This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2025 by Jo Schulte

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Schulte, Jo, author.

Title: The Whisperwood legacy / Jo Schulte.

Description: First edition. | New York : Little, Brown and Company, 2025. | Audience term: Teenagers | Audience: Ages 12 & up | Summary: Frankie grows frustrated with her relatives’ obsession with their family’s amusement park, only to uncover a darker, more sinister story when Oma, the family matriarch, disappears and strange events unfold.

Identifiers: LCCN 2024031650 | ISBN 9780316578721 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780316578745 (ebook)

Subjects: CYAC: Amusement parks—Fiction. | Secrets—Fiction. | Family life—Fiction. | Missing persons—Fiction. | Fantasy. | LCGFT: Fantasy fiction. | Novels.

Classification: LCC PZ7.1.S3365533 Wh 2025 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2024031650

ISBNs: 978-0-316-57872-1 (hardcover), 978-0-316-57874-5 (ebook)

E3-20250410-IH-ORI-NF

To those who forget that their story deserves a happy ending

Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.

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From: c.reed@schmerz.com

To: geoffrey@geoffreystraussbooks.com

Subject: Re: Flüsterwald Centennial Celebration

Dear Mr. Strauss,

Thank you for reaching out to us regarding the Der Flüsterwald Centennial Celebration. We are thrilled to be included in this special event, and I would be honored to give a speech about Der Flüsterwald and its lasting impact.

I’ve copied in my assistant, Jill Dramis, to organize. Please let us know if there’s any way we can assist you in making this a success. We are excited to be a part of this celebration and, of course, not a word to Virginia. Can’t wait to surprise her!

Unfortunately, regarding your other inquiry, we do not accept unagented submissions at the moment but wish you every success with your project.

Kind regards,

Cameron Reed (they/them)

President and CEO, Schmerz Publishing Group

 1 

I’ve always thought that once upon a time should really come with some sort of warning label, but never has that felt more true than today. My sweaty hands white-knuckle the steering wheel. I would go faster, but this road scares the hell out of me, so I have a strict policy of never taking it at more than eight miles an hour. Hugging my prehistoric Chevy Spark to the craggy cliff face, I inch past a sign on the side of the road, gnawed away to near invisibility by the creeping vegetation, rampant in a way that doesn’t quite seem natural.

whisperwood park

2 miles ahead

It’s unnecessary. The only thing on this road is the amusement park.

Elongated belts of rock glare down at me as leftover winter fog drifts in patches across the road. Night quickly creeps in through the newly budding woods. My radio is tuned to a special program where B-list celebrities are working their way through all the Der Flüsterwald stories in honor of the centennial celebration. Stories written by my great-great-great-grandfather.

“Ella Walker-Strauss is with us—”

The name over the radio catches my attention. Ella’s my cousin, legally speaking. She might as well be holding up a neon sign that says not really a strauss, and not just because she’s a five-foot-two genius, but because Strausses don’t do interviews.

Not that anyone would want to be a Strauss, anyway. We’re all essentially one minor inconvenience away from a complete nuclear meltdown.

I turn the radio up.

“You’re only fifteen, but you already have an interesting story yourself,” the host says, giddiness in his tone. He continues, “Would you share, in your own words, how you came to be the go-to Flüsterwald expert?”

“Well,” Ella replies, her voice all confidence and charisma, “I was fascinated by Der Flüsterwald. It’s hard not to be. What kid can resist a story about sketchy peddlers, invasive vegetation, and monsters steeped in greed? Anyway, as a kid that moved around from place to place—my mom worked locum tenens—the fact that all the stories are linked back to this singular location, the Whisperwood, made it all the more magical. Not to mention some of the stories are actually quite scary, and I was kind of weird.”

I glance over at the passenger seat next to me. Along with two paper bags filled with Oma’s weekly milk and eggs and—yuck—All-Bran, is a frayed copy of Der Flüsterwald. Oma insists it’s delicious with blueberries. The All-Bran, not the book. Then again, Oma is full of shit.

Well, not literally. Because of the All-Bran. But anyway.

“I started my blog when I was only nine years old,” Ella explains. “By the time I turned ten, I had thousands of subscribers and a personal invitation to the park.”

“An invitation you accepted,” the host says. “An invitation that—I don’t think anyone would argue—changed your life.”

“Yes. It was a magical experience, to say the least. I saw so much of the park, including, as you know, the Gallery portion of the Vault. It’s all documented on my blog. But I think my favorite part was being the first to come right up to Der Stiller Mann. The glass was so filthy I could hardly see him inside, and my photos couldn’t capture the little I did see. I remember wondering why they’d called him man when he looked so young, but anyway, I felt like Charlie Bucket at the chocolate factory. The behind-the-scenes photos I took were the only in existence. When I put them up on my blog, my site’s traffic exploded. It’s what prompted the Der Stiller Mann exhibit to be moved up into Zauberwald.”

The host clears his throat. “On that visit—that was when your mother first met Preston Strauss, was it not?”

She sighs. “They met and kept in touch for almost a year before eloping. By that time I was trying to pivot the content on my blog. Writing essays and think pieces. You know, like a normal preteen. I didn’t know it then, but going off and eloping… that’s so not like Preston. But my mom has that effect on people, I guess. After a couple years Preston asked my mom and me if he could adopt me.” You can practically hear her shrug. “And that is how I became a Strauss.”

“And how is it?” the host prods as I enter one of the hairpin turns. “Being a Strauss?”

“It’s not so bad,” Ella says, coyness sharpening the edges of her words. “Even though everyone says they’re by and large all—”

The rest of her sentence is bleeped out. I clench my teeth as I exit the turn and quickly switch the radio off. As I do, I notice my phone’s screen is lit up with a missed call. Five of them, actually. I could stop. Check to see who is so impatient and what is so goddamn urgent to warrant so many calls in a row, but I’m nearly there. I’ll check when I arrive.

But then my phone starts softly buzzing.

Oma.

I nearly run off the road as I snatch it from the middle console and answer on speaker.

“Oma,” I say.

“Did you have your phone on silent?” she asks, angry.

“Maybe?”

“What is the point of having a phone if you can’t hear it?”

“I’m sorry. I—”

She groans so loudly it makes my speaker buzz. “When I find him, I’m going to strangle him.”

“And who are we strangling today?” I ask, as if I’m oblivious to the massive party we’ve planned behind her back. I knew she’d be livid when she found out. Lord knows she would have tried to stop it before it even got off the ground.

“Geoffrey,” she growls. Geoffrey’s my other uncle. She continues, “This is such a bad idea.”

“Oh, come now, it’s not so bad.”

“Is this because of the other week? Are you trying to make a point? Because the only point you’re making is—”

“Everything will be all right, Oma. I’m almost—”

I slam on the brakes. A mash-up of expletives bursts out of my mouth as I narrowly miss something darting across the road. My heart hammers in my throat. Goddamn deer really do have a death wish. At least, I think it was a deer. My brain cramps up as it tries to make sense of what I saw. The thing was so fast I only barely caught a glimpse of it. I blink hard, scanning the woods, but it’s already disappeared into the undergrowth.

Don’t drive distracted, kids.

The book and Oma’s groceries, by some magic, are still in the passenger seat. I throw the car into park and shut my eyes. The memory of the shadowy silhouette presses against the darkness of my eyelids. Deer. Something twists inside my chest as I try to tease out the specifics. Its gait, its shape, its speed. Is there anything I’ve learned about that might fit the bill?

I swallow hard. Just a deer. Or a bear. Probably.

Hopefully.

“Frankie?” My name comes from somewhere on the floor. “Frankie, what’s going on?”

“Dammit.” I fish down between my feet, fingers curling around my phone.

“Francesca Montgomery-Strauss! I told you it’s not safe out—”

Double last name? Shit. That’s not good. She hates my dad. And rightfully so, because Phillip Montgomery is a jackass.

“I’ll be there in a minute, Oma. Bye.”

I switch my phone off before she can say another word and slap it down on the console at my elbow.

Pressing myself into the seat, I roll down the window. Only a crack. Nothing more. Not here. Fresh spring mountain air drifts in, thick with autumn olive (because around these parts, nature deals heavily in irony). For minutes upon minutes, my body refuses to understand that the worst a deer could do is dent my bumper or maybe pass on ticks (which, granted, is really disgusting, and Lyme disease is certainly a negative one-star experience). But it’s not really about the deer, is it? Not entirely.

The fragrant air washes over my face, dragging me back to the time I made flower crowns and held a séance in the greenhouse with a red-and-white-striped gallon bucket of buttered popcorn sitting between me and her. Not Oma. Her. She was everything.

Suddenly, it’s like someone’s deployed an inflatable rescue boat in my chest. All I want—all I’ve ever wanted—is to go back to before. Before things all went wrong.

Gooseflesh chases down my arms as bird trills bounce around in the trees outside like a Plinko game. My hands are shaking, literally trembling. The kind of nonsense reserved for dramatic gothic novels. I ball them into fists and try to steady myself, breathing deep, but the air stutters down my throat. What is wrong with me?

“You’re okay,” I tell myself. And I almost believe it.

I pinch my eyes shut and grip the wheel again. Then something hits the window next to me, and I scream.

 2 

There’s a boy with blond hair and a million-dollar smile standing outside the car. He’s dressed in a long-sleeved gray shirt, bright yellow running shoes, and those teeny-tiny running shorts all the serious athletes wear. Something about aerodynamics? Sweat glistens on his brow, and he’s looking at me like I should know who he is. It takes my brain a second to catch up.

“Rhodes?” I finally croak out. My cousin is a couple years younger than me and has managed to double in height since I last saw him, which was sometime before the park closed and my entire family decided to forget one another existed. Even as memories claw at the fringe of my mind—the summer sleepovers at the park, the hours spent at the dining table crafting intricate roller-coaster designs that went largely unnoticed, the hushed moments tucked away in coat closets or concession stands as we hid from Oma after breaking one of her floating rules—I’m still shaking. It feels like I’ve mainlined an entire weather front. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry ’bout that,” he says, eyes soft in apology. “It’s good to see you, Frankie. You okay? You don’t look so good.”

I slap the most convincing smile I can muster onto my face. “Yes, of course I’m fine,” I lie, because of course I’m not fine. There’s a hurricane where my heart once sat. “What are you doing down here anyway?”

He leans against the car. “We had to leave early to get here, and I missed my training. Dad told me not to get gross, so I’m jogging the hill.”

I narrow my eyes on him and point at his sweat-soaked shirt. “Pretty sure that constitutes gross.”

His lips twitch impishly as he looks down, appraising his outfit. “It’s not that bad.”

My palms squeeze tight around the steering wheel. “I think your father might disagree with you on that one.”

“Well.” He shrugs. “Too late now. Race you to the top?” His head quirks to the side, but then he straightens as a beat-up once-red sedan pulls up behind us and flashes the high beams. It’s too early to be one of the guests, so it must be catering staff. I press down on the clutch and shift into first gear. As I switch to the accelerator, the car makes a horrific noise, one that I feel in my chest just before everything falls silent.

Great.

I’ve always been terrible at hill starts.

A voice behind us shouts, “This the way to Whisperwood Park?” The guy’s hanging halfway out the window. Did he not pass the same unnecessary sign as I did?

“Sure is,” Rhodes replies as I start the car again. And, again, stall out.

“Come on,” I groan.

“Hold up,” the guy shouts again. “You’re one of the Strauss kids, aren’t ya?”

“I am, indeed.” Rhodes waves and flashes his smile quickly before, leaning closer to the cracked-open window, whispering, “Scoot over?”

It’s a question, a request. He’s not bossing me around, but it’s still really annoying.

“I can do it, Rhodes. God, don’t patronize me. You’re not even old enough to drive.”

“But I can—”

I throw a scowl at him, and he throws his hands up as if I have him at gunpoint.

“Look, all I’m saying is I’m very good at hill starts.”

Behind me someone lays on their horn. One of those new luxury electric SUVs looms behind the sedan. Uncle Preston and Cousin Ella sit in the front seats. Their faces could not be more opposite. While his scruffy scowl is so pale it nearly glows in the dark, her gentle tawny face is framed by rosy cheeks and loose black curls. Ella cranes her neck to investigate the holdup while my uncle stares ahead, brow furrowed, stone-faced as ever. Truly, that man hit the jackpot of a lifetime marrying Ella’s mom.

“Fine,” I huff, and scramble over to the passenger seat, pushing the groceries to the floor and tossing the book onto the dash.

Rhodes waves to the sedan and shouts, “Follow me,” as if it had any other choice. Once inside the car, he puts the windows all the way down and starts up the hill as if it were nothing. I worry my bottom lip as Rhodes stretches his arm out the open window. The air hums with the slow crunch of tires over the dirt road and the rush of the creek somewhere below, brimming with snowmelt.

Rhodes fights with the gearshift lever, punching it into second. “When was the last time you had this thing serviced?”

“Not really on my to-do list right now.” I sigh. “Book royalties split four ways will only get you so far.”

He smirks over at me. “Don’t tell my dad that.”

Mom and Uncle Geoffrey didn’t have the foresight to marry literal brain surgeons, like Uncle Preston did, to maintain their lifestyle when the whole park income came to a screeching halt. The park had always been the thing that kept our family sitting pretty, but the park has been shut for eighteen months now.

Maybe it shouldn’t have, but it surprised me how quickly the money dried up.

“Have you asked your dad if—”

“Seriously?” I snip. “My dad?”

He’s one of those people who’s a shit-faced asshole one day, and the next he tries to take everyone out for ice cream and, when pressed about yesterday, says all of that’s in the past and can’t we move on and why do we have to ruin this outing he’s planned for us. I’d rather use a cactus as a lollipop than ask him for anything.

Rhodes’s brows shoot up, fingers thrumming against the wheel as he looks at me out of the corner of his eyes. “Fair,” he concedes, then after a moment he changes course. “Did you catch any of the radio special?”

“Not really.”

“They were surprisingly good,” he says as he bops along to a song playing somewhere inside his imagination. “Granted, when you hear Cristin Revis is doing a dramatic reading of ‘The Forest Protector’s Promise,’ your expectations are…” He trails off.

“Below sea level?” I offer.

“At least.”

“Maybe they should have pulled out some of that Leicheziege fanfic?”

The demon-like creature from “The Forest Protector’s Promise,” the Leicheziege, is tall, muscular, and part goat. A fact that has not deterred fans from developing a whole subcategory of Flüsterwald fanfic devoted specifically to Leicheziege smut. I’ll never understand the whole monster-fucking phenomenon, but to each their own and all that, I guess.

“But then my expectations would be sky-high,” Rhodes says, a wry smirk on his mouth as the road levels out at the top and we’re dumped into the foot of a gigantic parking lot scattered with vehicles. He navigates across the crumbling concrete and pulls up beside the front gate, the only break in the towering stone wall that surrounds the entire park.

“Go on,” he says. And when I give him a confused look, he adds, “I’m going to park by that light over there and have a look under the hood.”

I squint at him. “Since when do you know anything about cars?”

“Since I have a phone and Google and everything’s on the internet.”

“Who needs years of training when you’ve got a search engine?”

“Exactly.”

I sigh and something inside me softens. “I’ve missed you, Rhodes.”

Tenderness tiptoes across his face, reaching his eyes. I grab the paper bag at my feet and step out of the car. When I shut the door, the slam sends skyward a swarm of small birds perched above the front gate. Whisperlings. They’re an endangered species, but you wouldn’t know by how many of them live in and around the park.

I make the familiar approach through the gates and up the Boulevard—a pedestrian road as wide as a four-lane highway, flanked by quaint streetlamps and dense forest with several statues standing in the center at intermittent intervals—though today it is anything but the familiar path I’ve grown to know over the past year and a half of visiting Oma every week.

For starters, the gates are wide open.

A banner hangs over the entry reading congratulations on 100 magical years! If I close my eyes, I can almost hear the rumbling of roller coasters and the thrilled screams of their passengers. There are waiters and musicians and event staff meandering along the main cobblestoned drive leading to a massive clapboard house. It’s Whisperwood’s equivalent to Cinderella’s Castle, except where the Mouse’s is regal, ours is mountain rustic. It’s also lived in, which is a bit unorthodox, but that’s par for the course here.

Also par for the course? On the front porch, Oma is arguing with my mom.

I tighten my grip on the grocery bag and pick up my pace.

“Miss Francesca.”

I don’t even need to see who it is to know it’s Jem, the groundskeeper Oma hired shortly after she shuttered the park gates. He’s a year or two older than me. Literally no one else calls me Francesca, much less Miss Francesca. At first it was a little weird—I kept telling him he could call me Frankie—but now it’s more like a special name he’s given me, a secret only we share. Not sure I’d allow anyone else to call me that.

He rises to his feet at the edge of the path, the knees of his khakis dirt-stained, the sleeves of his light linen shirt rolled up past his elbows. He removes his gardening gloves and combs back his dark tousled hair, the late sun drenching him in a light that does him every single favor. “Hey, Jem,” I say. My stomach does a little acrobatic trick as he weaves through bustling bodies and muted chatter, closing the distance between us. I nod to the argument on the porch. “I see Oma is less than thrilled about her little surprise party.”

“That’s one way to put it.” He folds his arms. “Though, I do believe they’ve moved on from that specific issue of the party and have now shifted to… broader vexations.”

Jem, always summing things up with the vocabulary of a dissertation thesis. I asked him about it one time, and he stared at me for a solid five seconds before saying, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Then Oma looks up, and I spin behind Jem, pressing my back into his. The smell of him washes over me, all flora—lavender and mint—and dust and earth.

“Miss Francesca?” Jem says over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Hiding. Duh.” I wave casually to a couple of passing hired staff. Totally normal. Nothing to see here.

“Hiding? From your grandmother?”

“Yes,” I say. “Did she see me?”

“I—I don’t believe so,” he stammers. “Why are you hiding from Frau Strauss?”

“Pretty sure she’s not happy with me at the moment, and it might be best if she cools off a bit before I cross paths with her.” I try to get a look around Jem’s shoulder, but no dice. “Is she still looking this way?”

“Not at the moment, but—”

“Excellent,” I say, adjusting the grocery bag in my arms. I’ll have to get in through the scullery door at the back, because obviously the front door’s a lost cause. “Thanks for being my cover, Jem. I owe you one.” I pivot and blend in with a pair of musicians laden with instruments as they head toward the side of the house. As I pass the evergreen bushes that skirt the porch, I slow down. Their voices are low, but Oma and my mom are definitely still at it.

“I’m not going to stand by and let you squander the wealth and legacy this family has tirelessly worked for,” my mom says, her face flushed in frustration. I hate seeing her worked up like this.

“Tirelessly worked for?” Oma laughs dryly. “You can’t be serious.”

My mom scowls, her voice fracturing into shrapnel as she speaks. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to find out how serious I am about protecting what’s rightfully mine.”

Her words strangle the air, rendering it thick and swollen and bruised. This family really does put soap operas to shame, so I need to get out of here before I’m roped into the next episode. I swallow hard and pick up the pace, my stomach sinking into my heels as I go.

 3 

Oma is pissed.

I hover at the canapés table, watching as Oma lingers on the fringe at the opposite end of the crowd, wearing a stunning batwing coat dress in moss-green velvet and an expression that looks like she just finished knocking back a dozen shots of pure lemon juice. She fidgets with the master key she always keeps tied around her wrist. The smile she’s forcing to her face is far too pained to be convincing, ultimately saying, I’d rather be ripping off my own toenails with my teeth than be in the same hemisphere as this party.

The Boulevard hasn’t been this packed in eighteen months, and I’m not sure how long she can keep from exploding.

The number always sledgehammers me in the ribs—eighteen months. Time is so weird. It felt like an eternity going through it, but the single-use nature of time makes it feel so small when looking back. While before the Boulevard would have been teeming with park-goers of every age, race, and religion outfitted in belt bags and gift shop visors, tonight it is filled with publishing folk and media outlets and wealthy donors from days gone by, as well as the random politician.

Near the stage by the front gate, there’s a folk band playing. They wrap up a lively number, then slip into something more somber.

I flinch as my keys suddenly appear in front of my nose. Rhodes drops them into my open palm. He’s wearing a stark white polyester getup with some logo I don’t recognize trimmed down the sleeves and legs. I’m about to ask if he’s lost his mind when he flicks back his blond hair and says, “Car was fine. Just old as sin.”

I slip the keys into my dress pocket. “Thank you?”

“You’re welcome?” He grins timidly.

“Rhodes.” I drag his name out as my brain fully digests what he said. “Spill.”

His cheeks flush with color. “Spill what?”

I narrow my gaze on him. “What did you do to my car?”

He clears his throat and laughs, nervous and stuttering. “While your car wasn’t broken,” he says, scratching his temple, mouth stretching into a grimace that would be comical if it weren’t for the next thing he says, “uh, well, it’s broken now.”

“Rhodes, no,” I groan.

He sucks in a breath and closes his eyes dramatically. “Betrayed by the internet and my own hubris.”

“This isn’t happening.”

“I’ll fix it.” His hands launch out toward me, as if to tamp down my frustration. “I already called this guy. He says he can come out and look at it tomorrow sometime.”

“Tomorrow?” I press my fingertips along my eyebrows, then look up as another one of my cousins materializes next to me.

