I feel cheated that I thought I’d found a real parent in Winchester, and I was wrong?
I lean back in Gran’s chair. Things look different from here. My eyes drift around the room, as Piper goes through a shelf on the other side of the table. I twist to look behind me. There is an ancient, dusty box not visible from the other chairs, hidden by shelves and tucked in a back corner. I turn and lean down to pick it up, then put it on the table.
“What have you got there?” Piper comes to stand next to me.
“I don’t know. Some box. I haven’t seen it before.”
The lid is tight on top, and I wiggle it a bit to get it off. Inside are drawings of faces, newspaper clippings, photographs, bits of paper with notes. Some of the paper is so old, it feels as if it might crumble to dust if handled too much. Careful not to disturb the order, I start looking through, but it seems mixed up, random.
“Is it family stuff?” Piper asks.
I shake my head. “I don’t think so; there are no Blackwoods mentioned. It’s about some other family. Name of Hamley.” I scan the newspaper clippings. “A very unlucky family, by the look of things. Stuff kept happening to them, even as recently as a few decades ago and going right back. Hunting accidents, disasters, murder, bankruptcy. You name it. It’s like they were cursed.” Hairs prickle on the backs of my hands.
I start looking through the drawings and photographs, and Piper watches over my shoulder. “That’s weird,” she says.
“What?”<
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“It’s like the photos are exposed funny. They’ve all got a shadow on their faces.” I look again, but don’t see what Piper does. I shrug.
There are initials and dates on the backs of the photographs. Some are very old, some from this century. I go through a fistful of them. I wish I could just find something I want! A couple of loose photographs flutter down from the pile in my hand.
I study them closely. A red-haired lad. On the moors, on a sunny day. A summer’s day, judging by what he is wearing. He’s smiling in a warm, intimate way, as if he really likes whoever is holding the camera. Goose bumps prickle my back. Written on the reverse of both photos is W.H. and a date about forty years ago, open-ended with a dash. Is that when he was born? If so, he was just a few years older than Isobel. And missing is marked after the date—in Gran’s handwriting.
“What do you make of these two?” I ask Piper.
She comes around, takes the photos, and studies them. “His hair is red, like ours. And those cheekbones. Do you think he could be—”
“Your father?” Gran stands in the doorway. Her face is ice cold; her eyes flash fury. “Yes. He is.”
Piper
“How did you get in here?” Gran demands. Her face is enraged, and I hate that I involuntarily take a step back.
“You left it unlocked,” I say.
“I did not.”
Quinn’s face goes pale. She looks at me. “Piper?” she says, uncertainly.
“It was unlocked,” I insist. “We thought you left it unlocked for us. How else could we have got in?”
Gran turns, examines the lock. “It’s been tampered with. Very impressive, Piper. How did you manage that this morning when we were both in the room with you?” She shakes her head, a grudging respect in her eyes. “Now, both of you: get out. And don’t ever come in here again without an invitation.”
Quinn rushes to obey; I follow more slowly.
“And, girls?” We turn. She gestures at the photograph still clutched in my hand. “You will regret it greatly if you find him. Let the past lie where it will.” I hold it out and she takes it, then goes back into her reading room and shuts the door.
Quinn follows me to the front room. She looks at me oddly. “You lied to me. You said the door was unlocked.”
“I didn’t lie; it was unlocked.”
Quinn shakes her head impatiently. “But how was it unlocked?”
“I cast a spell on it,” I say, and shock fills her eyes. I roll mine. “No, Quinn. I shoved some gum in the lock mechanism as we went in this morning. Remember, I got you to go in first, so you shielded me. It is an old, simple lock. Jamming it was all it took to stop it from locking when she turned the key.”
“You’re mad.”
“At least now we have a lead to our father. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“Not much to go on without the photograph.”
I smile, reach into my pocket, and hold out the second photo. “I hid this one earlier.”
Quinn finally succumbs to tiredness after her sleepless night and curls up on the sofa for a nap. I slip out onto the moors with Ness. It’s only early afternoon, though with everything that has happened, the day feels like it’s had too many hours, that they’ve stretched out and become bigger to hold all the thoughts, feelings, and events.
I climb the hill we came down to get here, then pause by Wisht Tor at the top. All this talk of fathers has reminded me—if I don’t call home soon, Dad’s likely to appear and ruin everything. This is one of the highest places around here: will there be any signal? I take out my phone. There is one bar that fades in and out; I walk around the tor to find the place where it is the most stable. A number of missed texts and calls ping in—most from Dad.
I hit Return Call; it rings twice. “Hello, Piper?”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Is everything all right? I’ve been trying to call.”
“All is fine. There’s really poor network here; I’ve had to climb a tor to find a signal.”
He chuckles, as if the thought of me climbing a tor is funny. Well, I suppose it is. I smile, and he chatters on and asks me questions, and I do my best to put his mind at ease. It’s not his fault, any of this. Whether or not he doubted Mum’s claims, he has always treated me like his daughter, one he cherished. What was Dad really, to Mum? A place to run? Finally I interrupt. “Dad, my battery is low. There’s nowhere to charge it, so don’t freak if I don’t answer calls, all right?”
