The House in Poplar Wood

by K. E. Ormsbee

  Lee nodded.

  “They can’t see each other, either,” said Felix. “Mom and Dad.”

  Gretchen frowned. “Is that . . . normal for apprentices?”

  The brothers looked uneasily at each other.

  “No,” said Lee. His mind flooded with the stories his mother had told him—vivid, like they were his own memories.

  “Normally,” he said, “Shades don’t live anywhere near each other. They don’t want to know each other’s business. They don’t associate. Here in Boone Ridge, especially, Death and Memory don’t get along. Something happened a while back, and they got into a big fight. And, well, Passion knew that and decided to pull a prank on them. Thought it’d be funny to make their two apprentices fall in love.”

  Gretchen’s eyes got big. “Your mom and dad.”

  “Yes. And, well, it worked. They fell in love before they knew who the other was, and by then it was too late. They tried to keep it secret for a while.”

  “But Death and Memory found out,” guessed Gretchen.

  Lee nodded. “They were, um, mad. Death threatened to kill Mom before her time. Memory threatened to remove all memory of Mom from Dad’s head. Then Mom found out she was pregnant with me and Felix. So Mom and Dad begged to draw up a new contract.”

  “The Agreement,” said Gretchen.

  “Mom and Dad agreed to never see each other again and to each take one son. Mom took me to raise as Memory’s new apprentice, and Dad took Felix to raise as Death’s. Then Death and Memory put a charm on Poplar House. The cottage is divided, east and west; we can share the porches, but we can’t cross each other’s thresholds. So I just . . . don’t have a dad. And Felix doesn’t have a mom. That’s the way it’s always been.”

  “And the way it’s always going to be,” said Felix, glaring sullenly into the fire.

  “Unless you break the Agreement.” Gretchen’s eyes were focused on the open book in her lap.

  “We’ve tried to break it before,” said Felix. “But they’re Shades, and we’re just kids. It’s not going to happen.”

  The words were prickly, offered to Gretchen but thrown at Lee like accusations.

  “Maybe not,” Lee said, glaring at his brother. “But if anyone could help us, it’d be Gretchen.” He turned to her. “You said maybe there’s a Rite that could help us.”

  Gretchen remained quiet. She looked up from the book. Then, she began to laugh.

  It had begun as a terrible sensation—her belly trembling, her chest shaking like a heavy-duty washing machine. But when Gretchen tried to hold the sensation down, she ended up snorting. Then she gave way completely, bursting into laughter.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasped around giggles. “I know it’s not funny. It’s just . . . a lot . . . of new . . . information.”

  Felix was stony-faced. Lee looked like he was coming down with a stomach virus. Neither boy was laughing along.

  “You said you could help,” Lee said. “I thought you understood.”

  “I’m sorry,” Gretchen repeated, but this time with much more sincerity, her laughter wheezing away. “I do understand, it’s just a little hard to take in, is all. I didn’t think Shades were so . . .”

  “Petty?” suggested Felix.

  “Human.” When both brothers flinched, Gretchen said quickly, “I know they’re not, but . . . I guess I thought they were more, uh, serious. You know, not the type to pull pranks and fight and stuff.”

  “Not all of them do,” said Lee. “I hear some towns have really good Shades. Fair and kind. Chattanooga, for example, and Asheville. But . . . not here in Boone Ridge.”

  “Sheesh,” said Gretchen. “Apprentices definitely have it worse than us.”

  Felix folded his arms. “Well, what’s the deal with Whipples?”

  “Yeah!” Lee waved his hand at Gretchen, as though to say Now give us something to laugh about.

  Gretchen guessed she didn’t have a choice. “Here’s how I see it,” she said. “Shades make deals. That’s what they do—look at your Agreement. Memory can preserve your good memory forever, or erase you from other people’s minds. Death can give you a longer or shorter life. Passion can soothe or stir your heart. The other thing they do is bestow special gifts—but only if the right person asks, and only if they follow the Rites. And Rites work like recipes. Each Rite requires certain ingredients—maybe a hair, or a bit of sugar. Everyday things. But they’re not so everyday when you mix the ingredients and recite the right poem. When you do that, it’s a Rite.”