He sets down an empty champagne flute on the canapés table and wraps an arm around Rhodes’s shoulder. “Causing headaches wherever we go, brother?”

“Bertram,” Rhodes mutters as his older brother plucks a fresh champagne flute from a tray carried by a passing waitress.

“Thank you, gorgeous,” Bertram says, and the waitress blushes.

Bertram looks like #styleicon insta-barfed him into existence. His tawny-brown hair is styled into a ridiculous quiff that could withstand hurricane-force winds. A black knee-length skirt swishes over slim black trousers and black sneakers with red laces. His oversized, cream cowl-necked sweater has the words main character in red across the front. He wobbles on the spot as he daintily sips from the flute in his hand. “Who are all these people?” Bertram asks.

I shrug. “Beats me.”

“No, seriously. This is a fuckton of people.” He turns to a young suit leaning against one of the Boulevard statues and bellows, “Who the hell are you?”

“Oh my god.” Rhodes cringes, but I can hear the suit as he turns to his friend, a pinched-back smile on his face. “Bertram Strauss asked who I was.”

I roll my eyes.

“There you are,” my mom says, planting a kiss on my forehead. It is possibly the gentlest act this family has ever seen and not a gesture that comes to her naturally, though she’s trying. Break the cycle, that’s what she’s always muttering to herself. Mom is a type of beautiful that the word struggles to encapsulate. Somehow her facial features are at once defined but also soft. Her dark brown hair falls in gentle waves that cut off just above her shoulders. She’s wearing an emerald-green minidress that looks ready to pick a fight with the first person that looks at it wrong. Then her gaze flits between my cousins. “There’s only two of you. Was Junior not able to get away from school?”

“Little Geoffrey said his professor wouldn’t let him reschedule,” Rhodes explains. I had thought when Junior passed Uncle Geoffrey in height he might have broken out of the title of Little Geoffrey, but it’s still going strong. “Apparently, you can reschedule three exams, but four is too many.”

“Say, have you seen your father anywhere?”

“Not recently,” Rhodes says. “Do you need help looking for him?”

My mom sips from her champagne flute, wincing at the taste. “No. That’s all right, Rhodes. Thanks, though.”

Rhodes looks around the crowd. “He has to be here somewhere.”

My mom’s brows lift. “You so sure about that?”

Bertram laughs to himself as if he has a very funny answer to my mom’s question.

“How many of those have you had?” my mom asks him.

Bertram’s head tips loosely to the side as he gives my mom a pitying smile. “If I knew that answer, Auntie, it wouldn’t be enough.”

She narrows her eyes on him. “Are you even old enough to drink?” she asks, sinking into her hip, knowing full well that no he is not because he’s only a year older than I am.

“In Europe I was,” he replies.

“Look, just don’t get in trouble,” my mom says, squeezing my hand. “And let me know if you find Uncle Geoffrey.” She turns on her heel and disappears into the crowd.

“Europe?” I clear my throat dramatically. “You know you’re currently in Nagsboro County, North Carolina, right?”

“Cousin,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are giving me a migraine.”

Rhodes quirks his head. “Pretty sure it’s the drinks giving you the migraine, Bertie. Not Frankie. Maybe they need to cut you off ?”

“Call me Bertie one more time, and I swear I will piss in every one of your left shoes and hurl every right shoe into a bonfire. Besides,” Bertram drawls, shrinking the distance between him and his brother. There are precisely zero things intimidating about any of these intimidation tactics. “No one is going to say no to this face.” He swishes his hand in front of him so it’s clear what part of his anatomy he’s referring to.

“No?” My hand flicks out as if to offer the word to him on a silver platter. “No, no. No, no, no, no. No, no.”

Rhodes snorts out a laugh.

“Very clever,” Bertram says, rolling his eyes. When his gaze levels again, his expression shifts to one I can’t quite place. Confusion or anger? Maybe somewhere between the two. Then he speaks on a sigh. “I don’t get it.”

“You’re gonna have to narrow it down for me,” I say. “The list of things you don’t get is very long.”

Rhodes stuffs a fritter into his mouth, biting back a smile as his brother scowls at me.

“Why Oma won’t open this goddamn park,” Bertram snaps. “Look around! Everyone and everything loves this place. Especially my bank account.”

I shrug. “She’s the sole proprietor. You don’t need to get it.”

Bertram scoffs. “And we’re all expected to just… suffer and be poor… until she’s not the sole proprietor?” Bertram downs the top half of his champagne in one gulp.

“Why do you care?” Rhodes asks, knotting his arms across his chest. “Don’t you have like a million followers on socials?”

Bertram huffs. “Yeah so? I get trips and free shit, but it’s not like they’re paying to follow me.” He raises an eyebrow. “Maybe they should. Look, it’s not like I haven’t had offers, but they’ve all been contingent on park access, so—” His voice pitches up into a harassed yowl. He huffs, jaw set, eyes wide in frustration, his perfect, thick eyebrows knitting together. “Woman’s as flexible as a flagpole.”

I ignore him. “Ella’s managed to monetize it.”

“Ella’s a pain in the ass.”

Rhodes and I exchange a look that is half amused, half I-can’t-believe-he-said-that-out-loud because a second later, Bertram nearly leaps out of his skin as Ella pulls up next to him.

“Some call it entrepreneurial spirit,” she says with a smirk. She curtsies, and her little sequin dress turns into a diamond mine, winking with her every movement. She turns her attention to Rhodes. “A tracksuit, Rhodes? Bold choice.”

Rhodes sighs and tucks his hands into his jacket pockets. “Father said suit. He did not specify anything further than that.”

“You’re gonna be in so much trouble,” Ella says.

“Funny,” Bertram adds, “he didn’t specify anything at all to me.”

“Well,” I say, “that’s because he knows you’d rather baptize a fleet of angry cats than show up to a celebration in sportswear.”

A wave of nostalgia washes over me. I’ve missed this.

Suddenly, Bertram’s attention snaps to someplace behind me as he stares over my shoulder. “Oh, hello?” he says.

I turn around and come face-to-face with Jem. He’s dressed in tweed trousers, a stark white shirt, and a waistcoat, which he adjusts slightly. “Miss Francesca,” he says, a soft smile on his mouth. “You look… enchanting tonight.”

“Thanks, Jem,” I say, heat spilling over my cheeks as something I refuse to name flutters in my belly. I shake out the skirt of my powder-blue midi dress. It’s really not anything special. I had to work with what I already owned.

Bertram loudly clears his throat and squeezes in beside me. “Are you going to introduce us to your friend?”

“Sure.” I let out a heavy breath and point around the circle. “That’s Ella and Rhodes and—”

“Bertram Strauss,” he says, pointing to himself.

“And this is Jem,” I tell my cousins. “Oma didn’t want the place completely falling apart, so she hired him as a groundskeeper after the park shut.”

Jem nods. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”

“Hold it,” Bertram says, throwing his hands up. “You? Have been here? At the place I’ve been locked out of for the past five centuries? Of course you have.”

“It’s been a year and a half,” Rhodes says, rolling his eyes.

I shrug. “You could have visited Oma, too.”

“Could I, though?” Bertram says, smacking his lips. “Do I really want to be spending my free time around the person who is ruining my life? If she’s not breaking promises and neglecting us, she’s taking away the one redeeming thing she had going for her. This place. I mean, not all of us can be saints like you, Frankie.”

I turn my arms into a balance scale. “Sainthood. Making sure my grandmother doesn’t starve to death.”

Bertram groans and downs the rest of his drink. Honestly, I don’t know how he’s still upright. When a waiter passes, Bertram places the empty glass on his tray. “All right,” he says, shaking out his limbs as if he’s about to run a hundred-meter. “This. Ends. Here.”

“This isn’t about your quest, is it?” Rhodes asks.

“Quest?” Ella and I ask in unison.

Rhodes explains, “Bertram here is on a quest of epic proportions, determined to snuff out any marks of sidekicking, and fully embrace his true role.” Rhodes flashes his hands in front of his face like fireworks. “The Main Character.”

Ella groans, rolling her eyes. “Oh good lord.”

“Oma is the Big Bad,” Rhodes says, amused, popping a tiny sausage into his mouth.

Bertram nods once, sharply, then struts away, melting into the throng.

“Uhhhh,” Ella wavers, incredulous. “Where is he going?”

“To get into trouble,” Rhodes says.

We all laugh.

Around me, clinking glasses and scattered bursts of conversation weave through the crowd. It smells like caramelized sugar and fried food, so much so I can taste it. The music thrums in the air, and the party lights make me feel like we’re mingling somewhere up in the starry sky.

It’s a perfect night. It feels extraordinary. It feels magical.

“Of note,” says a voice next to me, pulling me back to ground level. Uncle Geoffrey is holding an old recording device in his hands. “Increased agitation and marked motor function difficulty.” He presses a button and stuffs the device into his pocket. I’ve seen him use it in the past to document plot bunnies for the detective novels he writes, but this doesn’t sound like one of his books.

“Aunt Kat was looking for you, Dad,” Rhodes tells him.

He nods. “Yes, I suppose she would be.” Then he turns to me. “I wanted to thank you, Frankie.” He takes my hand and turns it, placing an old, cast-iron skeleton key in my palm. It’s my key to the park gates, painted in iridescent nail varnish. I had loaned it to Uncle Geoffrey so he and the outside help could set up for the party. Uncle Geoffrey straightens his jacket. “Without you none of this would have—” The rest of his thought shrivels up as his gaze pivots.

Next to me, Rhodes tenses as his dad’s gaze cuts up and down his interpretation of the word suit.

Uncle Geoffrey’s eyes sharpen, ire consuming his voice as he leans forward and hisses, “Is this a joke to you?”

“It was nice knowing you, Rhodes,” I say.

Rhodes steps backward. “He’s got to catch me first.” Rhodes winks and jets off into the packed crowd, his dad on his heels.

“Best of luck!” Ella shouts after him.

 4 

Is this thing on?” a voice cuts over the band across the audio system. Everyone looks around for the speaker, muttering as the music stumbles to a stop. Bertram scrambles onto the stage, microphone in hand. He possesses all the grace and elegance of a roller-skating flamingo.

“It’s so lovely to see this place hopping once again. I think I speak for more than myself when I say how much I’ve missed having these magical money-making gates open.”

There’s a murmur from the crowd and a stuttering of applause that quickly dies off.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here tonight to celebrate the wonderful stories of my late great-great-great-great—I’m not actually sure how many greats there are—grandfather, Sir Wilhelm Strauss, and commiserate that we can’t party like this more often because my grandmother has a stick the size of the Empire State Building shoved up her ass.”

Next to me, Ella gasps. “Oh my god. Isn’t anyone going to stop him?”

“Who?” I shrug. “He’s a Strauss.”

“You’re a Strauss,” she counters.

“Technically, so are you,” I mutter. At the same time, someone sighs heavily behind me.

“Geoffrey never has been very good at putting his foot down with that one, has he?” My mom glowers, arms folded across her chest as Bertram waxes poetic about his frustrations with our grandmother. Mom gives a sharp exhale and sets off.

“She might need a hand,” Ella says, chasing after my mom. I swear she is the oldest fifteen-year-old to ever live.

I scan the crowd for Oma. Where is she?

“Only way past these gates is if we sneak in.” Bertram raises his drink. “Cheers, Daddy-o. And thank you, Grandmother. Absence certainly does make the heart grow fonder. But absence also makes my bank account very, very sad.” He’s nearly swallowing the microphone now.

There’s a hum of voices as my mom reaches the stage.

“Let’s put it to a vote, shall we?” Bertram says, realizing his time is running out. “You folks love voting and best-of lists, though not that New York Times nonsense because that shit is curated—”

That’s when I find her in the crowd. Unlike everyone else, Oma’s not watching as my mom crosses the stage and yanks the microphone from Bertram’s grip. Rather, she’s leaning on the front gate for support, a hand curled around one of the pickets, her jaw clenched tight.

I cut my way through the crowd in one direction, my path a maze of shoulders and champagne glasses, while Ella helps my mom haul Bertram in the opposite direction, off the stage and up the Boulevard toward the house.

When I reach Oma, I throw an arm around her. “Steady there,” I say, while in the back of my mind I fear that this party was a mistake.

She scowls at me and then glances over my shoulder. Jem has followed me. Oma lowers her voice. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“What? No—”

“I saw you sneaking around to the back of the house earlier.”

I bite down on my lip. “Okay, but can you blame me?”

“And you went behind my back.”

“But look around,” I say, gesturing to the party. “Everyone’s so happy to be here. It’s going great… other than Bertram’s little tantrum.” And as if on cue, the door to the house slams shut at the far end of the Boulevard.

Oma brushes me off of her. “I don’t like it,” she says.

It takes a minute for the shock of Bertram’s outburst to wear off the crowd, but as soon as it does, an impossibly tall person in a smart gray suit with thick-rim glasses takes the stage. Their shoes and shirt are a shocking shade of pink, as too is their belt and nail varnish.

“Friends. Colleagues. Bookish family. I am Cameron Reed, President and CEO at Schmerz Publishing Group.” They pause a moment for a small round of applause before continuing. “As I stand before you today, I can’t help but reflect on the incredible journey we’ve shared in bringing the stories of Der Flüsterwald to the world. Being a part of this literary adventure has been an unparalleled joy and profound honor. It is not an overstatement to say these stories have shaped every person here. I mean, who can escape high school American Lit without at least one unit on Die Märchen der Flüsterwald ?” This prompts the partygoers to exchange glances and nods.

Jem leans in. “Should we be concerned?” he asks, so close to my ear that I tense. “There’s a certain pallor about her.”

I glance over at my grandmother, shaking off a lightheaded chill, and know that anything I say to her will be met with stubbornness. “Let’s just keep close to her for now,” I say, then turn back to the stage.

“While tonight we celebrate the cultural contributions of Die Märchen der Flüsterwald and, more broadly, the German immigrants of Appalachia and their rich history, I first want to acknowledge the shadows that linger in their narrative. Yes, the journey of these immigrants was fraught with challenges and even discrimination from Anglo-Americans, particularly toward those Germans with darker complexions. Yet despite seeking acceptance themselves, they were not immune to perpetuating racial prejudices of the time, including those directed toward African Americans. Additionally, as some of the earliest settlers, their dreams were entangled with the unjust displacement of indigenous peoples. Recognizing this painful truth doesn’t diminish the cultural contributions of German immigrants, but rather enriches our understanding of the complexity of experiences and the broader history of the regions they settled. After all, Appalachia isn’t just one story; it’s a kaleidoscope of cultures.

“Throughout much of the nineteenth century, German immigrants left their homeland and sought refuge and opportunity across the Atlantic, particularly after the failed revolution of 1848, when the Prussian military crushed the movement toward democratic self-government in the German states. Among those who fled were Franz and Helene Strauss, Wilhelm’s parents.”

I’m trying to listen—really I am—but it’s impossible to keep up with this history lesson when half my attention is caught by Oma’s vise grip on the gate and the other half is hyperfocused on the way Jem keeps brushing up against my shoulder.

Cameron must have said something funny because there’s a smattering of laughter. Then, onstage, they stretch out their arms. “A place that came to be known as the Whisperwood. Through the pages of Die Märchen der Flüsterwald, every word became a portal to imagination, and in Whisperwood Park, those very portals came to life with each enchanting attraction.

“As we begin our next chapter, we celebrate not only the stories of Der Flüsterwald, but the enduring impact of a visionary storyteller. May these tales continue to inspire, captivate, and resonate for generations to come. I want to thank you all for joining us for this celebration of one hundred years of Die Märchen der Flüsterwald. The story isn’t over. May his legacy live on.”

This time the wave of applause rolls across the crowd.

Jem leans in close again, but this time he has to shout to be heard above the noise. “You think he wrote them by himself ?” Jem asks.

“What? Wilhelm?” I shout back to him, and he nods. “Look, storytelling wasn’t simply second nature to him, it was the nature of his very soul.” At least, that’s what the biographies always say.

Jem gives me a quick look, but I can’t quite tease out its meaning. Onstage, Cameron speaks over the tail end of the applause. “Now, if she would indulge me.” They turn toward where we’re standing at the gate, and Oma’s eyes widen in horror. “Wilhelm’s very own great-granddaughter, Virginia. If you would give us a few words?”

She scowls as every eye up the Boulevard turns to her.

“Please, please,” Cameron says.

She shakes her head.

“It would be such an honor.”

Her lips press into a hard line. It’s never going to happen, buddy.

Cameron seems to sense as much. They laugh nervously, scratching the back of their neck. “Uh—all right, then. Let us all give a warm round for Virginia Strauss and her outstanding hospitality.”

The crowd erupts. Whistles and cheers thread through the ovation.

They’re all so caught up in the party, so unfamiliar with Oma, they don’t see it.

A look that is both fatigue and fear passes over Oma’s features. Her face pales. Her grip tightens further on the picket, her muscles straining.

“Oma?” My arms are around her again.

A low guttural static cuts across the sound system, smothering the applause. Gasps roll down the Boulevard. There’s a collective flinch as a high-pitched keening slices through the air. The streetlamps flicker, the air stutters, and then the party is cast into darkness. Not just by the lack of lights.

“Whisperlings,” someone gasps, and an unnatural chill rushes past, carrying with it the scent of forest undergrowth and upturned dirt. Overhead, the small birds move together like liquid, a black mass ever ebbing and twisting and churning. I’ve held one before, small enough to cup in my palms, its orange twiggy legs and triangular beak the only breaks among the dark feathers’ oil-slick iridescence. But there’s no real telling one from the next at this distance.

My heart pulses heavily in my chest, rising up into my ears. The surrounding trees groan. All eyes are trained on the whisperling acrobatics in the sky.

I pull Oma closer to me.

“Miss Francesca.” Jem says my name as if it both weighs a ton and tastes like the rich vanilla cream and honey-coated almonds of bienenstich cake. I look over my shoulder. There’s disquiet in his eyes.

Within my grip, Oma’s body tenses, and before I know it, she’s upright again. “Enough!” she snaps, voice sharp as an obsidian shard. And just like that, the swarm overhead disperses, the lights stop flickering, and a hush settles on the crowd.

“All right,” Cameron says, clapping and nodding enthusiastically. “Let’s give a round of applause for those top-notch special effects.” The tense stillness that had spread through the crowd quickly turns to fear. Not the rapid-breath, clammy-hand kind that comes from some perceived threat, but the kind where you feel it, even though you know everything’s okay—because it’s make-believe. Just a story. More applause rises, with a whoop or two thrown in. “I got goose bumps,” Cameron says to someone offstage.

“Where is she off to?” Jem’s question hangs in the air, and by the time I catch its meaning, Oma is already on the stage, snatching the microphone from Cameron.

“We’re done here. It’s time for you all to leave,” she growls into the microphone. The Boulevard falls into a crypt-quiet silence, all eyes glued on the stage where Oma’s barbed-wire glare cuts across the crowd. The only sound is the seething of her breath as she heaves for air. There’s a hesitance; they’re not sure she’s serious. Then a waiter mutters something about the mess. “I don’t give a damn about the mess,” she says. “Everyone out. Now!”

Copyright 1925

WILHELM STRAUSS

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without permission of the Schmerz Publishing Group.

Der Lehrling der Kräuterhexe

(The Herb Witch’s Apprentice)

Die Märchen der Flüsterwald

t is a truth universally acknowledged that all villages of a certain size must have a woman among them declared to be a witch, whether she possesses the gift or not. It so happened that in the case of a small village on the edge of the Whisperwood, they did indeed have their own Kräuterhexe, an herb witch, much to the delight of the village children. But none so much as Fonsa, whose parents had told her she was born with wildfire in her belly, as her curiosity burned so fiercely that it consumed caution.

Fonsa lived down the winding country lane from the Kräuterhexe and would often cycle to the copse of trees at the edge of the herb witch’s property. Hidden by ferns and flowering spindle bushes, Fonsa spied on the herb witch as she worked in her garden.

At first, Fonsa kept so far back, so deep within the underwood, she could barely make out the silhouette of the Kräuterhexe as she tended to her patch. But, growing bolder by the day, Fonsa crept closer and closer until one day the only way to get a better look was to climb the sprawling beech tree that stretched up and over the Kräuterhexe’s garden plot.

So she did just that.

Fonsa scaled the tree and watched as the Kräuterhexe worked, despite the toll it took on the herb witch’s tired limbs and aging joints. Fonsa was entranced by the beautiful colors and shapes of the flowers, soothed by the tenderness and diligence that were put into the care of the plants. So much so that it lulled her to sleep.

Sleep—though not typically a dangerous pastime— becomes a perilous occupation when done from a tree some fifteen feet in the air.

She awoke to the sharp trill of a bird at her ear and the sensation of falling, the earth barreling toward her. A fiery pain ripped down her leg when she hit the ground. She crushed her teeth together as something warm and wet soaked her stockings. She peeled open her eyes. The Kräuterhexe stood over her, concern etched on the woman’s face.

“That is quite the cut,” the Kräuterhexe noted.

Fonsa didn’t have to look to know what she meant. She could feel the long gash running the length of her leg, sticky and wet. It was a relentless and consuming agony that burned down to her bones, quickly incinerating her composure. She pinched back a scream.

Later, Fonsa would wonder how the old Kräuterhexe was able to scoop her up in her arms and carry her to her cottage, but at the time there was no room for such thoughts. Laying her out on the kitchen table, the Kräuterhexe tended to Fonsa’s injury, slathering a deep green poultice over her wound.

