The Whispering Night (Luminaries #3)

Chapter 41

CHAPTER 41

“Four years ago,” Ms. Morgan continues, “your mom caught your dad doing magic. It was bad, and your family was hauled in for questioning. But you weren’t the only ones who got interrogated that night. Funday and I were brought in too—it’s how I learned Teddy was a defected Diana like me. It’s also how I learned that your dad cast a spying spell to steal Luminary secrets.” She glances at Winnie, as if expecting a reaction.

But Winnie can’t move. All these years she thought her dad was a Diana… and he was. Anyone could be a Diana. A Diana could be anyone. Winnie’s eyes close. Her glasses have almost fallen off her nose.

“After hours of interrogation,” Ms. Morgan continues, “the Tuesdays decided that Teddy and I knew nothing. We were sent home. But with the expectation that we never, ever step out of line.”

Winnie coughs now. A sound of incredulity because really ? Ms. Morgan and Professor Funday were told to behave while Mom, Darian, and Winnie became outcasts? “Why did they believe you knew nothing, but they wouldn’t believe my family?”

Ms. Morgan rubs her lips together, like they’re dry. Like they’re hurting her. “I… honestly don’t know, Winnie. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve wondered the same thing. But I’ve never dared ask. I’m sorry.”

Winnie sits up. “That doesn’t make sense though. I’m still missing letters of the alphabet. You just said you had my dad’s birthday cards. Which means you are the one who’s been delivering them for four years, right? But why? And how?”

Ms. Morgan gulps. “Look, Winnie,” she begins. But then a long pause follows, as if she’s already lost her words. As if they somehow got separated into a twisty crossword puzzle, and all she has now are the clues. Eleven across: Another word for clusterfuck.

“A… few days after your dad disappeared,” she begins haltingly, “I found a stack of cards in my mailbox—along with instructions on what to do with them… And, well, I got scared. When a Diana defects, we become the enemy to all other Dianas. A kill-on-sight situation. Plus, since your dad was a lēgātum —”

“A what?”

Ms. Morgan looks ill now. Like saving Winnie from certain death was one thing, but having to explain the birds and the bees of Dianas? No way.

“Right,” she says. “You don’t know what that word means. But like, imagine Diana royalty. That’s what the lēgāta are: legacy families who have been in the society for generations. Everyone knows who they are—so once I learned your dad was a Diana, I realized he was that Bryant from the Silvestri family. As did Teddy. And we both just assumed that what Jeremiah told us was true: your dad had cast a spying spell, and…”

“Oh no.” Winnie doubles over again. Because she can fill in the next letters on her own. E, F, G! Next time won’t you sing with me! “You thought Dad killed Jenna, didn’t you?” she croaks out. “You thought he was a Diana spy and a murderer.”

“Yeah.” Now Ms. Morgan sounds as ill as she looked. “And so you can see why I was terrified not to do as Bryant asked. When I found those cards in my mailbox—”

“ Did he kill Jenna?” Winnie interrupts. She clutches at her knees. Breathe, breathe. “ Did he cast a spying spell to the Dianas?”

“I thought he had. For four years, I really thought he had, Winnie. And that’s what I believed right up until a few days ago, when you contacted Harriet and she contacted Teddy.”

“But what changed your mind?” Winnie’s voice sounds so far away. “What did Grandma Harriet tell you that convinced you my dad wasn’t the bad guy?”

“First, Harriet explained that Bryant wasn’t casting a spying spell, but rather contacting her on the night he disappeared. He was trying to warn her of an active witch in Hemlock Falls, but he never said who it was or what they were doing before your mother interrupted the spell.”

Winnie pushes at the bench. Her torn hands screech at her, but she savors the pain. It sharpens her. Grounds her. And with a grunt, she cranks herself upright again. “But why believe Harriet? For all you know, my grandmother was lying.”

“To tell you the truth,” Ms. Morgan admits, “I didn’t believe her. Not until we were at the old museum. Not until I saw that golden arrow coming for me, and I saw a hotspot open up. I mean, raising a hotspot—that’s some serious magic. And bad magic.”

“So that’s when you decided to help me?”

“I’m certainly trying to help you.” Ms. Morgan tries again for a Concerned Adult smile. “I’m not sure I’m succeeding, though. You’re way too cold, Winnie—and honestly, so am I. We need to find those sweatshirts and get out of here.”

“Right.” Winnie can’t argue with this, so when Ms. Morgan stands and offers her hand, Winnie takes it. And when she pulls Winnie into a trudging walk, she doesn’t resist. Her ankle stabs with each step.

But again, she finds the pain clarifying. A filter that she can pour this jumbled-up alphabet through. When Winnie stood on the bridge, her green sweater in hand, sleeves fluttering on the breeze—the same breeze currently sucking all warmth from Winnie— this was the missing link, wasn’t it? The missing connective tissue: D for Dad, D for Diana.