  “If the right person asks,” Felix repeated.

  “Well. You know. A Whipple.”

  “Sure,” said Felix. “Because haven’t you Whipples run Boone Ridge for ages? How convenient that you’re the ‘right people.’”

  “Genius,” said Gretchen, “it’s not convenient, it’s cause and effect. Whipples aren’t the right people because they run Boone Ridge. They run Boone Ridge because they’re the right people. How do you think my great-great-uncle Whipple got elected mayor in the first place?”

  Felix shrugged.

  “Because,” said Gretchen, “he did what all good politicians do: He made deals. He stayed in office so long because he made a deal with Death. He married the richest, prettiest girl in Boone Ridge because he made a deal with Passion. And he’s jammed into every history book here in Boone Ridge because he made a deal with Memory. And the Whipples after him? They did the same thing.”

  “Wow,” Felix said coldly. “That’s a family history to be proud of.”

  “I didn’t say I was proud of it. It’s just simple fact: I’m a Whipple, so I’m a summoner.”

  “But you’re not,” said Lee. “Technically. You’re not allowed to do Rites.”

  Gretchen grimaced. She’d known the rules since she was a little girl: Asa was her father’s firstborn child, so he had been trained in the ways of summoning, and he would be the next mayor of Boone Ridge. As secondborn, Gretchen inherited no right to summon; she was only entitled to her family’s name. She was supposed to live an ordinary life—get a good education, maybe even be sent far away from the family business, to boarding school. So close to the extraordinary, yet ordered to be ordinary—that was Gretchen’s fate.

  She refused to accept it.

  “Gretchen,” said Lee, shaking her from her thoughts. “That book you found in the park. Were those real Rites inside?”

  “I don’t know,” said Gretchen, honestly. “I’ve never seen Rites written down outside of, well—”

  She pointed behind the brothers, at the glass case containing the Book of Rites. The afternoon sun was pressing into the stained glass, scattering bits of green and gold light onto the pages.

  “Is that . . . ?” whispered Lee.

  “Yep.”

  Felix stiffened. “Dad says that book is evil. It’s full of dark, ancient spells.”

  “Ancient, sure,” said Gretchen. “Dark, I guess, depending on who uses them, and for what. Summoners are supposed to use them for the town. Say there’s a plague in Boone Ridge. Well, then the summoner does a Rite with Death, asking him to spare the townspeople. Or say there was a horrible battle here. A summoner does a Rite with Memory to get rid of the town’s most gruesome stories. Or say people are leaving the town for big cities, better jobs. One thing could make them stay: falling in love. And Passion can make that happen.”

  “But you said Whipples do Rites for themselves,” said Felix, flatly.

  “Well, sure,” said Gretchen. “It’s a perk of the job, I guess. But their main job is to intercede for the town. They’re on the people’s side. And my thinking is, even though you all are apprentices, you’re still people. So maybe there’s a Rite I could do to intercede for you.”

  Lee pointed to the lock on the glass box. “And how are we getting past that, exactly?”

  Gretchen studied her hands. “Okay, so I don’t exactly have access to the Book of Rites. But!” she shouted, as Lee started to protest. “I have a plan to get it.”

>   “And then what?” said Felix. “You cast a Rite—Oh wait, you can’t.”

  “You don’t cast a Rite. I’m not a witch.”

  “But you don’t even know if there’s a Rite that can break the Agreement,” said Felix. “Admit it. You’ve been lying about all of it, just to get our help.”

  “I haven’t been lying exactly.”

  Felix shook his head. “You don’t believe her, do you, Lee?”

  Lee didn’t say a word.

  “This is ridiculous.” Felix got to his feet. “Why should we trust you? First, you’re a Whipple. Second, you’re a liar. Third, you can’t break the Agreement. It’s impossible, and you shouldn’t make Lee think he can, all for your own stupid plan.”

  “My plan isn’t stupid!” Gretchen shouted. “It’s about a girl who died for no good reason, and it’s about Death. Doesn’t that bother you at all? You’re his apprentice-in-training. Don’t you care if he’s doing bad things?”