The cut on Fonsa’s leg healed quickly. Unnaturally so, and Fonsa paid for it through gritted teeth. In mere hours, Fonsa’s injury was nothing more than a faint scar.

“How did you do that?” Fonsa asked, amazed.

Hunched over the sink, the Kräuterhexe considered lying, but instead the truth tumbled out of her. “Nähenkraut,” she grumbled, placing the just-scrubbed pestle and mortar next to the sink to dry. “I grow it in my garden.”

Fonsa fell to her knees. “Please,” she begged. “Teach me what you know. Take me on and let me learn the ways of the Kräuterhexe.”

The Kräuterhexe regarded her for a moment. She had never had an apprentice before, and she quite enjoyed being alone. “Go home now, child,” she huffed, ignoring the girl’s plea. “The night is coming. Your mother will be worried.”

“You saved me,” Fonsa said, gathering her resolve. “You healed me, and for that, I am in your debt. But I don’t want to be a mere recipient of your kindness. I know the work pains you. Allow me to tend to your garden and gather herbs. I promise, I won’t be a burden. I’ll be but a shadow as I learn the ways of the Kräuterhexe.”

A pause lingered in the air as Fonsa awaited a reply. For years the Kräuterhexe had resisted passing on her knowledge, preferring her solitude. But Fonsa was right: The work had taken its toll, and now the Kräuterhexe could ignore it no longer. Neither could she ignore the thirst for learning that burned behind Fonsa’s eyes, which reminded her of her younger self.

“Very well,” the Kräuterhexe said. “Gather your things. Return to me tomorrow. We shall start your training in the morning.”

Fonsa went home and returned the following morning at first light.

Days, weeks, and months went by. As Fonsa’s knowledge grew, so too did her curiosity.

Then one day, when the Kräuterhexe was away from the garden, Fonsa began experimenting with the plants. If nähenkraut can heal any injury, she thought, I wonder if it can be bred to do something even more than that.

Her experimentations continued in secret, the Kräuterhexe never the wiser, until eventually Fonsa created a hybrid species that could enhance a person’s strength.

People would pay a great deal of money for something like this, she thought, and took her creation to the village market. Word of her creation spread quickly. Like wildfire, some might say.

The effects of this new species, however, were not what she had anticipated. Chaos erupted throughout the village as people who had once been peaceful turned to a violent rage. People were fighting in the streets, shops were being destroyed, and madness was breaking out everywhere.

Fonsa watched in horror. She knew she had made a grave mistake and ran back to the Kräuterhexe’s cottage to pack her things and run away. But as she was about to step out the door, she heard a voice.

“How could you?” the Kräuterhexe said, furious at Fonsa’s betrayal and the danger she had brought upon the village. But the Kräuterhexe kept her head, for she knew that she was the only one able to stop the madness. She had to act quickly.

“It was a mistake,” Fonsa said, panic choking her voice.

“Yes, it was,” the Kräuterhexe agreed. “But you can’t run away from it. You must try to make things right.”

Fonsa was now in tears. “I don’t know how.”

“You took something that was good for everyone and reshaped it into something that suited you and you alone,” the Kräuterhexe said. “Return to the good. We know nähenkraut can cure any ailment, even the damage your creation has done to their souls.”

“And what should I do with the corrupted crop?”

The Kräuterhexe leveled her gaze on Fonsa. “Burn it all.”

Smoke filled the sky, and the earthy smell of burning herbs drifted through the air as Fonsa quickly distributed nähenkraut to the affected villagers. Precisely as the Kräuterhexe said, the madness subsided.

Fonsa was exhausted by the time she returned to the home of the Kräuterhexe. Quietly, she collected her already packed bag and began walking along the country road that led away from the village. Her head hung low, burdened with shame, she knew she could never return.

She was glancing back one last time, just as the village was about to disappear from sight, when she heard someone shout her name.

“Fonsa!” the Kräuterhexe said, rushing down the road. “Fonsa! Where are you going?”

“I have betrayed you and this village. I must remove myself from your training and depart immediately.”

“You will do no such thing,” the Kräuterhexe said, much to Fonsa’s confusion. “You have made a grave mistake, Fonsa, but you have also learned a valuable lesson.”

Fonsa looked up at the Kräuterhexe, tears streaming down her face. “I have hurt so many people.”

“You cannot undo the harm that you have done,” the Kräuterhexe said, taking Fonsa’s pack. “But we are not simply a sum of the wrong things we have done. There is so much good that you can still do.” And with that, the Kräuterhexe led her apprentice back to their home.

 5 

In an instant, the crowd of centennial guests becomes a sea of elbows and alarmed faces. They stumble down the Boulevard toward the exit, muttering:

“What the hell?”

“I hope everything’s okay!”

“I didn’t even get a chance to try the spätzle!”

Staff frantically clean up as guests brush past me, their faces a torrent, blurring together. Though the whisperlings’ aerial dance disappears into the night sky, their trills continue to ricochet through the skeletal tree canopy, snagging my nerves like a hooked brook trout.

How am I meant to find Oma in all this? I didn’t even see which way she went.

I spin around and get a face-full of someone’s shirt. And when I see whose shirt it is, I back away, trying to give myself an inch of space, but the mass exodus knocks into me and a cobble catches my heel and then gravity does what it does best.

In the heartbeat between the shirt and the stony path, I curse fashionable footwear. Okay, maybe fashionable is too strong a word. Presentable. But instead of the ground, there’s an arm around me and a voice at my ear. “Careful,” Jem says as I find my feet again.

He’s standing so close to me it’s impossible to ignore the warmth unspooling inside my chest. At first I think he’s avoiding meeting my eyes, but then I see he’s not looking away from me, but rather looking toward something else. “She’s over there,” he says.

I follow his gaze, squinting through the crowd.

“Oma,” I gasp and shove my way through the throng.

She stands braced against one of the statues. The one that’s an inkwell and quill at the bottom with the words once upon a time spiraling up and branching out into various elements from some of the Flüsterwald stories: a mythical catamount, a shape-shifting lake monster, a girl that is both human and storm.

I reach her, and she slumps into my arms. I swear to god I have held my grandmother more times in this single evening than I have in my entire life up until this point.

“Are you okay?” I ask. It’s a stupid question. Of course she’s not okay. I had hoped she could get through the party, but it’s obviously been too much for her.

Her fingertips dig into my forearm as she rights herself. “It’s happening,” Oma says.

“Happening?” I ask. “What’s happening, Oma?”

“Something is coming,” she says, swinging a hardened expression to me. “Something bad.”

Cold sinks through me. She needs to go inside. She needs rest.

I place my free hand on top of hers as she clings to my arm. “Everyone’s leaving, Oma. I think the worst is behind us.” I twist around and jerk my chin, calling Jem closer.

He closes the distance between us, his dark eyes narrowing. “Yes?”

I bite down on my bottom lip. “Could you take her to the house?” I ask, threading Oma’s arm into his. I give him an apologetic look because I know this is so far outside his job description that it’s a speck on the horizon.

“Of course,” he says, nodding once, sharply. Then, leaning in close, he whispers, “Should I be concerned?” He pulls back quickly, leveling a loaded look on me.

I shake my head. “It’s been a long day is all.”

Oma huffs. “Frankie,” she says, her voice lacerating through my name.

“I’m going to make sure everyone leaves,” I tell her. “And once they do, I’m going to lock up.”

“But—”

I reach out to her, my hand on her shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “It’s going to be okay.”

She shakes her head, but when Jem leads her away, saying, “Let’s get you inside, Frau Strauss,” she doesn’t resist.

As they shuffle off, a spiraling sensation takes hold of me. I squeeze my eyes shut and bite down on my lip until it burns. A fingernail feeling crawls up the backs of my legs, freezing me to the spot. Gauzy memories rise in my mind like a flash flood.

One moment, I’m breathing in air that is all earthy aroma and car exhaust, and the next I’m hit with the dense lingering smells of smoky bockwurst, sugar-dusted striebele, and cabbage-stuffed bierock.

It was after hours. The trees made a patchwork quilt of autumn color that drifted down to the ground like confetti, the seasons tipping over earlier than usual. Stars pinpricked the wide night sky. Her laughter echoed up and down the empty Boulevard, and I chased after her because that’s what I always did: follow her. My breath rasped in my throat; happiness burned in my chest. She glanced back at me, her dark brown hair swishing in the lantern light, her expression alive and unknowable.

The door to the house claps shut, and as quickly as the memory came, it dissipates.

The last of the catering staff scurries away, arms laden with supplies and serving trays. Weak lamplight hums against a growing silence as final sets of red taillights pull out of the parking lot. I step down the empty Boulevard toward the gate and dig into my dress pocket for the skeleton key.

As I free the latch on the stone wall that holds the gates open, a noise stops me dead still. A sound of rustling through dense undergrowth. Followed by a guillotine-tense quiet. It came from somewhere farther along the stone wall, deep in the shadows.

In one direction sits the vacant lot. In the other, down the litter-strewn Boulevard, is the house. A gentle glow burns from behind the voile drapes, silhouetting the figures inside. I turn back to the shadows along the wall. That itching, not-alone sensation courses through my body.

“Who’s there?” I ask with more confidence than I feel. I wish I had a flashlight. “Party’s over.”

Something shifts in the shadows. My throat closes; my hands tremble. I can literally feel my heart reverberating to the tips of my fingers.

“I’m locking the gate now. You really don’t want to be—”

A figure emerges from the shadows. Then another.

Breath stutters over my lips.

A tall blond woman walks into the light. She looks maybe about my mom’s age, a wry smirk on her lips. As she struts down the Boulevard toward the gate, she waves to me, and I half expect a red carpet to roll out in front of her. A moment later, a younger man steps out of the trees smiling like an idiot and frantically combing his fingers through his black hair, a strong blush to his brown skin.

My insides are still going at breakneck speed as I jerk my head and tell them, “Get lost.”

He scampers past me, catching up to the woman as they reach the parking lot outside.

I lock the heavy iron gates behind them and slip off my shoes. Navigating the cobblestone path through the minefield of abandoned beer bottles and half-eaten southern biscuit tartlets will be hard enough—I don’t need the complication of heels added to the equation.

Someone will need to clean up this mess, and if the past eighteen months have taught me anything, it’s how utterly useless this family is, meaning that someone will probably be me. And me alone. All by myself. Cue Celine Dion.

You’d think I’d be used to it, and I guess I sort of am. Not in the way that I’ve grown immune to the feeling, more that I’m used to it enough to know that it’s the truth.

I start up the path. It doesn’t take long for that sudden thread of cold to slink up the back of my calves again. I stumble. My stomach churns as my bare foot sinks into something mushy. Deep-fried macaroni-and-cheese ball squishes up through my toes and sticks to the underside of my foot.

“Ugh!” I groan, trying to shake it off.

The trees creak in the dark. Then movement catches my eye from the shadows.

I sigh. More goddamn stragglers.

“Come out,” I groan, scraping fried pasta ball from the bottom of my foot on the edge of a cobble. “I’ll open the gate for you.”

No one responds. I roll my eyes.

Carefully, I step toward the edge of the lit path, over lumps of cornbread, forgotten mason jars reeking of dill and vinegar, and an entire tipped-over apple stack cake. “Trust me,” I say. “If Virginia finds—”

The rest of my words stick in my throat. Two wide eyes, burning red and hovering some ten feet in the air, catch in the flickering lamplight. Panic sounds like a waterfall rushing between my ears, and I choke on a thick, verdant smell. I try not to make a sound. Try not to breathe. Try not to even think too loudly.

Then whatever it is blinks. And inches closer.

“Frankie!”

I flinch and turn without thinking. It’s only after I catch the backlit silhouette of my cousin Bertram standing on the porch that I realize looking away was a stupid decision. I whip my gaze back to the shadows, swallowing hard. But it’s just shadows. Whatever it was is gone now. Or whatever it is was maybe never there and nothing at all, and I really need to chill out.

Bertram shouts, “If you’re waiting for an invitation, this is it.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m coming,” I reply, but I’m unable to move. I squint into the dark, peeling back layers of shadows, willing whatever I saw to reappear. To reassure me that I’m not losing my mind. Except, isn’t thinking I saw something exactly what losing my mind would look like?

“Hey!” Bertram shouts again. “The drinks are starting to evaporate. What’s the holdup?”

“Nothing,” I mutter to myself. “Nothing at all.”

 6 

The porch steps groan as I trot to the front door, where Bertram leans against the doorframe, a bottle of something boozy gripped in his hand. He grins at me. “Welcome to the after-party.”

I step past him and enter the wide, familiar hallway. It’s all dark wood paneling and plush carpet runners and mossy patterned wallpaper, lit dimly by antique brass wall sconces. It smells of peppermints and old newspapers. Soft murmurs drift through the rooms branching off the main corridor, which shoots straight to the back, where a switchback staircase leads to the upper floors and a locked door leads to the off-limits basement.

To the right of the entry is the reception, where my mom sits on a long scarlet damask sofa and Uncle Preston sits on the floor muttering, “Shit, shit, shit, god-fucking-awful, shit,” as he leafs through Oma’s record collection. He’s dressed in a style that can best be described as heist-wear chic. Collared shirt, pants, jacket, tie—all black on black on black. Maybe that’s why no one could find him at the party.

To my left, Rhodes and Bertram’s dad, Uncle Geoffrey, sits alone at the head of the dining table. He sips a generous portion of amber liquid from a crystal tumbler and fiddles with something in the breast pocket of his suit jacket. When he notices me, he lifts his glass and gives me a conspiratorial nod. What we’re conspiring, I do not know. Farther in the house, though I can’t see them, I can hear Ella and Rhodes in the kitchen, laughing.

At the opposite end of the corridor, Oma shoulders past Jem, her hands balled into fists. “You all need to leave.”

Footfalls gravitate toward Oma from every direction: Mom and Uncle Preston from the reception, Uncle Geoffrey from the dining room, Ella and Rhodes peering out from the kitchen. Their heavy stares flood the hallway, every eye studying her as if she’s lost her mind. And maybe she has.

“I mean it!” She’s shouting now. “You can’t stay!”

Bertram nudges my arm. “Seriously?” he says to me quietly. “Who does she think she’s talking to?”

“Oh, come on, Ma,” Uncle Geoffrey scoffs, slumping his shoulder against the cased opening to the dining room, sipping from his glass.

The look in Oma’s eyes is dangerous as she straightens and tucks back silvery-blond flyaways. “Did I not say everyone out ?”

“Sure.” Uncle Geoffrey juts his free thumb toward the front door. “Those guys. They can leave. But us? We’re family.”

Oma’s hands are shaking. “You need to go home.”

My mom steps farther into the hallway. “This is our home, too, you know?”

“Yeah, Oma,” Bertram jeers. “It’ll be great. Just like the old days.”

Oma levels a lethal glare at him. “It’s nothing like the old days.”

“All of this is fucking irrelevant.” Uncle Preston stands like a bodyguard at the front door. “Do you honestly think anyone here is in a fit state to drive?”

Oma glances to me for backup, but all I can offer is a shrug. “My car doesn’t even work right now. You can thank Rhodes for that.”

“Please don’t thank me.” Rhodes grimaces, then mouths, I’m sorry, Frankie.

Oma shakes her head as the hallway breaks into three different conversations at once. I snatch Jem’s arm, pulling him away into the back hallway, which runs between the kitchen and the scullery.

“Miss Francesca?” Jem asks, his eyes soft on me. “What is it?”

My body deflates. “We have to do something about Oma.”

He nods thoughtfully, stepping closer. “What do you suggest?”

“Well,” I start, fidgeting with the hem of my dress. “Fact is, no one’s going anywhere tonight. Maybe it’d be best if we got Oma away from all”—I gesture toward the noise of my family in the hallway—“that. Someplace quiet?”

He presses his lips together, then says, “The library, perhaps?”

The library is unique in that, while it is stuffed to the gills with books, there’s nothing but Flüsterwald stories in there. Various forms. Reprints. Translations. Collector’s editions.

“That’s good,” I say, even though good is not at all how I’d describe the way this night is unfolding. “And I’ll put the kettle on.”

“An excellent idea,” he says. “Tea will do wonders.”

I let out a quiet hum of agreement, then say, “And in the morning, everyone will leave, and she can go back to being the crotchety old hermit we all know so well.” What I don’t say is, What if it’s more than just her wanting to be alone? I swallow hard, tendrils of unease coiling in my chest. She seems scared, a word no one would mistakenly attribute to Oma.

Jem’s fingers lift toward me, hesitant. “Your devotion is… unwavering.” He’s nearly erased the space between us, but then his hand falls away before he reaches me, flexing. He shakes his head sharply, clearing his throat. “It’s admirable, that kind of loyalty.”

I shrug, my cheeks hot as I mumble, “Well, isn’t that what family is for?”

He nods and returns to the main hallway, leaning toward Oma, speaking closely to her. Part of me wants to pull him back and tell him that he’s the loyal one. After all, he has always been there for me.

When I was shaken up after Oma shouted at me, her criticisms of my work having evolved into criticisms of me as a person. When Dad rolled up at 1:00 am after a night at the Rusty Nail, demanding we either show him our bank accounts or take his goddamn money. When that Christmas party went all wrong, I avoided the I told you I knew would be sitting behind my mom’s eyes, and I ran to Jem instead.

Jem guides Oma toward the library door, and Bertram guffaws. “What, Oma? Not going to play with us?” His words take the shape of a question, but his expression is cruel. Cruel and utterly intoxicated.

Oma glares at him, then allows Jem to take her into the library, but not without slamming the door shut behind her.

A huff comes from up the hallway. Uncle Preston’s stony face wears a trace of amusement. “Being a little shit really is an untreatable defect, isn’t it?”

Bertram playfully bats his lashes. “Terminal,” he says. “Now, while I love my formal attire as much as the next guy, I think a wardrobe change is due. I’m fairly certain I left my favorite silk pajamas here the last time we visited.”

“Good idea,” Rhodes says, pushing past his brother.

“Boys,” Uncle Geoffrey calls after them half-heartedly as they bound up the stairs two at a time, arguing over which one of them is cheating.

I slip into the scullery, a dimly lit, forgotten room, tucked away at the back of the house. It looks as if it’s been frozen in time, left almost exactly the way it was when the gates shut. It was only ever properly used by staff, and there’s been no staff to use it. Except for Jem, of course.

I flick on the light switch and pull the things I need from the open wall shelving. The kettle, ceramic teapot, delicate teacup and saucer, tray, silver mesh strainer, and a tea tin with a strip of masking tape stuck to the top that has Jem’s name and a date from last week scribbled on it. I set them on the butcher-block counter, rinse everything out, then fill the kettle. My hands tremble as I light the stove, my anxiety building, like a wave in slow motion, about to crash.

I spin around at a soft rustling behind me and find my cousin Ella standing in the doorway, arms wrapped around her middle as if she’s holding herself together.

“Hey,” she says, wearing a troubled expression.

A shaky sigh escapes me. “Hey yourself,” I reply, trying to sound casual. “What is it?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t bring anything. I didn’t know we’d be staying overnight—” She glances down at her sequin minidress, fidgeting with the hem. “Doesn’t really translate to sleepwear well, does it?”

I give her a sympathetic smile. She doesn’t have an old stash of clothes here like the rest of us. Her mom is one of those people who does so much you swear to god they must have a clone. Because, as if being Dr. Regina Walker-Strauss, chief neurosurgeon, wasn’t time-consuming enough, she’s single-handedly renovating their historical home and has her own Etsy shop, where she sells handmade pottery. Needless to say, Ella and her mother have never made a habit of staying overnight, much less entire holidays.

“I have some stuff upstairs that might work for you,” I offer.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m not a pajama dragon. I can share.” I shrug. “Besides, my room is probably the best room for you to sleep in anyway. I’ll show you to it.”

I leave the warming kettle, and she follows me up the stairs.

The third floor consists of two bedrooms and a hangout space. The gray room is a large bedroom fitted with three beds that my cousins have always used. The yellow room—my room—though not a tight space, is much smaller than the other. Moonlight pours through the single dormer window. Two single beds dressed in butter-yellow quilts sit pressed against opposite walls covered in a busy pattern of yellow roses.

I take an uneven step inside, my body going weak. The last time I was in this room was just before the park shut.

We pressed the beds together in the middle of the room. Her thick rose-rimmed glasses folded on top of the dresser. We stayed up late telling secrets with the lights out because it’s easier to admit things in the dark.

My stomach flipped when the backs of our hands brushed together. How could she sleep when she was curled up so close to me? Did she not hear the hammering of my heart, not feel the way it echoed throughout my body, throbbing to the very ends of my being? I was marveling at the way the moonlight highlighted the curve of her cheek—when suddenly we both jumped to our feet at a noise from outside. We pressed our noses to the window, fogging it, and gasped when we saw someone stalking through the shadowy fringe of the courtyard, then disappearing into the dense trees.

“The park’s closed,” I hissed, a chill running through me. “No one should be here.”

“Come on, Frankie.” Her voice, as always, was melodic and intoxicating. A song you couldn’t help but dance to. A moment later, she was waiting for me in the hallway, a sweater already thrown over her pajamas. She held out a second one to me. “Let’s go investigate.”

