The Whispering Night (Luminaries #3)

Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

Either Darian’s definition of painless is not like Winnie’s, or else he was lying. Winnie chooses to believe the former, although she can’t help but suspect the latter as she’s hauled into the Saturday estate.

It has been well over four years since Winnie last stepped inside, so her memories of the grand foyer have been rubbed down to vague splashes of gold and purple—just streaks of color on the page. Reality is so much sharper. Lush tapestries on the walls give way to gilded woodwork. Keys glitter across a black-and-white marble floor, stamped in gold upon each tile, and the towering foyer that holds it all is framed by a gilded staircase that circles up one side. A chandelier winks coyly overhead, each crystal carved into a key.

Leadership in deed and word, reads one large floor tile at the center of the room. Persuasion is power.

“We’re going to the ballroom,” Dryden barks from the front of their marching line. “Winnie, you will enter with me.”

“And me,” Marcia purrs, her manicured nail poking into Winnie’s spine at the perfect angle to make Winnie feel like a wind-up doll. Crank, crank. Now dance, Winnie! Dance!

She doesn’t dance, but she does go as directed into a hall lined with windows. Leila offers more apologetic glances, but she never actually steps in to help. Meanwhile, Darian is furiously texting someone about, Winnie suspects, an order of beef tartare he keeps muttering about.

As Winnie soldiers down the long hallway, floor-to-ceiling windows reveal a terrace outside covered in potted flowers—as well as an enormous fountain with river sylphids shooting water. Beyond that, on a lawn that rolls down to the river, the Nightmare Stage is currently under construction on the grass. When finished, it will be an ornate assemblage of gold, silver, and Saturday purple.

Winnie’s Converse are silent next to the clattering heels of her drill sergeants. Leila, knowing that Winnie bought new boots the day before, had wrongly assumed Winnie would wear those boots today. Now Winnie’s white pants, which are way too pinchy in the waistband, drag over the tiles. Mirrors offer her glimpses of herself as she is prodded past closed doors that might lead to Rumpelstiltskin or maybe just to a bathroom.

She does not look in the mirrors, since she knows with absolute certainty she won’t like what she sees.

When they at last leave the hall for the ballroom, it feels as if Winnie really is stepping into a fairy tale—except the macabre kind where everyone dies at the end. For one, the room is classically designed and peak Versailles. But now draped over it are dark silks and laces, feathers and crystals, fairy lights and paper lanterns. If Winnie tried to bedazzle a room like this, it would look tacky, but the Saturdays have managed to keep it classy.

And holy hellions and banshees, are there a ton of people in the room. Clearly forty-nine of the most important Luminaries does not include all the aides, family members, and general hangers-on who have accompanied them. They all stand about, mingling in a way that is more mixer and less breakfast—although people do hold plates of food.

Different languages bounce and ping around the room, but where Winnie expects all eyes to turn to her as she is thrust inside like livestock, no one seems to notice her. And now that Winnie is looking behind, she realizes only Marcia and Dryden are actually still with her.

Good job, Darian. You’re running great interference here.

Winnie scours the room for anyone else who can come to her rescue. All she finds are seven tall tables draped beneath velvet tablecloths. Upon each is an ice sculpture in the shape of a clan sigil. A green tablecloth with an ice bear for the Wednesdays. A purple cloth with an ice key for the Saturdays. All the colors, all the animals, all the symbols.

And at the scarlet table with the ice scorpion stands Jeremiah Tuesday.

He hasn’t noticed Winnie yet because his back is to her, revealing the same red buzz cut she remembers from four years ago. His shoulders are broad, his limbs thick, long, and he wears what he always wears: black fatigues, as if he is never off duty. As if he takes his motto of Strength, we hold the line so seriously, he must always be ready for an attack.

It has been four years since the last time Winnie saw this man, deep in the labyrinthine underbelly of the Tuesday estate. He rarely leaves his own grounds; he rarely emerges from the scorpion hole.

Please don’t notice me, Winnie thinks. Her bodily functions have halted. No heartbeat, no breath, no digestive gurglings in her abdomen. For eight days, she has been bracing for him to show up before her; now she is walking right up to him instead.

Without a word, Marcia hooks her nail into Winnie’s blazer collar and directs Winnie to the right. Which is fine by Winnie. Anything away from the Tuesday councilor is good. She glances over her shoulder twice; Jeremiah never notices her; and soon all the other people filling the ballroom block him from view.

