The Whispering Night (Luminaries #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

The old cabin is neither old nor is it really a cabin.

Sure, it has four walls, a roof, and a general vibe that speaks of wolves eating little girls in red hoods, but if you step inside, you won’t find grandmothers with big ears or big teeth. You’ll find two lawnmowers, a compost bin that no one uses anymore, some canisters of gasoline, and an assortment of gardening tools that span the powering spectrum from completely handheld (a shovel) to fully battery powered (a leaf blower).

This is the landscaping shed for the Thursday clan, tucked against the northwestern edge of their estate, between the weeping willow on one side and the copse of dogwoods that will soon blossom on the other. The grounds appear deceptively untended here. As if the Thursdays don’t want to be too conspicuously Thursday in a place where almost no one ever visits, but still they can’t resist imposing order on nature’s chaotic ways.

The grass is shorn. There are no weeds.

A large front door on the shed will release the lawnmowers from their pen like bulls at a rodeo, but it’s to the smaller, human-sized door that Winnie Wednesday now tiptoes. The grounds are empty this early on a Friday, but she checks her surroundings anyway. And to be fair, with all that’s happened to her in the last few weeks, she has good reason to never relax again.

Like ever.

Basically, if Winnie’s life were a seesaw with “good stuff” on one side and “bad stuff” on the other, then it would definitely be tipped toward bad. In fact, the bad side would be so weighed down it would be underground. For one, there are Dianas in Hemlock Falls. For two, those Dianas framed her dad four years ago, which in turn caused the ruin of Winnie’s family. For three, those Dianas also have a self-feeding spell loose in the forest that’s killing people, aka the Whisperer.

For four, her ex–best friends are determined to stay ex, and it’s getting to be exhausting.

Yet despite the imbalance of Winnie’s seesaw, she still feels happier than she has in weeks. Maybe part of that is because she can calculate pretty measurably just how far she has come since her first trial:

Number of friends a month ago? Zero. Number of friends now? At least six and counting.

Number of nightmare species fought a month ago? Zero. Number fought now? Eight, if you include werewolves as one of them—which Winnie does. Nine, if you include will-o’-wisps, which she doesn’t.

Dianas faced a month ago? Zero. Dianas faced now? Three.

But perhaps more important than the empirical evidence that Winnie can track on a spreadsheet is the emotional evidence. Because for the first time in four years, she feels hopeful.

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all.

Winnie had to memorize that poem by Emily Dickinson for Ms. Morgan two years ago. Lately, the poem keeps surfacing like artifacts of data you can never quite scrub from a hard drive. And every time Winnie thinks of the poem, she imagines a will-o’-wisp in the forest.

And hope is why she has come here this morning, to the edge of the Thursday estate where a cluster of white flowers can watch her from beside the back door with judgment in their petals like pointing fingers. Tsk, tsk, Winnie Wednesday. You really shouldn’t be here.

Trillium flexipes. The nodding wakerobin. They were Dad’s favorite native flower in Hemlock Falls. No—they are his favorite flower because Winnie is going to find him. She is going to bring him home.

She shoulders into the shed. The smell of old grass wafts against her as she fumbles for a switch. Fluorescent lights wink on, revealing that nothing has changed since she last visited two days ago: an electric lamp still hangs on a hook in the corner with a folding chair and tiny bookshelf to stand solemnly beside it.

Winnie swipes the light back off again. It’s too bright for what she needs to do. Then she hurries to the corner and drops into the folding chair. In seconds, she’s yanking books off the shelf. Gone are the graphic novels and Percy Jacksons of four years ago. In their place are a varied assortment of bodice rippers with bent spines, historical Luminary textbooks with less-bent spines, and some philosophy and self-help books in Spanish that Erica’s dad keeps giving her for her birthdays (these spines are not cracked at all; sorry, Antonio).

After she removes eight titles, a small line appears on the shelf’s backing. It’s where a false panel has been placed, shortening the depth by two inches. Since Erica did the same on all three shelves, it’s not visible unless you know what to look for. Even now, knowing what to look for, Winnie has to squint behind her glasses and dig her fingers in. There should be a little divot. A little space to get leverage—

There.

She pulls. The false back peels away to reveal the latest findings from Erica Thursday—although, the two pages Winnie withdraws appear totally blank. And the honey smell that Winnie knows coats them is too weak to compete against the grass and gasoline.

From her back pocket, Winnie slides out a sheet of sketch paper—also deceptively blank—and presses it into the hidden compartment before returning the false panel along with each book in the exact order she removed it. And to make sure there’s no difference in dust, she quickly tugs off, then replaces every other book on every other shelf as well.

Her top and bottom teeth click together, a physical manifestation of the nerves churning in her spine—until she shoves her tongue between. She has no reason to be nervous. She has done this three times now, her speed and finesse improving with each visit so that by now, she is basically a full-blown spy.

Agent Wednesday. Dad used to call her that sometimes when they played their secret code and cipher games. She had no idea then how much those games would save her. And maybe save him too.

On her way back out of the cabin, as Winnie folds the pages from Erica into her back pocket, her eyes catch on the old red vampira she and Jay painted five years ago. It has faded, so now only fangs and a single eye remain. Somehow the anatomical inaccuracy makes it more horrifying. Like a corpse left to rot until the forest has transformed it into a revenant.

Tsk, tsk, the trilliums scold as Winnie gently shuts the back door behind her and locks it with the key from Erica. You really shouldn’t be here.