“You okay?” Ella’s voice draws me back to the present.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” The memory fizzles out, as it always does. “Say,” I ask, suddenly curious. “I didn’t see your mom; did she not come?”

Ella shrugs. “She got called into the hospital at the last minute.”

“Shame,” I say and point to the dresser on the far wall. “Help yourself.”

She quickly unearths a buffalo plaid pajama set and a gray duster cardigan, cradling them in her arms. As she heads for the bathroom on the half landing, I snatch up my phone from the bed and make a pitstop in the blue room on the first floor where my parents always stayed. Across the hall, Oma’s bedroom door lays open, her room empty.

I slip into one of my mom’s old cream-colored fisherman sweaters and some yoga pants, and put my phone into the pants pocket. Back downstairs, it is all chatter and laughter, and Uncle Preston must have found a non-shit record because there’s twangy banjo music coming from the player.

Tears prickle behind my eyes.

Everyone’s here. Under one roof. What a mess.

By the time I reach the scullery, the kettle is gently hissing. I’m alone. The sounds of the house ricochet around me. The clinking of glass on glass in the dining room. The music filling in every quiet corner. My pulse drumming inside my chest.

I carefully scoop the tea into the pot, then pour boiling water over it. Once everything is situated on the tray, I pick it up and head toward the library. The cup clinks softly against the saucer with every step. On the far end of the hallway, Jem stands outside the closed library door. I’ve only just met his gaze, when the staccato rhythm of footfalls pulls me up short in the hallway.

Rhodes leaps down the last few steps, dressed in the same running shorts and shirt from earlier today, and lands with a thud in the precise spot where I would have been.

“I win.” Rhodes smirks and spins around as his brother emerges panting on the half landing. Laughter stumbles up my throat because Oma’s subpar laundering skills have made Bertram’s silk pajamas into high-waters and a crop top. She always did rely on the staff for domestic things like laundry.

A throaty scoff erupts from behind me. I turn. In the middle of the dimly lit hallway, Uncle Preston stands stock-still, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his trousers. His scowl narrows; then he cocks his head. “You look like you mugged the fucking Keebler elves, Bertie.”

Brow furrowed, Bertram opens his mouth, his lips grasping at words but coming up short. In the end, he rolls his eyes and saunters down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Rhodes and Uncle Preston exchange an amused look. “He’s not the toughest cookie, is he?” Rhodes says, smirking, then follows his brother.

My uncle drags a palm over his heavy stubble and raises his eyebrows at me. And then he, too, disappears into one of the rooms.

I meet Jem’s eyes again. With the hallway now cleared, I can hear voices gaining volume from behind the library door. It’s Mom and Oma. Their shouts have gotten so loud that even the fiddles from the record player can’t cover up their racket.

I cross the hallway, the old wooden floor creaking beneath my steps, and pause next to Jem at the door. “I thought we were going for quiet?”

“Your mother requested a private audience,” he says. “Though I’m uncertain how much privacy they can secure at such a volume.” The corner of his mouth quirks.

I pull in a deep breath and nearly drop the whole tray as I knock on the door with my elbow. I curse under my breath. The last thing I need right now is another mess that I’ll inevitably have to clean up on my own. The argument on the other side of the door suddenly stops, and stillness throbs through the air.

“Miss Francesca,” Jem whispers. He nods to the tea tray in my hands and reaches out. “May I?”

I readjust my hold, causing the porcelain to rattle. “I can manage on my own.”

“I—I would never suggest you couldn’t.” His eyebrows rise. “Only, it looks rather cumbersome.”

A hesitant pause floods the hall as my fingers start to tingle from the weight of the tray in my hands. Then, with a subtle nod, I concede.

He takes it, the smirk on his lips breaking into a full-on smile. “Thank you,” he says, his eyes meeting mine.

“Why are you thanking me?” I laugh. “You’re the one helping.”

“I’m happy to do it.” A quiet moment unfurls between us. Jem shifts slightly, leaning in, his gaze searching mine. “Have you been all right? I feel like I’ve not seen much of you these past few weeks.”

I’m about to answer, words ready in my mouth, when Oma’s voice cuts through the quiet again. “I’ve said my piece, Kat.”

Jem and I lean closer to the door.

“You’re being so stubborn.” The edges of my mom’s words are singed in frustration. “I meant what I said earlier.”

“So did I.”

Our faces are nearly pressed to the door as my mom’s voice drops. “Someone’s going to lose in the end. And this time, it’s not going to be me.”

Jem and I both straighten.

Then: footsteps. A moment later, we leap back as the door swings open and my mom beelines across the hallway to the kitchen without so much as a sideways glance.

“Well.” Jem lifts the tea tray, and before any sound can escape my lips, he takes a purposeful step into the library.

“What do you—” Oma starts, but then her anger dissipates in a way only tea could manage. “Tea?”

I dare to peek in the room and watch the curve of Jem’s back as he sets the tray on the coffee table. The lamps flanking the settee reflect off the dark windows behind them in a way that makes me shudder. Like eyes in the dark. Then Oma glances up. I quickly pivot out of sight and slump back against the wall. Stillness permeates the hallway. A lump rises up my throat.

“This smells delicious,” Oma says.

Jem must be smelling the tea, too, because a moment later, he says, “Oh, yes. It does, indeed.”

“There’s plenty. Fetch a cup for yourself and join me. There’s a few things I’d like to discuss with you anyway.”

“Discuss?” Jem asks, and then a moment later, “Very well. I’ll just be a moment.”

My stomach crashes into my knees, my legs suddenly weak. I attempt to shrink into the shadows as Jem enters the hallway.

“Oh, Miss Francesca.” Jem pulls up, startled. “You’re still here.”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice an anxious croak as his eyes lock onto mine. “So are you.”

Oh god. Why did I say that? Heat flares up the back of my neck, and my nerves skitter around like fire ants inside my veins. My idiocy doesn’t just test the limits—it sprints right past them at full speed. Pretty sure this is going haunt me until the day I die.

“Indeed,” he says. “Frau Strauss requested my company. I’m to remain awhile longer.”

“Really?” I glance at the tall grandfather clock, ticking off the seconds. “It’s getting kind of late, don’t you think?”

“I suppose, but I don’t expect it’ll be terribly long.”

“Jem?” Oma calls, impatient.

He gives me a sheepish look and disappears into the scullery, reemerging a second later, teacup in hand. As he trots by I reach out for him.

“Wait.” My touch freezes him on the spot, my voice barely a whisper. I bite down on my bottom lip, thoughts scrambling as his eyes trail from my hand on his arm, up to my face, confusion etched into his brow.

“Are you certain you’re all right, Miss Francesca?” he asks.

I want to say no. I want to tell him that this whole night has been a mistake. That Oma’s not okay and I’m not okay. But instead I swallow back the lump in my throat and say, “Yes, of course.”

He nods, eyes fixed on me. “I shall return.” He holds my gaze for a moment longer—a moment where I feel like I’m about to break—but then he steps back, my hand falling away from him, as he disappears into the library.

My shoulders collapse, heavy. From inside the room comes the sound of porcelain clinking together, then pouring liquid and satisfied hmms. I blink back emotion that burns along the rims of my eyes.

Then someone nudges my arm. It’s Bertram. Without a word, he gives me an uncharacteristically tender smile and tilts his head toward the stairs. A silent invitation to follow. I throw a useless glance back at the library door, then give him a small nod and let him lead the way up.

 7 

The hangout room sits at the end of the top-floor hallway. Historically, it served as a playroom, but as we grew, it transformed into a space for us to kick back in, with a sofa, an old radio, board games, and a large pile of beanbag chairs stacked in the far corner.

Bertram motions dramatically inside the room. “Welcome to the after-party.”

I narrow my eyes on him. “I thought I was already at the after-party.”

“Sure.” He scowls at me, as if I’m nothing more than an annoyance. “But this is the very exclusive after-party to the after-party.”

“Oh, how fancy,” I say.

He’s so full of shit, but there’s a part of me that loves him for it.

Rhodes and Ella and an ill-advised number of wine bottles are already up here. There’s a graveyard of juice boxes surrounding Rhodes, who sits cross-legged on the thick cream rug. A bottle of spring water sits perched on the arm of the sofa next to Ella.

Bertram produces a glass out of thin air and shoves it into my hand. It’s filled to the brim with white wine, which sloshes down the sides, over my knuckles. “Thanks?” I quickly sniff it and set it down on a low bookshelf next to the door once Bertram has turned his back to me.

The walls and sloped ceilings are covered in beige wallpaper with a green vine pattern. On the far wall a huge window overlooks the Boulevard. Outside, the lanterns cast a dull light over the litter-covered cobbles. I snag one of the beanbags from the pile in the corner, throw it onto the floor, and collapse onto it.

“Seriously? You’re going to make me drink alone?” Bertram sighs dramatically. “I expected more from you, Frankie.” Once he’s retrieved my abandoned wineglass, he turns to address the room. “Ladies, gentlemen, esteemed guests”—he looks pointedly at his brother—“and Rhodes.”

Rhodes nods his head with a smirk.

Bertram continues, “I literally have nothing important to say except it’s really nice to be back.”

Rhodes raises a juice box and says, “Hear, hear.”

“And in honor of being back, I thought we might all share our favorite attractions and—”

Ella groans. “The heck is this? Summer camp?”

“Obviously,” Bertram drawls, sitting down on the sofa at the opposite end from Ella. “Ella’s favorite is Angry River.”

“Is that so?” Ella narrows her eyes.

Bertram shrugs and repeats himself. “Angry River.”

Ella sips from her bottle of water. “Literally do not care.”

“Fun fact,” Bertram says. “I almost drowned in that river when I was eight.”

“I’m starting to think we have very different definitions of the word fun,” Ella says flatly.

I try to laugh, but it sticks in my chest. “The water on that ride is literally only a foot deep,” I say.

“Always House,” Rhodes interjects.

“Jesus, Rhodes,” Bertram says. “What are you? Eight?”

“Yes, eight. And nearly died in a foot of water.” Rhodes takes a dramatic breath and dons an old Hollywood voice. “And thank the deities I didn’t. They say you can never live until you’ve almost died. And, can you imagine? Perishing in that ? The aesthetics there are awful!”

“You are—” Bertram starts his retort, but then takes a sip from his glass and sighs. “You are not entirely wrong.”

They discuss other rides:

Monster Mayhem, a water ride based on the story about a girl trapped in her small village who sets out to find the fabled wish-granting monster.

The Mirage Halls, a mirror maze based on the tale “Anna and the Fablemaker,” where a creator of stories falls madly in love with one of his creations.

The ever-popular photo op of Der Stiller Mann, the Quiet Man, a story that follows a man who is so consumed with jealousy he kills his brother’s lover and, when caught in a lie about it, panics and turns on his brother, only to be outwitted by his brother and cast into a century-long slumber.

“How have none of you mentioned Flight to Forgetting yet?” Ella asks, and we all turn to her, faces twisted in revulsion. “I’m joking,” she clarifies. Chills skitter over my skin. Nothing quite unsettles the nerves like Flight to Forgetting. It’s the ride based on the story “The Girl and the Well.” In the story, a girl who raises geese is so unhappy with her life she goes to drink from the Well for Forgetting with less than ideal results. On the ride, one moment you’re entering a tunnel, shrouded in shadow, the next you’re exiting, blinded by daylight and unable to remember any specifics of what just happened. The only difference is the feeling. Of unease. Like something’s missing. Like something was taken. It’s like waking from a gauzy dream, where specifics become slippery things.

Bertram shakes his head. “I hate to break it to you, but that one is a hard pass from, well, everyone.”

“Yeah, Ella,” Rhodes adds, his face twisting even further. “You okay? Flight is—”

“Creepy?” Ella says, eyes alight.

“To put it lightly,” Rhodes replies.

Ella laughs. “I know. Isn’t it great?”

Exhaustion from the day drags through me, and my eyelids grow heavy. Outside, a storm brews in the night sky. My cousins fall quiet as a gust of wind hisses through the crevices in the old house. Then the lights flicker and Bertram squeaks.

“Jumpy much?” I tease, sinking into my beanbag as a tide of cold air washes through the room.

But then a loud thud at the window jolts me back upright.

“Who’s jumpy now, Frankie?” Bertram says, his voice breaking on a nervous laugh.

I push to my feet and cross the room, squinting at the window, where a fresh smudge mars the center pane. I reach for the latch but freeze when my gaze hits the flower box on the ledge. Unsteady light winks over a dark form inside that weakly knocks against the wooden frame, scattering potting soil and flattening tender early-spring shoots.

My skin prickles as someone inches closer to me.

“What is that?” Ella asks, now standing beside me.

My mouth tightens, and I throw open the window, confirming what I’d already assumed. “It’s a whisperling,” I say, the bird’s movements becoming still. The air feels like a vacuum of sound, a gasp.

“Not that,” Ella says, her voice stripped of any playfulness it held a moment ago. I turn to her and realize her attention is on something farther away: a strange dark fog rising from the ground.

No.

Not fog.

Fog doesn’t scream high-pitched notes that annihilate silence. Then a flash of lightning breaks across the sky, illuminating the scene.

“More whisperlings,” Rhodes says at my shoulder as Bertram knocks back half a glass with a wide-eyed stare out the window. Below, the Boulevard is cloaked in the dark mass of a grounded flock. Just as the lightning flare fades, thunder shakes the atmosphere, making the walls of the house tremble.

I tuck my hands inside the sleeves of my sweater, my pulse quickening; then I jump back. The injured bird in front of me is suddenly on its feet, perched on the edge of the wooden window box. It glances back at us and chirps.

The Boulevard is an explosion of movement. Wings beat into a blur as the birds eddy upward in an ever-shifting silhouette, knocking into things left and right. The streetlamps, the trees, the window between us. Thump. Thump-thump. Thump. Their trills, a clattering of conversation. Lustrous pinpricks, scattered and sporadic, gutter within the swarm. It takes me a moment to realize it’s their eyes catching on shreds of light.

My cousins and I watch in awed silence, leaning closer to the window as the flock lifts above the tree canopy, condensing and stretching, over and over, backlit by more lightning ripping across the sky. And then they’re gone, dissolved into the dense woods, their song along with them. As if they were never there. Except that the Boulevard, I notice, is entirely cleared of party litter.

“Well, that’s just a delightful addition to my nightmares,” Bertram scoffs, scowling out the window as he lifts his drink to his mouth, only to find that it’s empty. “Excellent.”

“That”—Ella points outside—“was very, very cool.”

Rhodes throws her an incredulous look. “You are very, very weird,” he says. “In the best possible way, of course,” he adds when Ella gives him a look that is at once excuse me and lol ikr.

The lights flicker again as thunder shakes through the room.

“Shitty old house,” Bertram mumbles, reassembling his composure. “I bet you my Balenciaga sunglasses Oma hasn’t done an ounce of maintenance in…”

Bertram continues, but my attention takes a sharp left as my phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance around the room. Literally no one but my mom ever calls me.

I pull out my phone, then nearly drop it onto the floor. “Fuck.” The word is hoarse, like I’ve forgotten how to breathe. When I look up, my three cousins are looking at me. “Sorry. I’ll just be a moment,” I say and slip into the hallway, choking on my heartbeat as I collapse against the wall, staring at the screen.

At her name.

Why is she calling?

Why now? After all this time?

I press the phone screen down into the plush runner and let it go to voicemail as I try to settle my frantic heartbeat. I keep waiting for my phone to buzz that she left a voicemail, but it never does, and something inside me withers. I can’t deal with this right now. “I think I’m done for the night,” I call out to my cousins.

Before anyone can argue with me or see that I’m on the verge of a mental breakdown, I slip into my room and turn on the radio. I’m already buried under the covers when I realize the station is working through all the Sasha Moore Whisperwood albums. Great. And I’m too tired to get up and change it.

And that’s when my brain starts playing tiny memories on repeat.

Her face, crystal clear even after all these days and weeks and months.

Car windows down, wind tearing through my hair as we sang and laughed until our stomachs cramped up.

Her finding that old yearbook of mine in the memory box underneath my bed, flipping through the pages until she found me—“Oh my god, you were adorable”—and my cheeks burning as I buried my face in the pillows.

When she came to my house after the cops had dragged away my dad for showing up drunk and uninvited, scaring my mom half to death. Arms wrapped around me as I shook, she whispered into my hair, “I’ll always come when you need me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, pushing back my thoughts—the ones that say, But where have you been when I’ve needed you these past eighteen months?—and sink further into the fluffy feather bed beneath me, willing myself to fall asleep as raindrops begin tapping on the window.

From Celebration to Chaos at Whisperwood

By Vera Coleman

It was meant to be a night of ceremony and cheer as many revisited Whisperwood Park for the first time in years.

“When the park closed, I was devastated,” says Winnie Blythe, host of the podcast Growing Up Within the Pages. “I know that sounds silly, but I grew up going every summer. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to visit again. I think I screamed—like literally, scared the woman in front of me at Starbucks—when the invite landed in my inbox. I dropped everything, cleared my calendar (sorry, Mom, happy birthday!)—there was no way I was going to pass this up.”

But the centennial celebrations turned into a roller coaster of emotions when Bertram Strauss, an aspiring social media influencer and grandson of Virginia Strauss, the matriarch of the Strauss family and sole proprietor of the Whisperwood Estate, stumbled onto the stage visibly drunk, then berated his grandmother’s handling of the estate. He was quickly removed from the stage, and Cameron Reed, the president and CEO of the Schmerz Publishing Group, attempted to course-correct with a speech praising Die Märchen der Flüsterwald’s impact on literature and culture. Then came the thing everyone was waiting for: some signature atmospheric Whisperwood theatrics. And let me tell you, they did not disappoint. The sound effects, flickering lights, and mysterious chill that descended upon the Boulevard were outstanding in and of themselves, but it was the swarm of whisperlings that stole the show and met with uproarious applause. However, Virginia Strauss was less than delighted, immediately ordering everyone out of the park.

The incident has sparked speculation about the future of the Whisperwood Estate and the Strauss family’s hold on it. Some insiders believe that Virginia’s outburst was a sign that she is losing her grip and that Bertram’s antics, though not unexpected, are a symptom of a larger family power struggle.

Filed under: Events, Whisperwood, Flüsterwald, Book Drama

 8 

I wake up to radio static. I feel an ache in my chest as I reach for my phone. It’s 11:36 am. There’s a missed call, but my phone’s on power save mode, and when I swipe on the notification on the lock screen, my battery dies.

Daylight spills in through the bedroom’s dormer window. Outside, cotton candy clouds drift across a pale blue sky, every trace of the storm that rolled through last night gone. Birdcalls trip across the quiet. A faint coffee smell hangs in the air, and the bed across the room is not only empty, it’s made.

I peel off my duvet. A heavy, sick feeling churns in my stomach as I roll over, as if I had something last night that didn’t agree with me. My feet land on the thick, time-weathered floorboards. I change into a pair of jeans but keep on my mom’s chunky cream sweater, then trot down the stairs heavy-footed, past the second-floor bathroom, where someone is singing in the shower. At the bottom of the staircase, the door to the library is shut.

In the kitchen, dressed like he’s headed to lunch at the country club, Uncle Geoffrey puzzles over a coffee machine as if it were the Large Hadron Collider, while Ella hammers away at her laptop in the sun-drenched breakfast room. A tin of ground coffee sits open on the counter. Oma doesn’t drink coffee, so that tin is from before Oma shut the park.

Which: gross. But also: understandable.

“Here,” I say. I rifle through a drawer and produce a black plastic coffee scoop.

Uncle Geoffrey takes it only to loosely point it at me. “You know, I’ve never actually made coffee this way before,” he admits. “At home we simply pop in the pod, press the button, and—ta-da—coffee.”

“How did you make the first pot?” I ask, tossing out the old filter and coffee grounds, then replacing it with a fresh one.

“Rhodes,” he says, lips puckering for a moment in concentration. “But he left for a run over an hour ago, and things have grown dire. Say, did you see the write-up?” I shake my head, and he shows me his phone. “The alert landed in my inbox sometime around midnight. Seriously, don’t these people have anything better to do? Like sleep? Anyway, haven’t been able to get any service since then. Truly…” He trails off, hammering his fingertips on his screen. “The spotty cell service here drives me up the walls.”

I suck in a breath that stutters against my pulse. “Why don’t you sit down?” I suggest.

He hesitates, eyes narrowing, and I think he’s going to scold me for being patronizing, but he relents, handing back the scoop and dropping his phone onto the table.

I prepare a fresh pot.

“This place just isn’t what it used to be,” Uncle Geoffrey says, adjusting the sweater tied around his shoulders. He slumps into a chair across from Ella, who glances up with a hard expression she’s likely learned from Uncle Preston, but Uncle Geoffrey doesn’t notice. “It’s fine.” He emphasizes the word so much it reverses its meaning. “No one can live forever. It’s only. A matter. Of time.” His words come out sputtered through gritted teeth.

“Wow, Geoffrey,” Ella says. “That was—”

Uncle Geoffrey’s gaze snaps to her, and he raises his eyebrows as he abandons whatever he’s doing on his phone. “Factual?”

“I was going to say horrific, or maybe repugnant, but sure, ‘factual’ works, too.” Ella’s attention returns to her laptop. I join them at the table as the pot starts making the bubbling sound of imminent caffeination.