“Don’t forget—be back for school on Monday.”
“I’ll try. But promise you won’t worry if we’re late. All right?”
“Just be back for Monday.”
We say our goodbyes, and I slip my phone back into my pocket.
I start down the tricky slope on the other side of the tor, heading away from the house, eyes searching for the path Zak would take back from the car. I struggle down, not as adept at finding my way as Quinn or Zak. Ness runs ahead and back and ahead again. She’s loving the space here, not having to be on a lead. Running free. I know how she feels. There is something about being here that speaks to somewhere inside me, a place that always longed for something without knowing what it was.
If—I mean, when—we go back to Winchester, it will seem small. Contained and civilized.
Zak appears in the distance. I wave and hurry down to meet him before he starts up the hill with a pack and bags in his hands.
“Hello there!” he says. “Piper?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, it’s me.”
“Sorry. I thought it was, unless you two did a complete clothing swap since I left this morning. I’m just surprised to see you walking on your own. Did you come to meet me?”
“Sort of. Do you mind if we go back to the car with that for now? There’s something I want to do.”
“I know that look in your eyes, and it makes me nervous,” he says, and grins. “Come on, then. At least you caught me before I went up the hill with all this.”
I explain on the way—that Gran confirmed our dad wasn’t who we thought, and that I have a photo of the real deal. We reach the car, and Zak stuffs the pack and bags in the boot.
I take out the photo. Zak holds it, studies it closely. He whistles. “All right, maybe I can see the family resemblance. What now?”
I grin. “We need to find some locals to ask about the photo, so I thought we’d go to the hotel for a drink.”
“I like the way you think. Though Quinn worked at that hotel; they’ll think you’re her, won’t they?”
I shrug. “She’s masqueraded as me often enough in Winchester. It’s my turn to be her for a while.”
“Have you thought about how your dad—you know, the one who raised you and loved you all your life—will take it if you find this guy?”
“He wouldn’t be happy if he knew about it. I just called him, by the way. There’s a bit of signal at the top by Wisht Tor.”
“How are things back home?”
“He misses me, of course. But he’s fine. And you don’t have to worry about Dad. I don’t plan to tell him about any of this.”
“Kiss for luck?” He pulls me close. It almost feels the same, like it used to before Quinn came along. But nothing can ever be the same with her in my life, can it? Everything has changed, forever.
So this is Two Bridges Hotel.
It has all different bits stuck together—roof height and windows not lining up—in that haphazard way that old country inns often have, but it’s still pleasing to the eye. I know from checking the website before we left Winchester that it is over two hundred years old and started as a coaching inn. It has changed names and hands a number of times. It is a prettied-up version of what I expected. The grounds as well. They are lovely for this time of year, with scattered benches and a gazebo.
Green grass slopes down, and a small army of white geese troop about below by the hotel. They notice us and start squawking noisily among themselves, as if they’re trying
to decide whether to run or attack.
Ness growls, and Zak picks her up. “Trust me,” he says. “You don’t want to take on that lot.”
We walk across the lawn, and I concentrate on moving like Quinn while my eyes drink this place in. Where my mother worked, years ago, where she met the man who raised me, the one I thought was my father. Where Quinn worked until recently, too.
We go through the front door. It’s warm here after being outside. Zak puts Ness down. There is a woman at a desk on the phone; another person waiting there. The woman looks up and waves excitedly when she sees me.
“Let’s look around?” I say to Zak, my voice low.
The public rooms are rambling and interconnected, full of mismatched, faded, grand furniture, a weird mix of paintings on the walls. Clocks stopped at different times, all the wrong time, in different sizes, shapes. There are fireplaces, bookshelves, cozy nooks. The whole place is sort of gleaming and posh, and old and worn, at the same time.
A painting in a corner draws my attention. Huge black dogs stare from the canvas. Their eyes are red, their claws long and sharp. Wisht Hounds? Around it are framed stories and reports: Howling heard at midnight, deaths by heart attack; hounds sighted, three missing. Bodies found, torn to pieces. None are recent.
“Quinn! There you are. It’s so good to see you.” I turn, and the woman from the desk bustles over. She reaches around, gives me a hug. Her eyes get wider and wider as she takes in what I’m wearing, Zak next to me, and Ness.
“Are you coming back to us? How is your grandmother? Oh, sorry, my manners. Sit. I’ll bring you some tea and then we can talk.” She ushers us toward a sofa by the fire and disappears. We sit down, and I wonder: does the cleaner usually get tea in front of the fire? She seemed so happy to see me, and not just in a way that said they were short on cleaning staff. She must genuinely like Quinn.
Another woman comes over. “Karen said you were here, Quinn. So good to see you. I’ve got some more books for you.” She holds them out; I take them.