  “He’s Death,” Felix said coldly. “Bad things are in the job description.”

  Gretchen gaped at him. “My father’s right. You really have sold your souls to them.”

  Felix glared at her. She glared back.

  A sound came from outside the library—the shutting of a door and the echo of heels on hardwood. Gretchen’s eyes widened, and she looked at her watch. Gram Whipple was home early from bridge club. “Oh no,” she said. “Oh no, no, no.”

  “Who’s that?” Lee whispered.

  “Gram. You have to go, right now. She never lets me have guests over, especially not Vickeries.”

  Gretchen peered into the hallway. She could hear Gram in the kitchen, rummaging.

  “Okay. Come on. You’re going out the window.” She motioned for the boys to follow her into the hallway, but Felix hung back.

  “Did you want us to get caught?” he asked. “Is that what this was? A setup?”

  “Good Lord,” groaned Gretchen. “If it were a setup, I wouldn’t be sneaking you out through the window, now would I? I’d just let you get caught.” She marched across the hallway to the bathroom, making her strides as long and swift as possible. The brothers followed, and Felix shut the door behind them—loudly.

  “Gretchen?” called Gram Whipple’s voice. “Gretchen, is that you?”

  Gretchen glared murderously at Felix, even while shouting, “Yup! It’s me!”

  “Gretchen Marie, how many times have I told you, the guest bathroom is for guests only!”

  Gretchen rolled her eyes. Gram Whipple had told her this many times. Such reminders usually turned into a long-winded rant, so she let Gram Whipple go right on ranting as she shoved open the bathroom window and waved for Lee to exit. He stepped onto the toilet lid.

  “. . . rumple up the hand towel, as though it were meant to be used! That towel is decorative, child. If you knew the pretty penny I spent—”

  “Go, go,” Gretchen said, as Lee disappeared out the window and Felix climbed on the toilet after him. But just as Felix reached for the window ledge, he gave Gretchen a dirty look, and a split second later, his foot slipped. Felix lost his balance and fell, knocking over a potpourri jar in an almighty clatter.

  “GRETCHEN WHIPPLE, WHAT IN GOD’S NAME IS GOING ON IN THERE.”

  Gram’s voice was getting closer, accompanied by clacking heels.

  “Go!” Gretchen whisper-shouted, helping Felix to his feet and watching, heart aflutter, as he made the climb again—this time successfully. Just as he fell out of sight, she slammed shut the window, and Gram flung open the door.

  Gretchen looked sheepishly up at her grandmother. “Oops?” she squeaked.

  Gram clenched her jaw. For one long moment, she said nothing. Then she commanded, “You’ll clean that up. You will bleach that toilet and clean that sink and sweep and mop that floor. Then you will go straight to your room. Lord knows I don’t have time for this, not with the gala coming up.”

  Only when Gram Whipple had clacked back to the kitchen did Gretchen let out a breath. It had been a close call, but she could accept her punishment. Bleaching, she knew, was better than boarding school.

  On the way home, Felix’s mind was abuzz with far more thoughts than he’d ever imagined could fit inside it.

  Rites.

  The word stung his insides over and over again, like an angered hornet.

  Rites.

  Rites.

  Rites.

  He was thinking, too, of the books in the Whipple library. Tome after tome, stacked high and wide across—so much knowledge contained within their bindings. Words and ideas that Felix had never had access to, all because of his apprenticeship. If there was a Rite that could change all that, could place those books into his hands . . .

  “What’s going to happen to you?”

  Felix started at Lee’s soft question. The brothers had walked through town and much of the wood in silence. Now, only minutes from Poplar House, the threat of Felix’s punishment hung heavy.

  “I guess what happened last time,” said Felix. He remembered, with terrible clarity, the damp of the cellar. A shudder rattled up his spine.

  “You shouldn’t have followed me,” Lee said.

  “I was worried.”

  “No, you thought I wasn’t smart enough to take care of myself. That I didn’t know what I was getting myself into.”

  “Well you didn’t, did you?”

  “If I want to go falling off a cliff,” said Lee, “then I’ve got the right.”