“What’re you working on?” I ask Ella, resting an elbow on the table, cradling my chin.

“Oh, just… a thing,” she says, offhandedly, but then she glances up, and something about her expression changes. As if she didn’t expect me to actually want an answer. She leans back in her chair. “I’m putting together a series of narrative essays about the transformative nature of key events that sever our perception of everything into befores and afters.”

I can feel my face become that blinking white guy meme. The power this fifteen-year-old holds. I am equal parts awestruck and terrified.

Ella continues, “These moments in time, they divide. The same thing, the same person, the same place, they become two separate things by this one occurrence. These things, these befores and afters, reflect upon each other, that pivotal moment highlighting their—”

We all jolt at a loud “Whoop!” coming from the front door. A moment later, Rhodes trots into the kitchen. A gentle draft of fresh air drifts in with him, the sour smell of sweat yet to hit. He’s decked out in running gear that looks one size too small, from his tiny shorts all the way to his terry cloth headband. His blond hair glistens, and he has that golden boy grin slapped on his face. He points to the coffee maker. “Looks like I got here just in time.” He fixes two cups and slides them in front of me and his dad, then returns to get another for himself. He then plops into the next seat over, pulling a stick of jerky out from god knows where, because his outfit has no obvious pockets to speak of, and stuffing it into his mouth. He smirks. “What? I’m hungry,” he says through a mouthful.

I paste a weak smile onto my face. “You’re always hungry.”

“I’m a growing boy, Frankie.”

Uncle Geoffrey sighs. “Truer words were never spoken. You should see the grocery bill.” Weariness rises in his eyes, a look that multiplies a moment later when Bertram marches in wearing his shrunken silk pajamas and a determined expression.

My fingers lace around my mug in a choke hold. It’s hot, a feeling that fringes on pain, but I don’t let go. Having everyone under the same roof after so much time makes me feel unbalanced. Though part of me has missed this, the other part of me is ten thousand wound-up nerves in a trench coat just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“My point-and-shoot,” Bertram says.

“Hello to you, too, sunshine.” Rhodes raises his coffee mug to his brother.

“Good morning,” Bertram overenunciates, glaring. “I’m looking for my—”

“Morning? It’s almost noon,” I say.

“But it’s not. Almost only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, Frankie.” Bertram pauses for a moment, thoughtful. “And kissing.”

This earns him a roomful of whiplash looks.

“Especially,” Bertram continues, “when the kissing is with the cover star of People’s Most Beautiful issue, Vania Gladson.”

“She’s the one in that movie with the baking competition and the magical assassin, right?” I ask, and he grins back, pleased.

Ella tilts down her laptop screen. “What does almost kissing even look like?”

“Oh, I know this one,” Rhodes chimes in. “Almost kissing looks a lot like a cold brew heaved in the face and a judo foot-sweep takedown.”

Bertram aims an annoyed look across the room. “You, brother, are very rude.” And then to the rest of us, “How was I to know she was a black belt? Also, my point-and-shoot. Has anyone seen my point-and-shoot?”

“Wait,” Rhodes says. “You aren’t talking about the camera you were convinced I’d taken, are you? A crime for which you decided to throw every pair of my running shorts into the pool.”

Bertram slowly releases the word “maybe,” then continues. “Who can be sure? Anyway, I remember having it the last time I was here. Where’s Oma? Maybe she’s seen it.”

“Maybe she’s still sleeping?” Ella shrugs, returning her attention to her essays.

“No, she’s already up,” my mom says, entering the kitchen. “Her door’s wide open. Bed’s already made.”

Bertram sighs. “Where’s Oma’s little helper then? Maybe he knows.”

“Do you mean Jem?” I ask.

“The one with the arms.” Bertram flexes. Apparently arms is the attribute of Jem’s that my cousin’s singular brain cell latched on to. Not that he’s wrong. Jem’s arms are objectively very nice.

“Don’t do that,” Rhodes mutters.

I tilt my head. “Helper makes him sound like he makes toys in Santa’s workshop.”

“And he’s about the same height as you,” Rhodes adds, smirking. “Just shy of six foot.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Bertram raises his hands. “I am feeling a little attacked here and I can’t find my very own grandmother and I’m hungover and vulnerable with my point-and-shoot still at large.”

“Did something happen to your legs?” Rhodes asks.

Bertram turns to his brother, annoyed. “No?”

“Oh, good. I was worried because it seems like you were incapable of looking for Oma yourself.”

“You all,” Bertram says, gesturing to the entire room, “are useless.”

“What’s so important about some old camera?” I ask.

“It’s less about the camera itself… and more about the photos it contains.”

“Maybe she’s still in the library?” Ella suggests, without glancing up from her laptop. “Maybe she fell asleep in there?”

“Thank you, Ella.” Bertram presses his palm to his chest. “I’ve always said you were the only tolerable Strauss.”

“You have literally never said that in your life,” she replies flatly as Bertram spins around and howls, “Oma!” at the top of his lungs, disappearing into the hallway.

If anyone was still asleep, they aren’t anymore.

Uncle Geoffrey tips back the last of his coffee and pushes up from the table. My attention feels fragmented, perceiving everything, yet none of it taking its full shape. Keystrokes clicking rapidly. The midday sun pouring through the bay window. My pulse throbbing in my head. Footfalls ricocheting throughout the house. Uncle Geoffrey rummaging through the cabinets. The smooth tabletop beneath my palms.

Then Bertram returns and collapses next to his brother at the table and sighs dramatically. “Well, can’t find Oma anywhere.”

“What?” I ask, confusion washing over me, because she should be here. Where else could she be?

“And none of you have seen my point-and-shoot?” Bertram asks once again, face scrunched up in annoyance.

While everyone groans at Bertram’s single-minded focus on that goddamn camera, I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right. My heart trips; my stomach drops. I slip out of the kitchen, past my mom leaning against the island, and across the hallway.

 9 

The library’s curtains are drawn. I flick the light switch, and the lamps turn on, revealing dirt tracked across the floor.

At the end of the settee, two empty teacups sit on the side table next to that old recording device Uncle Geoffrey uses for dictation. He was using it last night at the party, too. But why is it in here? I pocket the device and pick up one of the cups. Time warps as I inspect Oma’s lipstick staining the rim. Deep red. Like Appalachian autumn leaves. Like the ribbon tied around the neck of himmelhase, the flying rabbit creature from the tale “The Starless Sky.” Like raspberries on heiße liebe. Like love and passion and anger.

Where is she?

I sigh heavily, trying to release the pressure building in my chest as Oma’s words from last night ricochet around in my head.

Something is coming. Something bad.

What if she wasn’t just tired? What if she was talking about something bigger?

When I return the cup to the table, something stuffed between the sofa cushions catches in the dim light of the lamps. I lean in and draw out a gold-plated Whisperwood master key. The one that’s always fastened around Oma’s wrist. I close my fingers around the tan leather cord loop-knotted through the key chain hole and stuff it into my pocket with Uncle Geoffrey’s recording device.

“Frankie?” The nearness of Ella’s voice makes me jump. She stands across the room from me, her gaze narrowed. I wonder if she saw me take the key, but instead she asks, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say, mouth dry. Ella watches me with an apprehensive look as I pass her and return to the kitchen. “Mom?” I say. It feels like my words are too big for my mouth.

My mom sets down her glass of water. “What is it, Frankie? You don’t look well.”

I step toward her. “We need to find her.”

“Oma?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s probably on one of her long morning walks,” Uncle Geoffrey says, spinning away from the cabinet, a tin of beans in his hand.

“You know what?” My mom nods along. “You’re probably right.”

“But Oma’s not been on a walk in months,” I say.

“Don’t be silly, Frankie.” Uncle Geoffrey shoots me a pitying look. “Morning walks aren’t just some routine for your grandmother, they’re ritual.”

“But—”

My mom cuts me off, her voice gentler than my uncle’s. “She’ll be back soon, Frankie.”

“No,” I try again, my breath hot in my chest. “Last night. Oma was scared and—”

“Last night Oma was tired and not happy.” Uncle Geoffrey tilts his head at me. “You worry too much.”

I huff and push away from the kitchen counter. What do they know? Where have they been the last year and a half ? Not here. Not like I have.

As far as I’m aware, she sticks mostly to the hedge garden out back. The greenhouse is the extent of her range these days, that massive structure of interconnected rooms that anyone could get lost in for hours. When she complained about the pain, I’d tried to get Oma to a physician, but she outright refused. Said that some things are incurable.

And what she said last night. They didn’t hear the fear in her words.

Then the front door groans open, grabbing everyone’s attention. Footfalls creep down the hallway. A smug smirk tugs at Uncle Geoffrey’s mouth. “See? Home already.”

But it’s not Oma who steps into view a moment later.

“Jem?” I say, breathless.

He stands in the mouth of the kitchen, looking like he’s slept inside a tornado. Hair wild, eyes wide, his entire posture on edge. He takes a shaky breath and nods, his expression confused, then swallows hard. “Where might I find Virginia?”

“She’s on a walk,” Uncle Geoffrey says. “Should be back soon.”

“A walk?” he says, as if the notion were absurd. Which it is. He knows. “But she never—”

Uncle Preston rigidly steps into the room, like a soldier in slow motion. He jerks his head up and huffs. “We all know she’s not playing with a full fucking deck,” he says, voice hoarse. “Probably wandered off.”

My mom slaps him on the arm—hard—and gives a silent death stare that swings from him to Jem.

“What?” Uncle Preston juts a thumb at Jem and blows out a breath between his lips. “This fellow—”

“Jem,” Jem offers.

“Right, Jem. It’s not like this shit is breaking news to him.”

Rhodes rises from the table. “In the meantime,” he says, crossing the kitchen to pour a fresh cup from the machine, “can I interest you in some caffeine?”

Jem accepts the mug, but he’s glancing around the room as if he’s looking for hidden cameras. Rhodes ushers him to sit at the table with them, and I peel out into the hallway. Breath hisses out through my teeth, every shred of me wound up to snapping point.

This doesn’t make sense, and no one in this goddamn house will listen to reason.

The house feels suddenly very small, the air thin. If I don’t figure out what’s going on, who will? I stumble toward the back door, in need of some fresh air—to clear my head so I can think straight—but before I reach it, the ghost of a memory unfolds.

A hand landed on my shoulder. “Psst!” she said, her gaze barreling right at me.

“What is it?” Grit held my voice, still half-stuck in slumber.

“It’s 11:58,” she said, raising her eyebrows, voice singsong. “You know what that means.”

I groaned. I knew exactly what that meant, and I had hoped I’d somehow managed to escape it. The latest Sasha Moore album was being released tonight. Sasha Moore, probably one of the most popular, if not the most popular, recording artists alive. Last year she pivoted from songs that hashed out every single one of her relationships in painstaking detail, to doing a series of mini-LPs based on the Der Flüsterwald stories. One’s released every three months or so, causing an entire subset of the population to go positively feral.

“Won’t it still be there in the morning?” I groaned.

“The only way to get the full experience is to listen to it straight through when it releases at midnight.” Her hands dramatically gripped the hem of my nightgown, knuckles skimming my thighs. My cheeks flushed.

“Are you certain there’s no other acceptable way?”

“No.” She straightened and dropped my nightgown. Then she added, “Also, I’m hungry.”

I didn’t know how to tell her no.

We tiptoed down the stairs to the kitchen. I perched on the counter, eyes fixed on her as she stood there bathed in moonlight and the pale glow of a phone screen. She squealed when it landed. This album was devoted to her favorite story: “Der Stiller Mann.” Which made sense because, according to the interwebs, he should be waking any day now.

She held a half-eaten apple in her hand and danced around the island song after song after song. When the final number began, she sprawled out on the floor. The number opened with the tinny sound of a music box, only to be swallowed by a full-blown orchestra a couple measures in. Then, when it reached the chorus, it shifted into a swaying melody.

Will you be waiting when dreams fall away

As I blink back every missing day.

When I wake. When I wake.

A hundred years out from beneath my feet,

In quiet slumber tucked fast asleep.

When I wake. When I wake.

When the music faded away, she filled the silence with a guttural groan. “Fuck, that was so good.”

I peered down at her, eyes shut, hair scattered in a halo. I could feel words gathering in my mouth. Words that felt right for this middle-of-the-night moment where the wind outside shook free autumn leaves that fell like puzzle pieces right into place, but I bit my tongue. As much as those words felt right, niggling thoughts had begun to erode the shores of the island I’d made with her. I wasn’t sure, if she had to pick between me and the Whisperwood, which one she’d choose.

Copyright 1925

WILHELM STRAUSS

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without permission of the Schmerz Publishing Group.

Der Stiller Mann

(The Quiet Man)

Die Märchen der Flüsterwald

nce upon a time, deep in the Whisperwood, there lived an apothecary whose love for herbs and elixirs was exceeded only by his love for his brother. The brothers shared everything, from their thoughts and feelings to their deepest desires. They were inseparable, and nothing could come between them.

They were on the verge of discovery—a draught that could cure sleepless nights—when the apothecary’s brother fell in love with a beautiful maiden from a nearby village. Her laughter sang like wind chimes in the breeze, and her smile lit up the darkest of nights.

This will not last, the apothecary thought.

Yet last it did.

The maiden bewitched the apothecary’s brother. She smelled like spicebush, and her eyes were a remarkable shade of gold. So graceful and enchanting was she that even the birds could not resist her charm. As the season tipped into colder, shorter days, the brothers’ tight-knit bond began to fray. The apothecary began to measure time by the growing depth of loneliness in his heart.

Then came the news that he feared more than anything else: His brother and the maiden were engaged to be wed. As the wedding day approached, the apothecary’s heartache seeped into every corner of his heart and every task he undertook. Even as he toiled with herbs, this dark despair clouded his mind. The thought of losing his closest companion was more than he could bear.

One evening, while his brother was gathering herbs for his fiancée’s ailing father, the apothecary was alone at home, immersed in his work. He was busy cultivating a plant that would come to be known as stillernerium. As the sun began to set, there was a knock at the door. Leaving his seed trays and tweezers, the apothecary went to answer it, the pick-sharp dibble still in hand. His mood darkened upon seeing the maiden standing there. She asked after his brother.

“You mean to say he still hasn’t returned?” she pressed. The worry on her face deepened when the apothecary confirmed her fears. “What could possibly be keeping him?”

“Worry not,” the apothecary said. “The woods have a way of making time slip past unnoticed, but he’ll return soon.”

“Indeed, it seems that worrying deeply for one’s husband is a fate all too common. It is a sentiment I must learn to embrace if I am to take on the role of a wife.”

The sharp reminder of the apothecary’s impending loss shattered something inside him. He replied with strained composure, “Worry, indeed.”

“He is so thoughtful, attending to my father as if they were already family. Still, I can’t help but fear for him,” she continued. “What if something dreadful has happened?”

A broken heart is a dangerous thing, and the apothecary could hold back his hurt no longer. “You worry for him,” he said, his tone sharpening as his grip tightened on the forgotten object in his hand. “When it is yourself you should worry for.”

With swift and malevolent precision, the dibble descended. A gasp escaped her lips, eyes widening. She looked at the apothecary and saw no hint of regret. And then she saw no more.

By the time his brother returned, the apothecary had buried the maiden’s body at the far end of the herb garden and erased any trace of his evil deed from the house. Night was falling, but the brother insisted on delivering the herbal remedy to his fiancée’s sick father. It was then that they realized the maiden was missing. The brother searched tirelessly through the night for his betrothed, but she was nowhere to be found.

As they lay down to sleep, the apothecary believed his troubles were over. All is well now, he thought. His brother was heartbroken, but they would move on.

The following morning, however, the apothecary stepped out into his garden and what he saw made his heart stop. At the far end, precisely where he had buried the maiden, his brother sat beneath the shade of a tree large enough to climb in. A tree that was not there the day before. A tree that would come to be known as the trauerbaum, the mourning tree. A flock of birds perched within its canopy. It smelled like spicebush and its leaves shimmered like gold in the sunlight. Fruit clung to its limbs, bright red like a lover’s lips, and the breeze sang like wind chimes through its branches.

“Can you believe it?” his brother exclaimed through tears. “It feels like a sign.”

A sign indeed, the apothecary thought nervously. Try as he might to comfort his brother, he knew better than anyone that a heart shattered into shards cuts deeper than any blade.

Weeks passed. The tree, woven from the maiden’s heart, drew in the brother, day by day. In the shadow of its overarching branches, he sought solace. The tree stood as a silent witness to his grief as he wept for his beloved.

The apothecary felt as if he were losing his brother all over again, and again he could not bear it. The tree had to go.

It was dark, his brother long asleep, when the apothecary quietly left the house. The night was cold, but his heart was colder still. He made his way out to the garden, approaching the tree, an axe in hand, his every step heavy with dread. The tree loomed before him, its ripe ruby fruit taunting. His hands trembled as he lifted the axe, its weight a reminder of what he was about to do. With all his strength, he swung. The sound of splintering wood echoed through the night, but it was not the only sound. The apothecary gasped in horror as something rushed from the cut. Red, warm, and wet, splattered over him. Blood. He dropped his axe and stumbled backward into something solid.

“Brother,” the apothecary said.

“What did you do?” his brother asked.

The apothecary’s face paled, a cold sweat breaking out. “What are you talking about?”

“You can’t escape the truth, and the truth lies there on the blade of your axe,” his brother said. “You killed her.”

“I never wanted it to come to this,” the apothecary choked out. “I merely did what had to be done.”

“And now,” the brother said, turning his back to him, “so too shall I.”

The apothecary imagined what was to come next. His brother would expose his crime and he would be punished. No one could ever know the truth. Panicked, the apothecary did the unimaginable and turned his axe on his brother.

His brother, however, was prepared. He dodged the blow and fought back. But instead of vengeance, the brother showed mercy, for in his hand he held stillernerium, the very herb that the apothecary had cultivated during his loneliest days. The brother forced it into the apothecary’s mouth. Immediately, the apothecary fell into a deep sleep. One that would last for a hundred years. One that made the apothecary Der Stiller Mann.

Now heartbroken twice over, the brother watched over Der Stiller Mann’s sleeping form lying in the shade of his lover’s tree. He hoped that one day, when he woke, his brother would have learned his lesson. That the tree would continue to grow and Der Stiller Mann would be able to make peace with his past. The brother hoped that even in the darkest of times, love could still find a way to grow.

 10 

The first time I met Jem, the gates were locked and the sky was jam-packed with rain clouds. It was a little too on the nose, the way the weather mirrored my inner gloom. I held a grocery bag in each arm, enough to get Oma through the week until I could get back again.

Two weeks had passed since Oma shut the park. It was bad enough not knowing when I’d see my cousins again—the park had always been the thing that brought us together—but worse still, she was gone. Not Oma. Her. And the raw-edged pain of loneliness left me gasping for air. I hadn’t heard from her since the closure, and she’d begun to plague my every thought. Memories and the glaring lack of memories writhed in my head. Why couldn’t I stop thinking about her? And why couldn’t I remember what happened that night?

“Oma!” I called through the gate, but the echo of my own voice was the only reply. I set the bags down and called again. “Oma?” I heaved a breath and squeezed my eyes shut, jaw tense, wondering what the hell I was going to do with two boxes of All-Bran, when the sound of footsteps made my eyes snap open. It wasn’t Oma, but a boy—tall with dark hair and a disarming smile that made my heart thump heavily against my breastbone. We stared at each other in silence for a moment, his eyes a maze I’d gladly get lost in.

Then I asked, “Who are you?” at the same time the boy said, “Can I help you?”

A smile broke across my face, and his gaze broke away to the ground. I had never had to explain my presence at Whisperwood, much less introduce myself, so this was a first and it left me with a dizziness that ran laps in my head. “I’m Francesca,” I said. “Virginia Strauss’s granddaughter?” I don’t know why it came out as a question, as if my lineage were up for debate.

“Miss Francesca,” he said, nodding thoughtfully.

“Just Frankie is fine.”

He gave me a skeptical look before unlocking the gate. When there were no longer iron bars between us, he introduced himself. “I maintain the grounds here,” he said, with misplaced confidence given how recently he must have been hired. “The name’s Jem.” He extended a hand into the diminishing space between us.

I returned the gesture, but then butterflies exploded against my sternum as he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it. My mouth slacked, heat rushed through my body, the word lips steamrolled through my mind. “Nice to meet you, Jem,” I stammered, as if I regularly received kisses from beautiful boys with labyrinthine eyes, and not like I’d just experienced a major cardiac event.

“So?” he asks, my hand still held gently in his.

“Do you know where my oma is? I brought supplies.” I pulled away, my palms already clammy, and reached for the grocery bags at my feet. Only I felt waterlogged, my movements lagging, and before I could even budge, Jem had beat me to it.

“Unfortunately, I haven’t seen her all afternoon,” he said, tracking each micro-movement as I inched backward, hoping the solution to this act of arson happening in my chest was, simply: more space. The corner of his mouth twitched, and he pivoted toward the house before calling over his shoulder, “I’m not sure where any of this belongs, if you would be so kind?”

