The Whispering Night (Luminaries #3)

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Jay leaves the same way he came in: via the window. Mostly because Mom wakes up—they hear her alarm—which makes Winnie freak the eff out and Jay alongside her. A night fighting against drolls, manticores, and vampira? Whatever. A morning against Mama Bear Francesca Wednesday? Run for your life, Jay Friday.

And he does. He was at least smart enough not to park his bike in front of the house, but still, when Winnie hears the engine rev a block away, she can’t help but hide under her covers. Surely Mom will hear that. Surely she’ll realize Jay snuck in and made out with her daughter.

It would seem Mom does not realize, and once Winnie’s heart and breathing calm to healthy, sustainable rates, her eyes drift shut. She dozes off.

And finds herself in the forest.

It’s a dream—she knows it’s a dream, and she’s glad for that. Because as real as it feels, she knows she will wake up, no matter what might come next.

What comes next is a white wolf. Jay, she thinks, except she can tell it isn’t. This one has different eyes. He’s smaller too. “Pure Heart,” he tells her, although there is no movement on his canid mouth. Just a deep, rumbling voice worn ancient from grief and time. “Trust the Pure Heart.”

“Yes,” she answers. “I do.” Even though this isn’t true—the Pure Heart is the Whisperer, the center of her diagram, the pistil of her trillium, a famēs spell run wild in the forest. She doesn’t trust it at all. Yet here she is, lying with frictionless ease: “I trust the Pure Heart completely.”

She awakens to her locket scoring against her collarbone. She jolts upright, grabs for it, fumbles it from her shirt…

But it’s not actually hot. It’s not actually burning, and whatever strange magic had claimed it in the forest when she faced those Dianas—it’s not happening now. It’s just a golden circle, with a moon and two stars, that once belonged to her grandmother.

A grandmother whom Winnie has thought of a lot lately. Because what does it mean if this really did come from Grandma Harriet, Dad’s mom? And how can Winnie even confirm if such a thing is true when she has zero contact with the woman?

The house is silent now, meaning Mom has gone to her shift at the Revenant’s Daughter. No rain pitter-patters against the roof. Instead there is only sunshine, aggressive in its brightness and revealing every scratch, fingerprint, and microscopic dent on the golden locket. Winnie doesn’t open it because she knows it will just be a picture of her and Darian, and she has already withdrawn those photos to search for more clues behind them. There was nothing then; there is nothing now.

Erica might get messages in her locket, but Winnie never has. And on the flip side, Erica’s has never gotten hot like Winnie’s.

Winnie blinks. And suddenly an idea forms—one she can’t believe she hasn’t thought of before.

Part of her knows she should ask Erica first. Not for permission so much as guidance. But another part of her expects that if she does, Erica will instantly bark, No. And for once, Winnie would rather beg forgiveness instead of permission. (Oh, who’s she kidding? When has she ever asked for permission?)

After snatching up a sketchbook, Winnie rips the top right corner off a blank page. It’s a thumbnail scrap upon which she writes in silver pencil: Is anyone there? Then she snaps open the locket and places the message inside.

She feels silly as she squeezes the locket shut and says, “Let’s see what you’ve got for me.” But hey—she might as well give this a try. Her locket isn’t like Erica’s, but they’ve yet to test how differently the two golden necklaces might behave. And with all these dead ends and redundant Venn diagrams that grace Winnie’s whiteboard each night, it’s time for a little shakeup.

For several minutes, nothing happens. No warmth, no buzz, no sensation of magic to hermit-crab through the room. To say Winnie feels disappointed would be an understatement. She also feels even sillier, and heat creeps up her neck.

Until she finally just tears open the locket, and… nope. Her own handwriting stares up at her. She shuts the locket again. Then shoves away from her desk. The day beckons; she is going to be late if she doesn’t pick up the pace.

Once downstairs, she finds a protein bar on the kitchen table with a note attached: If you want real food, swing by the Daughter. LOVE YOU UNTIL THE END OF TIME—MOM

Winnie would very much like real food. In fact, the thought of hash browns, eggs, and bacon sounds so delicious, she viscerally regrets sleeping an extra two hours when she could have vacuumed up diner food instead. Alas, she has not only missed a chance for a real meal, but the clock on the microwave indicates she is going to be super late to Luminary training if she doesn’t get moving. And what was it Aunt Rachel said last night? Be the model Luminary you’ve always wanted to be.

Right. She can do that, even if it means she’ll have to stay in her ratty sweatpants and rattier T-shirt proclaiming an undying love for Charmander. If this outfit was good enough for Jay Friday, then it’s definitely good enough for the rest of Hemlock Falls. Although Winnie does tug on her leather jacket—which still smells new a full month after the twins gave it to her.