And, apparently, L for lēgātum, too.

The petal labeled Grayson was connected to Jenna because they were in love.

Jenna’s petal connected to Dad because, like Ms. Morgan, she must have figured out that Dad was basically Diana royalty. And knowing that Dad had defected, maybe Jenna believed he could help her. Because she didn’t only want to leave the Luminaries four years ago; Jenna must have wanted to leave the witches.

And of course, Dad’s petal then connected to Mom because they were in love too. I didn’t move to Hemlock Falls for my degrees, Win-Ben.

Soon, the lantern-shaped carts of the Tilt-A-Whirl glow into Winnie’s vision. Beyond is Archie’s Funnel Cake booth, where sure enough, a stack of black sweatshirts rests on one side of the counter.

Ms. Morgan hurries ahead, grabs a sweatshirt, and flings it at Winnie. It is, of course, another hoodie. Bretta would laugh. Fatima would too.

And Erica. So would Erica. Why did we do all that shopping, Winona, if you’re just going to wear hoodies in the end?

Revenant’s Daughter, this one reads in the same script as the sign outside the restaurant. It smells vaguely like fried food and powdered sugar. It makes Winnie think of Mom. It makes her think of how she has failed her—and everyone else too. Erica, Jay, the entirety of Hemlock Falls. After following all the steps in Dad’s long, convoluted plan, it has led Winnie here: nearly drowned and stuck inside a horror-film carnival.

Signora Martedì won.

She won, and now it’s more than Winnie’s back that’s pressed against the wall. It’s her face and stomach and legs. She is locked up in a straitjacket. She is buried in a tomb, and that fucking Diana Crow with her fucking golden-beaked mask won. Dad couldn’t beat her, even though he was apparently a powerful lēgātum, so really, what chance did Winnie have four years later?

“Winnie.” Ms. Morgan’s voice sounds thick and inhuman. Like Winnie is again under the Little Lake, again under crushing waves. “No, no—Winnie! Look at me!”

Winnie’s vision swims, but she doesn’t look at Ms. Morgan. Instead she grabs—frantically—at her back pocket. Does she still have her last drawing? For some reason, it seems important right now. Like she needs to see her final picture of Erica, of Jay, of her family. Otherwise all the ghosts Winnie sealed up are going to seal up Winnie instead. Mummify her organs and shove her into a sarcophagus.

The paper is waterlogged, just like her pants, and she is too rough as she fumbles it open. It tears.

Yet where Winnie expects to find a sketch of Lady Justice or Jay or her family, instead, there are words written in round, curlicued script. Jenna’s spell.

Winnie has no idea when Erica put this in her pocket. Maybe when they were on the four-wheeler fleeing the Sunday garage. Maybe when they were running helter-skelter into the maze. Maybe in that last moment, when Winnie tried to drag her away from the Crow.

The when doesn’t matter, though. It’s the what that makes all the difference.

“Winnie,” Ms. Morgan says, but Winnie is outside her body now. Somewhere several feet to the right. She doesn’t feel Ms. Morgan’s hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t feel the glacial caress of a spring night. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“What do these words mean?” Winnie’s voice is even farther away than her body. An echo in a canyon. What do these words mean, mean, mean? She points to a title written at the top of the page. “What does this mean, Ms. Morgan?”

The teacher frowns, squinting at the paper. “We need to move, Winnie. We can look at that paper once we’re away from here—”

“This is Latin, right? So what does this mean in English? Incantamentum Purum Cor ?”

Ms. Morgan blinks. “What did you just say?”

“Incantamentum Purum Cor,” Winnie repeats, and she once more holds out the paper for Ms. Morgan to see.

Ms. Morgan snatches the paper from Winnie’s grasp, her eyes growing rounder by the second. She holds the page up, trying to get enough light from Archie’s funnel cake stand. “Oh god,” she breathes, and the words are more prayer than curse. “Oh god, Winnie. Where did you get this?”

“It means Pure Heart, doesn’t it? Incantamentum Purum Cor translates into ‘Pure Heart spell.’”

Ms. Morgan eyes shutter. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it means.”

“And what does it do?” Winnie has a pretty good guess where this going. The letter E in her alphabet, for explosion. For eruption. For end of everything. “This isn’t a self-feeding famēs spell, is it, Ms. Morgan?”

“No, Winnie. It’s not. It’s far more powerful.” Ms. Morgan rolls up her hoodie until her Gone Fishing shirt is revealed underneath. “In fact, it’s the most powerful spell Dianas have ever discovered, meant to awaken the sleeping spirit.

“And if the Purum Cor is what your dad was trying to stop four years ago—if that’s what just chased us off the bridge, then dear god, Winnie. This is so much worse than I was fearing.”