What she needs is an escape. A distraction. A hotspot of nightmares that will form right here and start spewing out monsters… in the middle of the day.

Winnie is so deep in her fantasies—she can totally imagine a hidebehind in that shadowy corner—that she doesn’t realize she has reached a podium until suddenly she is being strong-armed up to it. In her defense, it doesn’t actually look like a podium but rather a slightly elevated table with a key motif carved into the dark wood. It’s also not on a stage, but rather a rug so plush it lifts Winnie up a full four inches.

“Here are some words for you to read,” Marcia says, and she shoves an index card onto the podium.

“Wait, what ? I have to speak?”

Darian’s head pops up and Winnie realizes her brother was ducked on the other side of the podium, hooking in sound equipment.

“Mic,” he whispers. “Pretty easy to use. Just, you know, talk into it.”

“Thank you, David.” Marcia doesn’t sound grateful. “The speech is short, and when you’re done, Winnie, you’ll welcome Councilor Saturday to the podium. Then you may exit stage left.”

“I don’t know what that means, and since when do I have to give a speech?”

“Go that way, Winnie,” Dryden inserts, and he points to the open glass doors leading onto a separate terrace—where sure enough, a long buffet awaits with servers in tuxes behind it. The poor people look cold, despite the sun’s glare.

“Now, let’s get started,” Marcia says, and once more, her fingernail is screwing into Winnie’s back. Crank, crank. Speech, Winnie, speech!

Darian turns on the mic. Instead of feedback to squeal across the room, there are only three harp-like notes to rise from speakers Winnie can’t see. The room quiets. Tens of faces turn her way, and she’s almost sad there’s no technical issue to buy her a few more seconds.

Someone coughs. Winnie’s eyes snap that way. The morning sun spears across her glasses. It backlights everyone watching her, so she can’t tell who’s who.

She feels the weight of Luminary curiosity, though, like a thousand tons pressing down. Like the waterfall pushing her, fighting her, keeping her from rising—

“Read,” Marcia snarls.

Winnie gulps. Her teeth have been clicking this whole time behind lips that are supposedly flighty and flirty. She’s grateful the words on the index card are typed in BIG ALL CAPS LETTERS because her glasses are starting to slide, and everything is getting a little woozy. “Welcome,” she begins.

And there goes the feedback. Nails on a chalkboard. A kelpie shrieking on land. But the feedback is gone as fast as it begins.

“Welcome,” Winnie tries again, “to Hemlock Falls. I am Winnie Wednesday, the… Girl Who Jumped. The Girl Who Got Bitten. The Girl in Green. Or some of you may even know me as…” Oh god, please don’t make me say this .

She glances at Marcia, at Dryden. They definitely will make her say this.

Winnie chokes out: “Wolf… Girl.” And okay, it actually doesn’t taste that bad. At least people aren’t howling. And there are even two different people translating her words into sign language, as well as gentle whispers suggesting others might be verbally translating her words too.

“As this year’s winner of the Midnight Crown”— barf —“I’m here to welcome you on behalf of the Council and the entirety of Hemlock Falls. We hope you enjoy the Nightmare Masquerade. We have many special treats in store for you—including beignets outside?” She doesn’t mean to lilt this like a question, but also… really? She’s advertising for beignets? “Now, may I introduce you all to our host for the day’s breakfast: Councilor Dryden Saturday.”

Polite applause follows. Then Dryden pops up beside Winnie, practically shoving her from the podium—not that she needs shoving. She topples away from the thing as fast as she can, feeling all the eyes follow her even though Dryden is now speaking. Marcia, meanwhile, is pointing toward the open doors— stage left! —and yes, Winnie thinks stage left looks amazing.

She wants a tea. She wants a beignet. She wants for this circus to be over. Do it for Mom. Do it for Mom.

Morning air sweeps over her. Winnie sucks it in as she stumbles to the buffet, except buffet is way too plebeian a word for what awaits on the long, wrought-iron table placed beneath baskets of hanging begonia, verbena, and fuchsia.

Dad would have loved those flowers.

“Tea,” she tells the nearest server, whom she’s pretty sure is a Wednesday. “Earl Grey, please. And a napkin to wipe off this lipstick.”