And she can’t resist opening the locket one more time once she’s out in the garden shed and retrieving the family bike. But the same message is right there. No magic, no reply.

Winnie sighs. Then she sets off for the Sunday estate, where culture can be mainlined into her blood. It might be the weekend, but if the forest never quits, than neither will Luminary training.

Winnie regrets her outfit as soon as she reaches her first class at the Sunday estate. She is three minutes late to Luminary history, which means the whole class stares at her as she scurries in. Her cousin Marcus loudly snorts, then mutters, “Charmander?” And for the ten thousandth time in her life, Winnie really wishes she could punch his teeth in.

Except then she feels guilty because the kid does have ghosts of his own right now. Diana-shaped ones he’s diligently keeping secret.

At least it’s not Professor Samuel standing at the whiteboard, since he went to visit a sick relative a week ago. Instead, the teacher eyeballing Winnie is a short, pale-faced woman who looks like she could bench-press Winnie with one arm while dominating an arm-wrestling competition with the other. She beams at Winnie, seemingly unconcerned by Winnie’s tardiness, and after swatting a gray strand that has fallen from her mostly blond bun (pinned artfully atop her head in a way that Winnie wishes she could copy), she motions for Winnie to take a seat.

“As I was saying,” Professor Alice declares with a barely there Norwegian accent, “I think you all will enjoy the lesson today.” She points to the whiteboard, where words are written in thick, colorful markers that are easy for Winnie’s bespectacled eyes to read: The Importance of the Masquerade for Community Morale . Below this are the seven clan symbols—each drawn in different colors. Not the best sketches, but clear enough to interpret. And a million billion times better than the listing of dates and names that Samuel always scribbles in tiny black ink.

“We will begin with the Floating Carnival. Does anyone know why it is beside the Little Lake?”

Marcus’s hand shoots up. He doesn’t wait to be noticed before half shouting: “To honor the aquatic nightmares of the Big Lake.”

“Exactly.” Professor Alice smiles. It is a very nice smile that fans lines around her dark eyes as she launches into a history of the Floating Carnival’s most popular rides: the Ferris wheel, designed to look like a full moon. The Kelpie Carousel with assorted aquatic nightmares for riding. The Tilt-A-Whirl, which Winnie hates to ride because it makes her vomit.

Winnie is so lost in the lecture and taking notes—actual notes instead of just drawing in her notebook’s margins—that she doesn’t notice when the classroom door opens and a wheelchair wedges in. No one notices, actually, and Headmaster Gina has to cough twice to get everyone’s attention.

And when Winnie meets Gina’s eyes, the headmaster beckons a single finger.

A grenade goes off inside Winnie’s stomach. It’s time, she thinks. The Tuesdays have finally come for me. It had to happen eventually, after all. It’s the third law of motion.

She thinks of melted hound masks. She thinks of ghosts and pizza. And her body goes numb as she rises and gathers her things. She distantly hears Headmaster Gina say, I need Winnie Wednesday, please, and Professor Alice reply, Of course. She is all yours. But the grenade is still echoing in Winnie’s eardrums, so the words have a muddy, distant quality.

Winnie reaches the hall. “Ma’am?” She holds her books to her like a shield. They press against her locket, digging it into her sternum.

That’s when Winnie realizes that it is not Jeremiah Tuesday striding down the hall, but Darian, her brother, followed by Councilor Leila Wednesday, followed lastly by Councilor Marcia Thursday—who is also Erica’s mother.

Winnie feels all the blood return to her face… until she meets her brother’s eyes and he mouths, I’m so sorry.

Sorry for what? she wants to ask. And why is Marcia strutting toward me on patent leather kitten heels? The woman is dressed in a black pantsuit, which makes her look like she’s about to go to a funeral. Leila, meanwhile, wears a flowing almond-colored gown and a pistachio-colored hijab. Darian is the only one of them who isn’t fancied up, but then, his default setting is “fancied up,” since sweater vests and khakis are all he seems to own. ( That’s not fancy, Winnie, that’s business casual. ) He circles behind Leila and Marcia, letting them take the lead.

His face is as bloodless as Winnie imagines her own was a moment ago.

Marcia reaches Winnie first, and after a prim nod at Headmaster Gina, she places a firm hand on Winnie’s shoulder and pushes her toward the school’s front doors. Literally pushes . Which, okay, Marcia . Where the heck else is Winnie going to go right now? It’s very clear this entourage is here for her.

Leila also mouths I am so sorry as Winnie is corralled past her.

Sorry for what? Sorry for what?!

“What is going on?” Winnie demands as Darian opens the school’s double doors like he’s a footman instead of a councilor’s assistant. He even appears to be bowing. Spring wind batters over them. Ten steps away, shackled out of reach, is Winnie’s bike.