I scrambled to catch up, and we walked together up the Boulevard. This place, once familiar, now felt like a bomb site of unknowns. Inside, I tried to concentrate on putting everything where it belonged. Milk in the fridge. Crackers and cereal in the upper cabinet. Grapes in the freezer. (Don’t ask.) But my attention kept falling on him, slouched against the counter as he peppered me with questions, teasing a story out of me for every item I put away. He didn’t comment when I fumbled the bag of apples, or call attention to the traitorous blush that spread across my cheeks when he knelt down next to me, helping me pick them up and place them in the sink for washing. He even laughed, the sound stirring something inside me, when I tried to make a joke about eggs but completely airballed the punch line. I found myself rearranging cans of beans to drag out the conversation a few more minutes when he asked me if I knew where the hedge clippers were kept.

I glanced at my watch, as if I had places to go (I didn’t) and people to see (also, nope).

“Did Oma not show you around?” I asked.

“Not much,” he said. “And I worry if I don’t take care of them now, they’ll get beyond something I can maintain.”

“So you’re saying you need a tour?”

He smirked. “If you’re offering… ?”

I didn’t know it was the start of something that would serve as my lifeline when my entire world was sinking.

Thunder rolled overhead as we walked the shrub-flanked stone path toward the greenhouses. We had only just set foot inside when the sky opened up. Rain pelted against the glass structure, its steady drumming our soundtrack as I guided him room to room, forgetting entirely about the hedge clippers.

I brace my palm against my chest and collapse onto the back porch. Ahead, overgrown greenery creeps across the stone path that leads to the greenhouse, a building that is all iron arches and plate glass and storybook plants. Der Flüsterwald, specifically. Obviously. A haze of calcium deposits and mildew clouds the windows. Along one of the roof ridges, several whisperlings perch, keen-eyed and agitated. Beyond, purple roller-coaster tracks peek over the greenhouse’s rooftop, rising and falling and looping. I suck in a sharp breath, the air thick with the acrid smell of sweet grapes and stink bugs. All around me, the mountain breeze carries the soft sighs of the surrounding trees.

“Miss Francesca?”

I spin around, startled, as Jem steps outside into the sunlight, the door slapping shut behind him. Steam wafts up from the mug in his hands, which he holds off his body as if it’s got pointy teeth and a nasty disposition.

“I’ve indulged in two cups already,” he confesses, glancing warily at the mug as he sits down on the step next to me. “Then your cousin made me another, and I simply didn’t know how to refuse.”

A laugh gasps out of my mouth. “Yes, let’s take that away from you,” I say, extracting the cup. It’s only the faintest touch, a quiet brush of his fingers whispering against mine, but it’s a whisper that echoes to the ends of me. I pull away, drawing the mug close to my chest. The warm ceramic prickles beneath my palms.

Jem leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, his expression razor-focused on the ground between his feet. Clear-skied afternoon light drenches him in a golden glow, tracing a burning hem along the strong set of his shoulders. He’s lost in thought. A blush flares across his skin and a fire burns behind his eyes.

I’m staring. I know I’m staring.

Yeah, this needs to stop.

I break my gaze away, rationalizing that I’m too overwhelmed by all the things that have happened and all the things that are yet to come. I can feel it in the air; it thrums with inevitability.

Without thinking, I sip the too-hot coffee, wincing as I swallow it down.

“She’s not on some leisurely stroll,” Jem says finally.

“Yeah,” I say. I’m about to add that we need to do something about it when Jem says—

“We ought to find her.” He pushes himself to his feet and extends a hand to me. His palm is warm against my fingertips as he hauls me up. Even after my hand falls away from his, my heart continues to drum heavily against my ribs. We share a brief, determined look before he absently rolls up his sleeves, then cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Virginia!” His voice echoes through the mountainous terrain.

We pause, listening close.

But there’s no reply.

Jem pivots and I match his pace, his arm brushing against mine in a way that makes my head go full-on Tilt-A-Whirl. Our footfalls rasp against the stones as we step over the wild vines that crisscross the path, toward the greenhouse. Wayward hedge branches reach out at us like claws. Only eighteen months and, with a singular groundskeeper instead of an entire landscaping crew, the place already looks half-wild. I wonder how long it would take for nature to knit itself back together. For it to erase this place entirely.

The thought turns my stomach into a pit of worry. The last thing I need is for this place to no longer exist.

“Oma!” I shout so loud her name cracks in my throat, but it feels as if the mountains are devouring my voice. Like no matter how loud I shout, she’ll never hear me. Still, we call her name every few paces or so, until Jem grunts, kicking at the pebbles on the path, scattering them.

“This behavior is unlike her,” he says as we stop in front of the main entrance to the greenhouse. On the outside, trailing tendrils crawl up the frame. Inside, overgrown plants press against the glazing.

I sip again from the still-too-hot coffee and flinch. “I was trying to tell my mom and uncles that she’s not been on a walk in months, but they weren’t really interested in what I had to say.” I tip out the mug into a shrub. “Who cares about facts?”

“Something’s happened,” he says, reaching for the doorknob. The near echo of Oma’s words on his lips makes my heart skip a beat.

I let out a shaky breath and ask, “Do you know something?”

Slowly, he spins around and meets my eyes. His mouth opens to speak, but then his gaze casts over my shoulder. His voice hooks on the edge of a gasp. “What?” He steps around me, heading back up the path toward the house at a jog that quickly breaks into a sprint. It takes me a moment to see what he sees; he’ll have to tell me what he knows later.

Gravel slips underfoot as we run, swatting away hedge branches. We skid to a stop in front of the library window. From inside, the drawn curtains had hidden from view what we can now see from outdoors, drenched in sunlight: the window, broken like chipped teeth. Below it, the bushes lay trampled flat, their branches broken and new growth knocked off, scattered in the dirt. But it’s what I see next that makes the mug in my hands slip from my grip, hitting the stones with a dull clunk.

Part of Oma’s dress, the green velvet one she was wearing last night, hangs from a sharp piece of glass that clings to the frame. It’s covered in blood.

My voice tears up my throat. “Mom!” I choke back a sob, then shout again, “Mom!”

Footfalls race through the house, and a moment later, my mom steps outside. “Frankie? What is—holy shit, what happened?”

My entire family pours out the back door, surrounding me.

“Is that… blood ? And Oma’s dress?” Uncle Geoffrey pales, then levels a loaded look that pans from my mom to Uncle Preston. “Jesus Christ.”

My mom turns to me, lowering her voice. “You said she was scared last night?”

I nod. “We need to call the police or something,” I say.

She already has her cell phone out, but there’s a puzzled look on her face. Pulling the phone closer, she squints against the sun glare, inspecting the screen, then lifts the phone in the air. “Dammit,” she groans. “Really? No service?”

This, of course, prompts everyone else to pull out their phones and try for themselves. It is like an interpretive dance as they all stretch their arms in a vain attempt to find even one bar. Except for Uncle Geoffrey. He only stares from person to person, watchful, inspecting.

“Why aren’t the phones working?” my mom asks, a sharp edge to her voice.

“Because, Auntie, as we all know, the cell service in this place is abysmal.” Bertram sips from a coffee mug with a picture of a fairy on it and a caption that reads: i’m magical, mornings aren’t. “God, we’d be better off trying to communicate via carrier pigeon.”

“Weren’t you using yours earlier, Dad?” Rhodes asks.

Uncle Geoffrey scowls, pursing his lips. “Sure, but not like…” He trails off, vaguely motioning in the air: But not, like, for actual phone stuff or anything.

“So they can get service on the moon,” Rhodes grumbles, tapping at his screen, “but I can’t get one single bar in Appalachia?”

“What happened to all the landlines?” my mom asks.

“All the what?” Bertram says.

“Mom—” I say, shaking my head. There haven’t been any phones anywhere on park property since, shortly after the park shut, Oma hurled every last one of them in the garbage because they wouldn’t stop ringing.

Still, my mom disappears inside.

“Stop looking at everyone like that,” Ella says to Uncle Geoffrey, whose gaze flits scrutinizingly from person to person. “This isn’t some second-rate detective drivel—”

“Crime fiction!” Uncle Geoffrey snips, his face suddenly red as his feet shift over the stony ground. “And at least I can write something longer than clickbait nonsense.”

“Dad!” Rhodes gasps.

Ella crosses her arms, a smirk on her face. “You don’t even know what I write, do you?”

I cringe on my uncle’s behalf. Watching a full-grown adult have a jealous fit over a child outperforming them is giving me a serious case of the uncomfies.

Rhodes pleads, “Honestly? We don’t need”—he motions vaguely—“this.”

“What the fuck,” Uncle Preston shouts from inside the house. I follow his voice and find him standing stiff as a mannequin at the foot of the stairs, hands tucked into his pockets and his sharp-eyed scowl aimed down the hallway at my mom. I tense. She’s unearthed some multipurpose cleaner and is scrubbing down every surface like she’s Mary Poppins on meth. The last time she stress-cleaned with this much aggression was when she came back red-faced after unsuccessfully convincing Oma to reopen the park.

Uncle Preston approaches my mom as the rest of my family crowds the hallway. “Kat? Kat, stop that. It looks… fucking suspicious.” He snatches at the cleaning supplies, but my mom dodges him. “Katherine Strauss, hand over the goddamn sponge!”

I rake back my hair as arguments ping-pong around me. Everyone’s caught up in the chaos, except Bertram, who’s bopping around with that fairy mug in his hands. It’s only when he’s next to me that I’m hit with the heavy scent of booze and realize he’s actually singing. “Don’t be suspicious, dooon’t be suspicious.”

“Are you wasted?” I ask, trying to keep my frustration in check.

He keeps shimmying his shoulders but stops singing just long enough to hold out his mug and say, “Want a sip?”

I can feel the exact moment I lose it. Eyes pinched shut, I burst out, “Quiet!” My voice tears through the noise, silencing the hallway. I pause, the grandfather clock ticking off the seconds as I catch my breath before continuing. “Can we not do this right now? Oma’s missing and we need to get help. We need to find her.”

“Frankie’s right,” Uncle Geoffrey agrees.

“Well, since the phones are fucked—” Uncle Preston says, turning on his heel, grabbing his car keys off the credenza as he heads to the front door.

“Where are you going?” my mom shouts, shaking the sponge at him.

“I’m driving to the fucking police station while the rest of you look around here.”

“Yes,” Uncle Geoffrey says. “You do that and we will—” But Uncle Preston is already gone, the front door slamming shut behind him.

 11 

Uncle Geoffrey claps his hands together and announces, “Well, there’s only one thing for it.” Then he disappears from the hallway without another word. There’s an exchange of murmurs and puzzled looks, but no one follows him.

Jem edges next to me. “Will he be letting us in on this singular thing?”

“If it’s not dissociate, drink, and vibe on the fumes of a disintegrating reputation, he’s kind of venturing away from the Strauss family status quo.”

He casts me a narrow glance, lips pursing back a smile, and something in my chest betrays me as it trips on emotion. Shit. The last thing I need right now is anything in the same universe as emotion. I need to stay on task. And the task is: Find Oma.

Maybe I should follow my uncle before I do anything stupid.

Or, more specifically, stupider.

But then Uncle Geoffrey reappears halfway down the hallway a moment later, holding a dry-erase marker. He stops in front of the large park map hung on the wall, tapping the capped marker against his lips. It was drawn up right before the park closed, after the installation of the Ferryman’s Crossing and the Nymphs. I was there when Oma took the frame off the wall and laid it down on the dining table. She prized back the metal tabs with a butter knife and slotted the new map in front of all the old ones. A dozen iterations of Whisperwood throughout the years.

“We shall form a search party—” Uncle Geoffrey announces.

“Yeah, sure, a search party is great,” Bertram drawls from the doorway leading to the kitchen. “But does anyone know what happens if we can’t find her? You know, inheritance-wise?”

“Oh my god,” Ella says at the same time my mom says, “I’d assume we’d file a missing person report.”

Uncle Geoffrey clears his throat. “Yes. Kat’s right. A little missing person report. Yada yada yada. I do know her will states that the board—that’s us—will select a successor from among us. So… either way, everything’ll be dandy and behind us before we know it.”

“You can’t be serious.” Ella’s voice is a slap to the face.

Uncle Geoffrey looks, at once, extremely serious and more than a little confused, though he’s trying to blink away the latter. “I beg your pardon?”

She rolls her eyes. “You can’t yada yada yada away the legal system.” She steps toward Uncle Geoffrey, then turns to address the wider family. “Wills are only applicable upon death. If Oma is missing, it would be seven years before declaring death. Even longer before anyone could do a thing about any kind of inheritance.”

“You sure do know a lot about postmortem legal procedures for someone who still needs a permission slip to skip phys ed,” my mom mutters, her hand tightening around the sponge so much that it’s dripping onto the thick runner rug.

Ella shrugs, then spins back around, a knowing smirk pinned to her lips as her gaze lands on Uncle Geoffrey. “Probate. It’ll bite you in the butt every time.”

“So,” Bertram says, inspecting his fingernails, “you’re saying if she’s missing, we’re screwed. And if we find her, we’re also screwed. The only way we come out of this unscrewed is if—”

“Don’t even finish that thought, Bertram,” Uncle Geoffrey snaps. Not because he’s opposed to it, but because I saw the way his eyes just flicked to Jem. There are witnesses here, and the thought Bertram was about to spill is more than just suspicious. The only good outcome is if Oma’s dead, and if she’s not dead already, make it so. That right there is downright incriminating.

Rhodes gently pats his brother’s cheek. “And they say you’re only a pretty face.”

Bertram flashes his camera-ready smize. “I know, right?”

I fold my arms tightly across my chest and stare at my feet. Worry stacks upon worry, so high I can’t see around it. This family really doesn’t give a single shit about Oma. They’re only worried about their inheritance. Not that I blame any of them. Oma is about as sweet as burnt beans. But is there anything this family won’t do to get what they want? Sure, I want the park open just as much as the rest of them do, but I’d never kill Oma for it.

“What are we waiting for then?” Uncle Geoffrey says. Then a loud bang comes from down the hallway.

“What the—?” My mom gasps as Uncle Preston reappears. “What happened to you?”

Uncle Preston stands in the open doorway, stern-faced, square-shouldered, and covered in something that looks like it came out the back end of a slug. The sour smell of rot hits a moment later.

“Oh my god.” Bertram gags.

“Some tree’s decided to take a nap in the fucking road. Tried to move it, but it was covered in… whatever this shit is.” He flicks his hand, but the black sludge pasted to him doesn’t budge. “So, unless any of you has a chainsaw shoved up your ass, we’re all stuck here.”

“I didn’t realize the storm was that bad,” Uncle Geoffrey says.

I think back to the rain and the thunder-punches and the lightning that spiderwebbed across the sky. And the birds. God, the birds. I shiver.

But he’s right. The weather itself really wasn’t all that bad.

“It doesn’t need to be bad when the tree is obviously rotten,” Ella says, throwing out her hand: her dad, exhibit A.

Uncle Preston grunts. “Not seen anything that gross since Kat insisted on making Thanksgiving dinner two years ago.”

My mom’s gaze sharpens. “Hey—”

Uncle Preston laughs dryly.

“It must have been dead for a while, then,” Rhodes says, sighing. “Just biding its time to keel over and trap us here.”

“Well,” Uncle Geoffrey says, “shall we split into pairs to search?”

“I’ll go with Frankie,” Jem says, knee-jerk quick, throwing me a look that says, We need to talk.

“Yeah,” I say. “Sure.” Because we do indeed need to talk. He still has some explaining to do from earlier when our conversation was cut short outside the greenhouse. What exactly does he think happened?

Rhodes’s wide eyes flick to Jem, wary. “I’ll go with them.”

I inwardly groan. I wanted to speak with Jem. Alone. But no.

“Me too.” Bertram raises his hand. This time I’m less successful at keeping my groan inside. I press a smile to my mouth to cover for myself. As much as I don’t completely despise the guy, I can’t think of anything I want to do less than wander the overgrown park grounds with a half-drunk dirt-averse man-child who could get lost in a checkout line.

No sooner do I think it than I realize I’m just as callous as the rest of them.

“That’s not splitting up,” Uncle Preston huffs, scraping at the gunk caked into his dark stubble. “Pick someone else, for fuck’s sake.”

“I’ll start on the east end and work my way through Zauberwald,” Uncle Geoffrey interjects, jabbing the marker at the map and circling on the glass a section of the park northeast of the house that is primarily for small children.

Bertram steps closer. “Fine. Then I’m sticking around here.” His attention snaps to me. “What, Frankie? Don’t look at me like that.”

I throw up my hands. “Not looking at you like anything.”

“Yes, you are. You’re looking at me as if I’m not even trying, but I am trying my best.” He pauses. “Okay, maybe not my best best, but it’s just that, these are new Ferragamo loafers and I’m not putting a bunch of miles—”

Ella pauses typing on her smartphone. “I’ll stay with you, Bertram.” Bertram grimaces as she shrugs. “I haven’t been here as long as you all. I wouldn’t want to lose track of my partner or get lost or anything.” A spark winks across Ella’s face—there, and then gone again.

It’s total bullshit, and I don’t understand why no one’s saying anything. Even though she’s not been around as long or as often as the rest of us, Ella knows this park fine. Maybe they’re all in shock? Or maybe they’re the most moronic set of human beings that ever walked the earth.

“Shouldn’t they at least have an adult with them?” my mom asks, fingertips pressed to the bridge of her nose.

“If you can point out even one responsible adult in this room”—Ella’s mouth hangs slightly open as she tries to find the end of her sentence—“it’ll be a lie.” She returns to her screen. Seriously, there’s no cell service, so what the hell is she doing, writing a novel in her notes app?

“Fuck, Kat,” Uncle Preston barks, his voice thick as a cave-in. “It’s not like they need us around to change them if they shit their pants.”

“That,” Uncle Geoffrey says, pointing his finger at his brother, “is a valid assessment.”

“We can start at the north end,” I offer.

Jem nods in agreement. “That’s a good idea. I’m probably the most familiar with the lay of the land up there in the woods,” he says.

“Plus there’s three of us,” Rhodes interjects. “We can cover the most ground. And we can hit the greenhouse on the way up.”

So much for We need to talk.

My mom looks to Uncle Preston. “The amphitheater?” she suggests.

Uncle Preston huffs, undoing the top button of his dark gray polo. “Fine. But not before I scrub this shit off and do a wardrobe change.” His thick eyebrows knit together, and his voice dips. “This was my favorite shirt.”

“We can hold a funeral for it later,” Uncle Geoffrey says, checking his watch. “It’s about a quarter to three. Since there’s no way for us to communicate, let’s meet back here at the house at six and regroup.”

 12 

I pinball up the hallway, through elbows and shoulders, avoiding the back door. I’m not ready to look at the crime scene again just yet. “Let’s go, Jem,” I shout. “Rhodes, come on.” As I step outside, the front door claps shut behind me, and the afternoon sun incinerates my vision. If only it could burn away the memory of that broken window and of Oma’s torn dress covered in blood. Radiant heat spills through air that still holds the drafty memory of winter. It takes a few moments to blink back my vision.

The Boulevard stands spotless, presumably because the whisperlings made a feast of abandoned party leftovers. Recalling their storm-cloaked spectacle last night sends a chill down my spine. I scutter down the porch steps, hands pulled up inside my sweater sleeves, nails crushing into my palms.

“Frankie?” Rhodes shouts. “Frankie, wait up!”

I pause as he reaches me at a trot, stopping at my side. He’s procured a gray rucksack, which he adjusts on his shoulder. Tilting his head closer, he narrows his eyes on me. “Are you out of your mind?” he snaps.

“Gonna need a little context here.”

“Agreeing to pair off with Jem?” he says, glancing around as if he’s worried he’ll be overheard. “We don’t even know the guy—”

“I know him,” I say, but I’m not sure he’s listening.

“What if he has something to do with Oma’s disappearance? What if he turns on you next?” Rhodes pauses for breath. “I don’t trust him.”

“You’ve been your dad’s research assistant for too long,” I say.

“Or maybe you’re lucky I’m here to look out for you,” he says, producing a protein bar out of thin air. He breaks it in two, offering me half while stuffing the other half in his mouth. I shake my head, and he turns. “Hungry?” he asks Jem as Jem approaches us, dragging his fingers through his jet-black hair.

The look Jem gives me is loaded with meaning I can’t directly translate. Then, to Rhodes, he says, “Yes, actually.” He takes the bar, then gestures toward the corner of the house. “Greenhouses, Die Straße, the Wilds?”

Die Straße—literally, the road—is the main artery running through the park. Flanked by attractions and food vendors and paths that lead to the bigger rides.

“Sounds good to me,” I say.

“Well?” Rhodes nods. “What’re we waiting for?”

I set off around the house. In my wake, Rhodes and Jem chatter in voices I can’t hear properly, though I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Rhodes is interrogating Jem about his alibi. I don’t notice it at first, but after a while I realize I’m charting a course across the path that dodges the tree shadows that stretch across the cobblestones like bony fingers. Bony fingers attached to a bony body and a bony neck with burning eyes that blinked in the dark after the party last night. I squint into the trees. A leaden feeling materializing in my chest. There’s nothing there. There was never anything but my imagination getting the best of me.

At the entrance to the greenhouses, I pause, my hand hovering on the doorknob. I glance up at the sage-green aluminum and float glass, the way it stretches to a dizzying height.

“Hey, Frankie,” Rhodes says, smiling. “Remember when you used to disappear into the greenhouses and make potions for hours?”

Jem turns to me so sharply I laugh. But at the same time, the emotion doesn’t feel quite right. Like it’s only half there.