  This was one of the stupidest things Felix had ever heard Lee say. “Don’t thank me or anything,” he muttered.

  “I won’t, because you didn’t have to come.” In a whisper, Lee added, “I just don’t want him to hurt you.”

  What could Felix say to that? Death would hurt him, and that was certain from the moment Poplar House came into view. Vince was standing on the front porch, and when Felix raised his eyepatch, he saw Death by his father’s side. Felix stopped walking, his feet stuck into the brown, rotting leaves.

  “What?” Lee whispered. “Is he there?”

  “They both are. It’ll be fine, just go inside.”

  “Felix, I—”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  “I won’t—”

  Felix shoved Lee in the chest, hard.

  “Go home. Go. Home.”

  Lee gritted his teeth and said, “Fine.” He stormed across the clearing and up the front steps, slamming himself inside Poplar House’s west end. Felix saw his father jump as he looked toward the sound and realized that Lee was near.

  You’ll never see him, Dad, Felix thought as he trudged to the porch. You’ll never see him and you’ll never see Mom again.

  “Felix Jerome Vickery, where in God’s name have you been?”

  Felix could not look his father in the eye. He could do nothing but stare at Death.

  Death’s skin and lips were pale as plaster. His eyes were ice blue and his lashes long. His figure was tall, poised perfectly at the shoulders, and his dress was immaculate: always the black suit, bow tie, and top hat.

  Felix hated every elegant inch of him.

  He was glad, at least, that he could not hear Death’s voice. Lee had told him that it was beautiful but frightening, like a lullaby that made you more afraid of the dark. But Felix had felt the full weight of Death’s stare. Those blue eyes bore into him with an unforgiving burn—a wordless act of violence.

  “Felix.”

  He at last turned to his father. “I had to leave,” Felix told him. “Lee was in trouble.”

  Vince’s eyes shifted and dimmed. Felix was hurting his father, he knew, just by mentioning his brother’s name.

  “Is he all right?” Vince asked.

  Death set his hand on the crook of Vince’s elbow. He shook his head, and Felix did not need to hear his voice to know the import of this message. No, Death was saying. You cannot know.

  Vince breathed in once, deeply. “Felix,” he said, “you know there are consequences for disobe
ying the rules. I had two important appointments this morning, and your role in this house is vital to—”

  “I know. But Lee was more important.”

  “It’s not your place to decide what is more important.”

  “No, it’s Death’s,” said Felix. “You wouldn’t punish me for helping Lee, Dad. I know you wouldn’t. It’s Death who’s angry. He followed me. He saw where I went. And he’s angry about it. Aren’t you!” He looked straight at Death. He didn’t know why he was pleading. There was no point.

  “Death is going to take you to the cellar. Do you understand?”

  Felix could hear, beneath those words, a string of unvoiced questions. His father was asking, Why is Lee in trouble? Why did you disobey again? Why did you bring this punishment on yourself when you know I am powerless to stop Death?

  Death wrapped his cold arm around Felix’s shoulders and led him into the house. It was a long way down to the cellar—two full spirals of eleven stairs each that Felix had counted long ago, when he was very young and had first begun to make trips up and down them. Back then, counting stairs had been a much better use of his mind than imagining the dark, dreadful things that could be lurking in the cellar, just out of the candlelight’s reach. Felix had grown braver with every year he worked as Death’s apprentice-in-training. Now that he was thirteen, the shadows no longer scared him.

  What scared him were the candles.

  Each thin, red candle was a life, and each flame was a life-breath. When a flame went out, that life was gone forever, and it was Felix’s job to fetch the extinguished candle and store it away in one of Death’s three wooden trunks. Sometimes, the wax was still warm.

  Every so often, Death would haul one of these trunks up the cellar stairs and drag it into the dark of Poplar Wood. When he returned, the trunk was empty, the candles gone. Felix wondered where Death emptied those candles—if it was like Lee’s Forgetful Pond, a place of uneasy magic. Whatever the case, the candles were taken away, like the lives they represented. Felix feared those candles, and Death knew it. That was why the cellar was such a very good punishment.