Marcia points at a black Lexus SUV waiting at the curb. “Get in.” This is all she says before releasing Winnie and strutting toward the driver’s seat. Leila, meanwhile, gets in the passenger door.

“You’re about to have to do some PR,” Darian half whispers, half squeaks. He smells like spearmint toothpaste as he cattle-prods her onward. “And I am really sorry about it.”

“P… R?” Winnie’s first thought is pulmonic regurgitation—which is a frequent cause of death for a certain subspecies of velue—but her brain quickly points out that this makes no sense. Public relations, it provides. Then it adds, Wait a minute, what? Which Winnie blurts out loud: “Wait a minute, what?”

“I know, I know.” Darian shakes his head. A smudge mars the left side of his glasses. It has been there for almost a week, which says a lot about Darian’s current mental state. “I told them they should have warned you, Winnie. I told them this wasn’t right, but I might as well be invisible for all anyone listens to me. I think she”—he jerks his thumb toward Leila, now firmly ensconced in the SUV—“is the only person who heard me say, This is a bad plan. And even she was like, Sorry, Darian. We have to. ”

“Have to what ?” Winnie practically screams. But Darian never gets to answer before Marcia barks: “Winnie, get in this vehicle right now.”

Darian nudges at Winnie again, and this time, she lets herself be maneuvered onto the spotless, squeaking beige leather. A white suit hangs in a clear plastic bag on the opposite door. Winnie barely gives it a glance before shifting her attention to the rearview mirror—where Leila is again mouthing I am so sorry.

Then, as if afraid Marcia might catch her, Leila’s mouth buttons up and she swivels around to meet Winnie’s gaze head on. “We are on our way to the Luminary Welcome Breakfast at the Saturday estate. This suit is for you to wear—”

“Huh?”

“—because although I told Fatima to get you a suit yesterday, she obviously didn’t listen. And in her defense,” Leila quickly adds before Marcia can say something nasty, “I did not explain to her why Winnie needed new clothes. So she presumably thought the suit was just a suggestion and not a requirement.”

“A requirement for what?” Winnie shoots a bewildered glance at Darian, then back to Leila. “Why am I putting on a suit, Leila?”

“Because,” Marcia answers, icicles practically forming around her head, “congratulations, Winnie: you have won the Midnight Crown, earning more votes than anyone else in the entire school.”

“I thought juniors wore a golden crown—”

“We’ve eliminated the rest of the Nightmare Court. There is only the Midnight Crown this year, and you’ve won it. As such, you are the new face of Hemlock Falls, which means you must impress forty-nine of the most important Luminaries in the world. And believe it or not, sweatpants and a leather jacket are not appropriate attire for such an event. So put on that suit hanging beside you. Then, put on some lipstick because, bless your heart, you look like a revenant.”

No, Winnie thinks. Do not “bless my heart.” And no, I will not put on this suit or lipstick. Except when she tries to say this, the only sound that comes out is the dying gasp of two lungs who’ve abandoned all hope.

She wishes she’d crumpled every ballot yesterday instead of just her own. Then she wishes she’d lit the entire ballot box on fire and flung it into the Little Lake.

Marcia stares at Winnie in the rearview. She has not bothered to turn around like Leila did, and it is honestly one of the most intense power moves Winnie has ever experienced in her life. I don’t need to face you to be in command. My reflection is enough to control you.

Basilisks could learn a thing or two from that stare.

The next thing Winnie knows, she is tugging the suit off the ceiling handle while Darian shoves an assortment of unopened lipstick tubes at her. He looks as if he wants to crawl behind the seat and cower. Or else grovel at Winnie’s feet and beg forgiveness. But since neither is currently an option, he simply claps his hand over his glasses and shifts his entire torso away.

“Wait, you expect me to get dressed now? Here?”

“Obviously.” Marcia starts the engine.

Leila winces. “Yes, Winnie. I’m sorry no one warned you about this. We decided to tally votes earlier in the festival this year, and we only finished at midnight.” It’s very clear from her side-eye toward Marcia exactly who is to blame for Winnie’s ignorance in the eleven hours since midnight.

Like, could no one bother with a phone call?

The SUV starts moving. The brick Sunday estate shrinks behind them. “Once we’re at this breakfast? What’s happening there?”

“You’ll schmooze,” Darian answers from behind his hands.

At the same moment, Marcia declares from the steering wheel: “You will engage with every Luminary who wishes to meet with you, and you will do so with a smile and a thank-you because it is an honor to serve your community and the greater Luminary cause.

“Now hurry up, Winnie. The Saturday estate isn’t far.”