“Not like… real potions. Obviously,” I say. The door groans as I open it. A wave of damp air washes over me, dense with the scent of upturned soil and splintered wood, mixed with the sour tang of decay. The light in here is uneven and dull. Raised brick beds filled with plants in various stages of death run along the perimeter of the room. I continue, a strange sort of nostalgia washing over me as I recount the past. “I was six. Oma would give me some hand clippers, and I would put leaves and potting soil and water into a bucket and stir it up with a stick.” There it is, that laugh again that doesn’t quite fit in my mouth. I press my lips together. “Honestly, I think she just wanted the plants trimmed back and something to keep me busy and out of trouble.”

“That’s…” Jem trails off, drawing in a long, slow breath before shaking off whatever thought he had in his head.

Rhodes shrugs, and I don’t press further.

We maneuver through the overgrowth toward the center, where the trauerbaum grows surrounded by its fallen fruit, all bruised, rusty red. The tree has gotten so tall its top branches skim the ceiling. If I listen closely, I think I can make out its wind chime song. Rhodes kicks one of the rotted fruit and grimaces when the flesh splats around the toe of his shoe.

My fingertips trail along the rough ledge of the raised brick bed as I walk, Jem keeping stride.

“It makes me sad,” Rhodes says, wandering farther down the path. “This place used to be so full of life.”

Jem pauses, kneeling over a withering specimen, its pot tipped over, soil strewn on the floor. He rights the pot and replaces the dirt. I glance up. Rhodes is far enough away, I could ask Jem now what he meant earlier. Something’s happened. I open my mouth to speak, but the words catch in my throat. His face—an expression that is all storm clouds and spilled milk—is a barrier I’m not sure how to breach.

“Jem,” I say, softly dragging out his name. “Come on. Stop with that face.”

He pushes himself up, brushing his dirt-covered hands off on his trousers. “Pardon?”

I meet his eyes, so dark I could get lost in them. “It’s not your fault the place has fallen apart.”

He looks away. “It was my responsibility—”

“This place needs a small army to maintain it, much less thrive, and you’re only one person. You can’t do it all.”

He turns to me again, a small smirk on his mouth. Forced as it may be, he’s trying. “Perhaps this place would benefit from you renewing your interest in potion-making?”

I ignore the strange ache knotting inside me.

“Come on, you two,” Rhodes shouts, shaking me free from the feeling. “We don’t have all day.” And he vanishes into the next room. We follow.

As soon as I step through the door, I’m overwhelmed by the heavy scents of honey and hot summer nights. We tread down a path that cuts through willow branches that hang like party streamers, the boys now following my lead. Clusters of snow-white wildflowers skirt the trail, peppering the undergrowth. The willow’s feathery leaves brush my cheeks, brilliant flower heads graze the backs of my hands.

Again: no Oma.

It’s the same with the next room and then the next. Hope is a sinking ship, and my heart clings to the splintered wreckage as we reach the end of the greenhouse.

“I don’t think she’s in here,” I say, suddenly exhausted. Maybe it’s all the moisture in here or maybe it’s because I’m not even sure what we were hoping to find: Oma watering the roses with tears of regret? Oma sprawled out on one of the dirt paths, motionless and pale? My stomach churns, and I suggest, “We should move on to Die Straße.”

“Don’t be a quitter, Frankie.” Rhodes stretches his neck to one side. “There’s only a few rooms left. We might as well finish checking them.”

“Okay, fine.” I groan and spin around, giving Jem a look that in no uncertain terms says, You follow me. “I’m going to check out the Carnivorous and Alchemical Rooms.”

Jem opens his mouth, but it’s Rhodes who speaks. “I’ll go with you. Jem, check out the Lunar Gardens.”

Jem nods sharply. “We’ll reconvene here,” he says and disappears through the door to our left.

I follow Rhodes as he heads in the opposite direction, toward the Carnivorous Room, its glass door clouded with filth. The hinges creak as we step inside. A path cuts through the room, littered with small skeletal remains: a lizard, a mouse, a frog. Thick, sticky sap oozes from purple bell-shaped flowers that cling to the overhead misting system. Toothy-leaved plant mouths snap at the empty air and tentacled vines covered in mucilaginous fluid reach toward me as I pass by. I look under and behind—and even inside—the plants and containers and shelving.

No Oma in here either.

“Why do you trust him?” Rhodes asks, his voice straining as half his body is bent over a giant wooden planter to get a good look behind it.

“Jem’s not some stranger off the street,” I say. “I’ve known him for well over a year.”

Rhodes pulls himself up and faces me, crossing his arms. “Yeah, but do you really know him? Like, really really know him? He’s not family.”

“Of course I know him,” I fire back, but I can feel a part of me starting to wonder. Do I really know anyone? There are people—okay, a person—who I thought I knew so well and it turns out I didn’t know her at all.

“But what if he’s involved somehow?” Rhodes steps closer, concerned. “What if he’s playing us?”

“Playing us? Seriously?” I scoff. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.

Rhodes lets out an exasperated sigh. “Look, I just don’t want to see you get hurt, okay? Oma’s already—”

“Don’t,” I say, cutting him off. “We’re going to find her, and villainizing Jem isn’t going to help.”

He meets my gaze, a mix of frustration and concern in his eyes. After a moment, he relents. “Fine. But if anything goes wrong—”

My hand lands softly on his arm. “Nothing’s going to go wrong,” I say, then clarify. “Nothing more.”

Rhodes rolls his eyes. I shove him and continue through the room, his laughter following me.

When I reach the other end of the room, I turn around. Rhodes stands halfway back down the path, distracted by a plant that looks like branching green sea-whip coral, its feathery leaves swaying in a draft too subtle for me to feel. “Hey,” I say, and he stops poking it and looks up. “I’m going to check the next room. You can just—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.”

He sneaks past me as I open the door to the Alchemical Room. I wish I could pop the useless feeling inflating inside me with a straight pin. Pressing my eyes shut, I pivot and follow. All the air kicks out of me at once as I collide into something solid on the other side.

“Rhodes,” I mutter, peeling my face off his back. I crane around his shoulder to see what’s stopped him in his tracks.

Down the path is a glass case featuring the room’s star specimen: stillernerium, the plant made famous by the Der Stiller Mann story. It’s always kept under lock and key.

Or, at least, it should be.

“What the heck happened?” Rhodes mutters.

I step carefully over shattered glass scattered across the floor, my pulse kicking up to whirlwind speed. The case is broken. But what’s even more unsettling than the damage is the fact that it’s empty.

Next to me, Rhodes crouches down, plucking something off the floor. An ancient garden trowel. In the dirt-smudged light, the red sap of the stillernerium pith glistens on the blade.

Rhodes purses his mouth and tosses the spade back on the floor. “This place really is falling apart.” He looks around. “Honestly, I’m surprised more stuff’s not broken—”

“Miss Francesca?” Jem shouts from the other room, his voice at once muffled and somehow able to fill the entire space.

Rhodes scowls at me. “Why does he insist on calling you that?”

“Oh, come on, Rhodes. It’s cute.”

He raises his eyebrows, both unconvinced and amused.

“Not like that,” I say. What I don’t say is that it makes me feel exactly like that.

“Any findings?” Jem asks from the other room.

“Nothing here,” Rhodes says.

I let out a frustrated sigh. “Well, lots of ground still to cover,” I say as we turn and retrace our steps back through the carnivorous plants room. “How about you?” I ask Jem, nodding toward the exit. He shoves the door open, and the cooler outside air makes me gasp.

His expression drops, his eyes hollow. “Not a thing.”

Copyright 1925

WILHELM STRAUSS

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without permission of the Schmerz Publishing Group.

Die Seltsame Menagerie am Verwelkten Felsen

(The Curious Menagerie at Withering Bluff )

Die Märchen der Flüsterwald

ünther was a foolish man and you could tell just by looking at him.

He did not possess an ounce of logic, much less an air of wisdom, which is how he came to live on a cliff’s edge where the river below scraped away the earth little by little. His home was not plain by any standards, yet it was not his home that intrigued everyone who lived in the Whisperwood. That honor was given to the rare creatures he kept and the gilded menagerie he held them in. There was the giant-eared bobcat, lauschenkatze; the leaping winged rabbit, himmelhase; the wolfshirsch, a creature that is part wolf, part stag.

It wasn’t until the erosion was chomping at the menagerie’s foundations that Günther realized he had a very big problem. Every time it rained, Günther feared it would be the day he’d lose his precious menagerie and collection of rare creatures.

Then one day, news of a mysterious peddler, draped in a cloak as dark as night, caught Günther’s attention. The ladies at the general store said this peddler was as powerful as he was devious. However, Günther, in all his foolishness, was convinced he could not be outwitted.

Some might consider it a strange coincidence that Günther’s need for a miracle would align so perfectly with the peddler’s great misfortune. Others might just call it sabotage. For as the peddler traveled down the road past Günther’s majestic home, he hit a divot and the wheel on his cart cracked. The peddler was stuck, but it wasn’t long until he was approached by a stranger with a glint in his eyes and a tale of his woes.

“You are in luck!” the peddler said to Günther, his voice like a whisper in the wind. “I have here for you my very own Verdant Vines. They are strong and beautiful. The best vines you will ever encounter. Plant them around your mansion, and the river’s erosion shall trouble you no more. But beware, these require vigilant care and meticulous attention. All I need in exchange is a new cart and a horse to pull it.”

Günther thought that was an outrageous cost for some seeds. But, eager to preserve his cherished home, Günther traded away his horse and cart for the promise of magical protection.

The Verdant Vines took root, and the river’s erosion was thwarted. Günther thought all his problems had been solved, and he reveled in his apparent triumph. Yet the peddler’s warning of the vines’ invasive nature lingered like a haunting shadow. A shadow that would soon shroud every corner of his victory.

The plants wove an intricate tapestry around Günther’s mythical menagerie. Tighter and tighter. The lauschenkatze found its keen senses stifled, the leaping himmelhase struggled against vines that entangled its wings, and the wolfshirsch, once a symbol of wild majesty, battled against the encroaching greenery.

Günther, realizing his folly, attempted to uproot the Verdant Vines, but immediately he was swarmed by whisperlings that scratched and pecked at him as his hands grasped the resilient roots. The soil trembled briefly before a monstrous entity emerged—a creature of twisted vines and roots, eyes glowing with an otherworldly light.

“What have I unleashed?” Günther exclaimed, his voice a desperate plea as he realized this monstrous entity was a manifestation of his own greed. But his realization was too late. The vines had grown beyond his control, twisting and spreading with a relentless hunger.

Abandoned by the villagers who had warned him, Günther was consumed by the consequences of his desires. His final moments were filled with regret—if only he had kept his horse and cart. Journeying away from the crumbling cliffs would have been a better solution than attempting to preserve his own peculiar paradise.

As for the mysterious peddler, he and his cloak, dark as shadows, vanished and were never seen again. Günther’s story became a cautionary tale, whispered by ladies at the general store and echoing through the cliffs and valleys. A reminder that selfish choices can give rise to monsters of our own making.

 13 

Rhodes squints up against the sun glare. “You sure this thing is safe?” His stare travels along the length of the park’s sky tram. It runs over Die Straße, linking the front of the park with the far end. The open-air baskets groan in the breeze some eighty feet up, dangling on cable strung between the steel support towers. Several whisperlings sit on top of the terminal structure, which is riddled with rust.

“You needn’t worry,” Jem says, biting back his amusement. “The only danger we truly face is falling for the view.”

“You’re not helping,” Rhodes grumbles, running a hand through his disheveled blond hair.

A smirk tugs at the corner of my lips. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“We plummet to our deaths?” Rhodes shoots back. “Has anyone here considered the novel concept of walking?”

Jem waves his hand dismissively. “I take it often. Not this morning, mind you, but I rode it last night to return home after the party.”

“You stay at the groundkeeper’s lodging?” Rhodes asks.

Jem nods. “And from up there, we should be able to better survey the area. Perhaps uncovering something of interest, if not find Virginia herself ? We’ll also cover more ground.”

“Don’t worry, Rhodes,” I say. “If the tram does fall, at least we’ll all go down together.”

Rhodes rolls his eyes, but he can’t help but smile. “You are the worst.”

“I’m your favorite kind of worst, though,” I say, nudging him with my elbow. Rhodes doesn’t look convinced, but when I turn and head up the stairs, he follows. This familiarity makes my heart ache—we missed out on so much over the past eighteen months, with everyone absorbed in their own busyness. The park had always somehow made it easy to come together.

When we reach the platform, Jem presses several buttons on the control panel. A moment later, rumbling stirs from under our feet as the ride comes to life.

“After you,” Jem says, opening the sky tram’s car door. He shuts it behind us as the ride rushes us up into the air.

Rhodes looks like he’s about to vomit. “This was a terrible idea,” he mutters, his knuckles white as he grips the railing.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” I remind them.

Jem leans forward, elbows on the railing, as the sky tram settles into a gentle rocking motion. It smells like wet earth and that dense green scent of foliage. From this height, I can see roller coasters peeking above the budding mountain forest. The golden crown of the Falling Thieves drop tower, the dual wooden tracks of the Midnight Twins, the corkscrewing green metal track of the Verdant Vine.

Rhodes gasps at the drop as we stutter past the first suspension tower. It takes him a moment to recover, but once he does, he glances over the edge of the railing, assessing the drop, then immediately shies back. “Do you think she’s okay?” he asks.

“No.” Jem’s answer is too quick, too certain.

Rhodes throws a loaded look at me before turning back to Jem, who’s staring at the woods like he’s trying to set them on fire with his eyes. “How can you be so sure?” Rhodes asks.

Jem breathes out, slow and heavy. “She’s missing and the broken window and her dress and… the blood…” He trails off, shifting uneasily, shoulders tense. Then his voice drops. “No, she’s not okay.”

There’s something about Jem voicing the evidence like he’s reading from the daily specials boards at Bad Shit Bistro that knocks us speechless.

She’s not okay.

Something’s happened.

The park is still, quiet as a midnight morgue. I pick at the flaking paint on the railing, which chips off easily as the scenery slowly scrolls past. It’s not until we rattle over another support, as the cable feeds through the creaking wheels, that I realize it’s not silent at all.

“Do you hear that?” I ask, at the same time Rhodes says, “What happened there?”

Ahead of us, the large Märchendrehen Carousel spins in slow motion. The figures bob on their golden poles as a song drifts out from the old pipe organ. Flashing orb lights glint off its filigreed cresting and multicolored canopy.

All things it’s meant to do, only it’s all wrong.

The lights aren’t rhythmically flashing, they’re stuttering chaotically. The tune is warped at half speed, then further distorted on sporadic dissonant notes that permeate my body, clawing at my vital organs. But perhaps the most unsettling of all is the ride-on figures. Half of them are nowhere to be seen, and those that do remain aren’t as they should be.

The claws of the lauschenkatze, a giant-eared bobcat, have grown as long as pickaxes and a sharpened spine splits through its coat. The once-cute expression of the leaping winged rabbit, himmelhase, has soured into ferality, and there’s a dark liquid tracking out from its eye sockets. The wolfshirsch, a creature that is part wolf and part stag, is missing half its flesh, exposing the bones—ribs, vertebrae, skull.

“The heck?” Rhodes yelps as a whisperling, several times the size of any whisperling I’ve ever seen, flares its wings and prepares to land on the carousel’s canopy. Only, just as its feet make contact, it becomes clear that it’s not a giant whisperling at all. The dark shape splits into a murmuration that scatters across the faded spinning roof like ink splatter. It chatters and trills in a way that feels oddly aimed at us as we drift out of sight. The sky tram may be the slowest ride in the park, but we still pass by Märchendrehen too quickly for me to make full sense of it.

“Was Oma…” Rhodes searches for the word. “Renovating? Rebranding?”

Jem and I exchange a glance. “Not that I’m aware,” Jem says, shaking his head.

“You sure? You said you take this a lot, but you’ve not seen it before?” Rhodes carefully cranes his neck, trying to get another view of the carousel. “Because that’s really freaking weird.”

“Maybe someone at the party decided to engage in a bit of light vandalism?” I suggest, but even I don’t believe that. “We need to check it out, though.”

“On our return,” Jem says, his face serious. “We can walk and see what that’s all about.”

Our sky tram car begins its descent, easing down with a gentle sway, until it suddenly lurches upon reaching the far terminal, knocking me off balance. I gasp, launching forward into Jem’s chest. His arms wrap around me, his body solid and strong. For several feverish heartbeats I linger, the closeness more comforting than I’m willing to admit out loud. I feel… safe.

“Careful,” he says, his voice at my ear, edged with amusement.

Embarrassment floods my entire being when I realize what I’m doing is dangerously close to the textbook definition of the word cuddling. Nothing good can come from this. Heat flashes in my cheeks. “Sorry,” I mutter, pushing off him.

“You okay, Frankie?” Rhodes asks.

“I’m fine,” I reply, too squeaky to be convincing. It feels like I’ve stepped into Satan’s mouth and I can’t stop sweating or catch my breath to save my life. What the hell is wrong with me? Eyes on the prize, Frankie! I’ve come so far in rebuilding what was broken, worked too hard, and now I’m standing on the edge of making everything right with her.

But, Jem…

I don’t like him. Not like that.

I don’t.

The ride is still in motion when I throw myself over the railing and onto the terminal platform. A sharp pain shoots up my leg, and I collapse into a heap.

“Well, that was less than intelligent,” Rhodes says, swinging open the car’s gate and stepping out onto the platform a few steps farther down.

“No shit, Sherlock.” I pull in a tight breath between my teeth.

Jem quickly cuts off the sky tram’s ride motor, then rushes over to me, crouching at my side as Rhodes stands over my head. “Are you able to walk?” Jem asks.

“Of course I can walk,” I snip, pushing myself up, only to succumb to the pain again as it knocks the breath out of me.

I’m still gasping for air when my feet leave the ground.

“Oh my god, Jem! Put me down; it’s just a sprain. Rhodes, make him put me down.”

“We’ll go to my cottage,” Jem says as he thunders down the flight of metal stairs and across a small courtyard. Rhodes trails behind as we pass under an archway that reads the wilds.

Jem holds me tight to his chest. His warmth pouring over me, fighting back the chill of the densely shadowed woods. His fingers grip my thigh and the soft edge of my ribs. Despite myself, I press my cheek into his chest and curl into him as he says, “I promise you, Miss Francesca, we’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise.”

But I can’t help thinking that if we were to get to the bottom, we’d only realize we’re in so deep over our heads we’re bound to drown.

 14 

Jem trots up the stone path through uncurling ferns and waist-high astilbe flecked with pink buds, and backs through the front door of his tiny cabin. I am overwhelmed by the scent of black tea and lavender and fresh mint leaves. He carries me across the room and sets me down on a small, floral settee, the cushions so worn down I’m nearly swallowed whole.

I’ve only been in here a handful of times. The space is so small that this one room seems to be every room rolled into one. The entry bleeds into the dining room, which overlaps with the sitting room, which blends into the kitchen, which is also, in part, the entry. All that’s missing is a toilet and a bed. The bathroom sits at the back of the cottage, past a steep set of stairs that leads up to a sleeping loft.

I shift on the couch until I’m in a position to test my ankle with a flex and—nope. Still hurts.

“Wait here,” Jem says, as if I have any other option. Next to the kitchen sits a wooden cabinet that stretches from floor to ceiling. Rows of tiny drawers line the bottom, while angled storage bins and a shallow counter fill the middle, and glass-fronted doors occupy the top. Jem crosses to it and pulls out a tray, setting it on the countertop.

Still hovering silently by the front door, Rhodes mouths, What the heck? His eyes flick back and forth between me and Jem, who sifts through the towering cabinet’s contents with measured deliberation. One by one, he starts filling his tray with glass bottles.

“Will this take long?” I ask, impatience eating away at my tone.

Jem glances over his shoulder. “Not terribly,” he says in a way that instills exactly zero confidence.

“We don’t have time for this,” I groan, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes. “We’re meant to be looking for Oma and—”

Rhodes huffs, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe. “Well maybe somebody shouldn’t have jumped out of a literal moving vehicle.”

I roll my eyes and groan.

“Rhodes,” Jem says. “Why don’t you conduct a brief survey of the Wilds? See if you can’t find something?”

“I could?” Rhodes says, cutting me an anxious look.

“I’ll be fine,” I assure him.

“Everyone always says how fast you are,” Jem adds. “It’ll probably even get done quicker without us slowing you down.”

A smile flashes across Rhodes’s face. “I am pretty fast,” he agrees.

Jem nods. “That’s settled, then.”

“But—” Rhodes glances at me again, panic flickering across his face, as he’s only just realized he’s been tricked.

“You’ll be back before you know it,” I say.

Rhodes gnaws on his lip, glancing around, but he doesn’t budge.

“Time’s a-wastin’,” I say, my pulse ticking up a notch.

Time’s a-wastin’? Who even says that?

With a deep breath, Rhodes squeezes his eyes shut. Then slowly he turns and exits.

By the time the door closes, Jem’s finished at the cabinet and is carrying the tray over. He sets it on the coffee table and takes a seat in one of the chairs across from me.

I finally have a chance to ask him what he knows, but idiot that I am, all I manage is a nervous laugh and a stupid question. “What is this? The Middle Ages?”

His eyebrows perk, an amused curl pulling at his lip. “Pick one,” he says, nodding toward the assortment of bottles between us.

“Pick one?” I sit myself up but keep my foot elevated on the coffee table. “None of them are labeled,” I point out.

“Should that matter?” he asks.

“Yes?” I say. It feels like a test. One I’m failing. “How am I supposed to know what any of this is?”

“Take a closer look,” he says.

Anticipation clots the air as I lean in to inspect the unmarked bottles, and a vague sense of familiarity about them comes over me. A shallow jar filled with dark green pulp. A small bottle of viscous bright red liquid. The lights reflect off something small and richly purple within a corked glass pot, giving it the illusion of pulsating. A container filled with small crimson berries.

Sweat gathers on my neck. “That one,” I say, pointing to the small red bottle.

He sucks in a breath and tries to mask over his shock by lifting an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“I—I don’t know,” I lie. What I don’t know is if he’d stop me from taking it.

“Don’t you?”

His question sends a chill down my spine. Something inside me starts to click into place. “Do you know something?” I ask.

He leans forward conspiratorially, elbows perched on his knees. “Perhaps. Do you?”

“I perhaps may know something as well.”

His tongue flicks across his lips. “What do you know?”

I shake my head slowly, feeling the weight of his gaze. Even if he told me what he knows, I couldn’t possibly tell him everything I know. Some secrets are best left buried. Silence stretches between us. We’re locked in a standoff. A battle of wills. A wordless confrontation that threatens to take no prisoners and leave no survivors. Except I’m just a couple of nervous racoons in a trench coat, not some seasoned soldier of mind games. So I crack. “What are you getting at, Jem?”

He laces his fingers together, studying me intently. His expression is inscrutable. “I just thought you might have some insights.”

It takes everything in me not to drop-kick his coy ass off this mountaintop. “Insights? About what?” I try to keep my tone light, but I fail spectacularly.

His eyes darken, his voice drops. “About what you’re not telling me.”

My mouth goes dry and I’m choking on my heartbeat. I’m done with this game. I ignore the red bottle—obviously—and before he can stop me, I snatch up the jar of green goop, dump its contents over my ankle, and spread it to make a poultice.

“You,” Jem gasps, pointing at me, his composure broken.

“And you,” I fire back at him.

Then, in unison, we shout over each other. “You know about the magic.”

The confession knocks me back to the day I found out.

Jem was kneeling down in a flower bed at the edge of the Boulevard, fighting the good, but ultimately hopeless, fight with the late-spring weeds. I cradled a pair of brown paper bags in my arms, filled with Oma’s provisions, like I had every other week for the past six months since Oma shut the park.

Jem pushed to his feet and dusted himself off, squinting into the golden-hour sunlight as we exchanged hellos. His mouth fell open, drawing in a breath, as if he had more to say. He usually did. This had become my routine: delivering groceries to Oma and chatting with Jem. I would have lingered, would have heard the words he wanted to speak, but the week before, as I was stepping off the front porch, Oma hit me with two parting questions that I was still trying to make sense of.

“Secrets,” she had said, her fingers thrumming on the edge of the door. “They are by far the most valuable of currencies. Treasures to be taken to the grave.”

Glancing left and right, I could only summon the words “I guess?” as a reply.

She lifted her chin, her face solemn. “Do you think there are secrets worth dying for?”

“Of course,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed on me. “Do you believe in magic, Frankie?”

My mouth moved around words that hovered just out of my reach. Do I believe in magic? While the knee-jerk response in my head was no, don’t be ridiculous, a deeper part of me held my tongue, letting the question steep in the silence.

We both jumped at the phone ringing inside. Oma tried to smile through the frustration that twisted her face. “You’d think they’d give up after a while,” she muttered. And then, “We will talk next week.”

A week later and the knot of apprehension had done nothing but snowball in my stomach. I pressed a stiff smile to my mouth. “I’ll see you later,” I told Jem. The weight of his eyes followed me up the Boulevard, my Slender Man shadow stretching out to my side.

As I entered the kitchen, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Oma pulled backward, plastic cracking, wires stretching and snapping as she tore the telephone off the wall. She turned to me. “What took you so long?” she grumbled, eyeing the bags.

“Traffic, Oma. Traffic,” I replied, setting the bags down next to three other landline telephones that were already sitting on the island counter. “What are you doing?” I asked, the words slow and uncertain.

Oma placed the kitchen phone unceremoniously with the others. “Phones haven’t stopped since we shut, and I have been at my wit’s end with all the ringing.” In one smooth swoop she cleared all the phones off the counter and into the garbage. “I feel lighter already.”

“Shall I make us some tea?” I asked out of habit, already halfway out of the kitchen on my way to the scullery.

“Not today,” she said.

“Huh?” I snapped around to find her heading in the opposite direction. “Where are we going?” I asked, following her, echoing her motions as she slipped on her boots and shrugged into a jacket.

Oma ignored my question. “Come with me,” she said, her tone brooking no argument.

She led the way outside, our cobblestone footfalls echoing strangely around the empty Boulevard. I thought, this is it, she’s going to tell me about what happened. The things I couldn’t quite remember about the night before the park shut and she vanished from my life. We’d almost reached the exit when she suddenly turned around.

She pointed to the first statue. “Do you know what this is?” she asked.

Before me stood the statue of the inkwell and quill and the words and the story elements. I squinted, sure I was missing something, afraid what would happen if I answered wrong. I shook my head. “A statue,” I said.

She let out a disappointed breath, one I became painfully familiar with. “Don’t test me, Francesca.” Pain sparked the back of my head when she smacked me, then gestured to the statue. “This is Wilhelm Strauss.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, trying to rub off the lingering echo of her touch. “It says so on the plaque.” I point to the brass plate, etched in writing that is largely indiscernible other than the large letters at the top spelling out my great-great-great-grandfather’s name.

She seemed displeased with my answer, walking away from me only to stop at the next statue. “Karl Strauss,” she said, slicing a pointed look at me.

This time I kept my mouth shut. Yet she was still displeased and moved on to the next.

“Jakob Strauss.”

We stood there for a silent moment, trading glances, before I caved. “I don’t understand.”

“Look closely,” she huffed impatiently. “This statue isn’t just a statue. Tell me what you see.”

My heart shriveled up as I silently floundered. “I don’t know.”

“This is what remains of my father,” she says.

“Remains?” The word fell out of me. I could feel the confusion carving across my face as the memory of her question echoed through my mind. Do you believe in magic? “Like a grave?” I asked, but even as I asked it I knew it was more than that.

“Wilhelm wasn’t just the author of some fairy tales. And Karl and Jakob weren’t just in charge of the park.” She gestured to the statues. “They were Whisperwood fablemakers.”

“Fablemakers? Kind of like in ‘Anna and the Fablemaker’?”

“Exactly like in ‘Anna and the Fablemaker.’ ” She cast me an irked glance before continuing. “The fablemaker tells stories and those stories come to life, coursing with story magic within them. Then, upon completion, the stories become parts of the park.”

“So you’re, like… magical?”

Oma shot me a look so sharp I shrank back. “Don’t be ridiculous. Unlike their stories, fablemakers don’t have magic within them. They simply wield it. They’re the only ones who can. They keep the magic alive and keep it in line.”

I nodded slowly, taking it in stride because, even though this was a nuclear-bomb level of information, I was to a point of brain-static system overload.

Oma sighed. “Look. One day, I won’t be able to create anymore, and I’m afraid that day is closer than we think. My strength won’t be enough to sustain or control the magic. I will become memorialized. I’m already getting weaker. And when that day comes, it will be up to you to take over and do what I no longer can.” She dropped her head, pinching the bridge of her nose. “We have so much work to do,” she groaned.

Later that night, I would stare at the glow-in-the-dark stars sticky-tacked to my bedroom ceiling. I would break down in tears over the meaning of everything she had told me and wonder what I had gotten myself into.

But in that moment, as Oma strode off into the gathering dusk, I simply followed her.

 15 

How do you know?” I ask him, my mind reeling, because I certainly never told him. God, Oma would have had my head.

His brows pull in and a breath huffs out of him, his eyes calculating in a way that makes me feel like whatever he’s about to say isn’t the whole truth. “I live in the park as the groundskeeper. Surely you’d be more surprised if I hadn’t picked up on anything?” He pauses before continuing. “Is that how you know? From growing up in this place, surrounded by the stories and the magic?”

I shift uncomfortably, not only because I’m unsure of how to respond (because no, I do not know because of mere observation), but because the poultice I dumped on my ankle is starting to feel cold and tingly. I’m trying to add it all up. If Jem knows the magic is real, he knows the stories aren’t just stories. And if he knows the stories aren’t just stories, he should know how they’re made, too. Swallowing down the lump in my throat, I respond.

“Oma’s been giving me lessons. Preparing me to become fablemaker after her.” The words come out of me like sticky honey, slow and hesitant. It feels strange to speak these secrets aloud, as if acknowledging them makes them all the more real. And they were pretty damn real to begin with, despite the whole impossibility of it all. Because what is more impossible than magic?

He nods knowingly. “It makes sense that she’d want to train a successor. She’s been ill for a while now, though some might argue she’s never taken to the task of fablemaker.” Jem’s expression is grave. “Either way, it’s only going to get worse.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You are aware that what happened at the party wasn’t just her magic, right?”

“What?”

“Virginia is losing her hold on the power.” His words make my stomach drop. He continues, “Likewise for the whisperling spectacle. And I’d wager that the storm was not an entirely naturally occurring weather event either.”

I’m playing connect the dots in my head. “Is that what happened with the carousel?”

Jem nods slowly. “And the magic isn’t just becoming unruly,” he says, pressing his fingers to his lips. “It’s becoming dangerous.”

“Shit.” The word slips out of my mouth.

“Shit, indeed,” he says, then casts me a sidelong glance. “Is there anything you could do about it?”

“No,” I say, and his head immediately quirks in disbelief.

“But you said you were getting lessons.”

“Yeah, I have been.” Heavy irritation stacks up inside my chest, forcing out a throaty breath, a sound drenched in helplessness. “But I’m nowhere near knowing enough to be able to do anything about it.”

“Oh,” he says. “So she hasn’t been instructing you for very long, then?”

“No, she has,” I groan. “We started about six months after the park shut. So about a year.”

Jem scowls.

“Look, she wasn’t super happy about the whole arrangement. Like she was having to share this knowledge with me against her will. And honestly, I wasn’t super excited about the lessons themselves either, not because I didn’t want to learn, but as I’m sure you’ve caught on by now, Oma can be…”

“Oh, I do indeed know how she can be.” For a long moment he sits there, scowling into empty space. I worry my bottom lip as his jaw works around unsaid words.

“We really need to find Oma,” I say finally.

“Agreed. I fear what might happen if we don’t.” When his gaze finally flicks up to me, there’s a softness in his eyes. “The lessons?” he starts, his words a whisper. “Was that the reason you were so upset? That time we—”

“Yes,” I say, cutting him off, not wanting to hear the word, but the memory cuts in nonetheless.

Heavy shadows fell across the packed-dirt back alley of the Die Straße concessions. Late summer sweat tracked down my spine from the nape of my neck. The padlock on the door groaned as I cranked a length of discarded rebar into the loop. “Come on,” I pleaded, emotion splintering the edge of my voice. I was beginning to wonder if these lessons were ever going to get any better. It had been almost eight months now. Oma never seemed pleased with my progress and she wasn’t one to hold back expressing as much. Sometimes, I felt like I was just never enough for anyone. That I was too easy to give up on, too insignificant to love. No, I suppose I wasn’t thinking about Oma anymore, was I? I was thinking about her. Sure, she never said those words exactly, but her cold-shouldered disappearing act was the theme song of inadequacy cranked to maximum volume. I sniffed and blinked back tears as the rebar burned in my grip. “Just a little—”

“Miss Francesca?”

I nearly startled right out of my skin, dropping the rebar onto the ground.

“Are you all right?” he asked, and I wondered if he could see all the sadness I was holding inside me.

I bit down on my lip, afraid if I spoke I would unravel. I shook my head.

Jem leaned his shoulder against the side of the concession hut, eyebrows lifting in amusement. “Breaking and entering is hardly a civilized pastime.” It was such a silly thing to say that it slapped a chunk of sadness right out of me.

A smirk pulled at his mouth. He straightened and whipped out a set of keys from his pocket, bowing his head ever so slightly. “May I interest you in the finest brezeln this side of the Atlantic?” he asked, holding up a hefty skeleton key.

Something inside me relaxed, stretched out like a cat in a sun puddle. “Just this side of the Atlantic?”

“Look.” He leans in, conspiratorially. “We are reluctant to boast of our global reputation, since the birthplace of these delights happens to be on the other side of the Atlantic.”

“Oh! Well, in that case, yes, please,” I said. He unlocked the door, and I followed him, but he stopped and turned, scowling playfully at me.

“You are not employed by this fine establishment,” he said, shooing me away before shutting the door behind him.

My jaw dropped. “What the—”

But then I heard the rattle of rising shutters around the front and the gentle buzz of the fluorescent lights. I walked around.

“Have you lost your mind?” I laughed.

He gestured dramatically. “Now, what will you have? Sweet or savory?”

I rolled my eyes, choosing a salty pretzel as I hopped onto the counter. I waited for him to comment again on my uncivilized behavior, but he only smiled at me as I tipped my head back, resting it on the shutter’s metal track. It took a few minutes of preparation, but when he handed the pretzel to me, his fingertips brushed against mine. The touch was hardly there but made every part of me soft. I don’t think I realized how lonely I was until then.

As soon as my teeth sank into the pretzel, my mind shot back to another time I was in this exact spot, and before I could help it, the words were coming out of me. “Rhodes, Bertram, and I used to sneak out to this place during sleepovers at Oma’s,” I confessed, my voice low. “She always made these promises—we’ll take the sky tram after hours, get krapfen at closing, ride Whirlwind, the spinning maple seed ride, until we barfed—but then, without fail, she’d get caught up in some park affair or whatever, and we’d be given strict orders not to stir up trouble. But we were kids, so of course, we did the opposite. We came here.”

I waited for him to cut in, to interject his own story because mine wasn’t holding his interest. But he leaned forward against the silvery countertop, his head tilting as he waited for me to continue. His eyes were a line, reeling me in. I swung my feet over to the inside of the counter where he stood, my knees inches from his splayed hands.

“Whisperwood has a way of making you believe anything. We would huddle just there”—I pointed to the floor—“and convince ourselves magic was real. We saw the shadows playing tricks in flickering lantern light and convinced ourselves it was the lichtfresser out for a midnight snack. We heard the whisperlings singing in the woods and told ourselves it was Lorena calling us to our deaths. The wind blew a door shut and we convinced ourselves it was a kobold house sprite trying to keep out the cold.”

Part of me wanted to tell Jem what I knew, even though what I knew wasn’t much, really. The stories in microscopic detail, the history of the park, a textbook understanding of the magic, because there was no way to give me hands-on experience without me becoming fablemaker, and of course I was nowhere near ready for that.

“You were caught, weren’t you?” Jem prompted.

A wry smile tugged at my lips. “Oh, absolutely. And we were punished. Every time. We never learned… or we learned but we didn’t care. Each of us was given a toothbrush and made to clean every inch of this very concession.”

I’m not sure what it was that made the sadness bubble up in me in that moment. What made the hollowness in my chest transform into a black hole that crushed me from the inside out. For so long I’d felt adrift, outside anyone’s orbit, but here he was.

He pushed off the counter, shrinking the space between us, eyes level on me. The way he looked at me was like a dare. A dare to tear down the walls I’d built to protect myself, to let my heart, teetering on the edge of vulnerability, fall headlong. A dare to trust him.

And in that moment, I dared.

I leaned in. My limbs hummed, my veins filled with high-voltage electricity. Every thought guttered out as the warmth of his mouth landed on mine. I turned into something knitted and moth-eaten, unraveling as I sank into his sigh.

When I pulled away, he was breathless and wide-eyed. My lips were swollen. My heart, frenzied.

“Oh—Jem,” I stammered, panicking. “I’m so sorry.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said, confused. His hand on my arm was a gentle thing; still I flinched away on reflex.

I slipped off the countertop. “No, no, I—I shouldn’t have—I… I have to go.” I bolted out the door, but there was nothing I could do to outrun the remnants of his touch.

I tried to pretend the kiss with Jem never happened, because it was a mistake. Obviously. Every cell in my being was searching for her. Wasn’t it? But, as I sit here in Jem’s cottage, pressing my sweat-slicked palms into my thighs, my traitorous heart skips inside my chest, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe it wasn’t a mistake at all.

This. This is exactly why feelings are stupid.

I nod slowly, swallowing hard. “The lessons were part of it, anyway. The other part, you already know.”

Her.

I’m about to speak her name when he holds up a hand. “I do, Miss Francesca. I do know. And you needn’t open that wound today.”

A humorless laugh sneaks out of me.

“What is it?” Jem asks. “Did I say something wrong?”

I just shake my head. “No, it’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

But the thing is, that wound is already cracked wide open. Hell, it’s always cracked open. History perpetually floods my mind. Clinging to the climbing-iron at the edge of the freight train, my grip so tight the cool metal burned beneath my fingers. The sound of her steady breath as she slept next to me beneath the open night sky. Wandering the park grounds long after dark, our hands fastened together, only to have the memory of everything after slip away.

 16 

So,” Jem says. “What do you know?”

“Why do you say it like you expect me not to know anything?”

“Well?” He smirks. “Do you?”

I heave a deep breath and start counting on my fingers. “First. I know that the magic is deeply intertwined with storytelling. Tell the story, abracadabra, bada bing, bada boom, magic. Second. The fablemaker is the one who holds the magic, and the stories they tell somehow become attractions in the park. Third. Being a fablemaker is like a top-tier nepotistic family trade; my family’s history seems to be indistinguishable from the stories and the magic. Four, I—”

“Fourth,” Jem interjects, correcting me, a hesitant smirk to his mouth.

“Really?”

He shrugs. “Just trying to help you stay on course.”

I roll my eyes, but his humor loosens something inside me that I didn’t realize was winding up tight to a snapping point. “Fine,” I say. “Fourth. I don’t know how the magic works exactly or—fifth—how to even become a fablemaker. Oma mentioned some sort of process, but she never got around to telling me anything about the process. I don’t know for certain why she chose me, over a certified grown-up like my mom or one of my uncles. I mean, I can make assumptions. Maybe it’s because I was the only one there. No one else came to her aid after she shat on everyone’s primary source of—”

A howl rips out of me, sharp pain lancing through my ankle.

Jem’s face pales. He rushes around the coffee table to sit next to me on the settee, leaning over me. “It’s the nähenkraut,” he says, gasping.

I clutch at the sofa cushions, as if the pain is going to shoot me into the farther reaches of space. “I’m fully aware it’s the nähen—holy mother of pearl and all the oysters in the sea! The herb witch story makes no mention of this side effect!”

“Breathe, Miss Francesca,” Jem instructs. “Breathe.”

I wince, biting back the scalding pain that knifes down to my bones. “What in the ever-loving faaaa—”

“You must relax,” Jem says, leveling his drowning-hazard eyes on me. “The nähenkraut performs best when you’re not panicking.”

“What is happening, Jem?” I say through clenched teeth. “I don’t remember this from the story.”

“Indeed,” he says. “Some edits were made.”

I hiss as the pain burrows down to depths within me that I didn’t know existed. My vision goes blurry, and a whimper escapes up my throat. My body won’t stop shaking.

Then suddenly my hands are cradled in his and the world feels off-kilter. His touch pushes the pain to the periphery of my consciousness, and I’m very aware of the space between us. How small and insignificant it is. How easy it would be to erase entirely. Under my skin something buzzes that isn’t at all related to the nähenkraut.

Seconds crawl by that I have no way to measure through the layers of feelings I’ve got going on. All I know is that eventually I don’t have to struggle so much against the agony. Eventually, the only thing I feel is an overwhelming ache as my heart tries to jailbreak from my chest. I begin to notice smaller feelings, like the way his leg leans against mine and the way the congealing poultice pulls at my unshaved leg hairs.

Then Jem’s warm hand falls away, and I find myself wishing he’d held on just a little bit longer. “Ready?” he asks, his palms moving to hover over my ankle.

“Oh god.” I wince. “What now?”

“No, no. It won’t hurt,” he assures me. “But it may be… unpleasant. Disagreeable, even. Only for a moment, though.”

I nod, and he carefully begins peeling off the sticky poultice mask. I squirm as sickly green fibers stretch out from my flesh. Nausea roils through my stomach. That stuff is inside me, and it doesn’t seem like it wants to be removed. Tiny pinpricks of blood well up wherever the fibers thread out through my skin, slowly being drawn out from my body. It’s like Jem said, it’s not pain—but what it is is an intense pressure that takes my breath away.

Then, one by one, the fibers snap loose from my skin with a sharp keening that screeches through the air. So high-pitched, I almost can’t hear it. They writhe, as if they’re clinging to the last drops of life. Then, shriveling up, they fall silent and still.

Jem makes a face, holding up the nähenkraut between us. “I’m going to dispose of this.” He gets up and crosses to the kitchen as I pivot on the sofa, placing my foot on the floor and applying pressure, completely pain-free. He’s just closing the trash when I hear Rhodes outside, approaching the cottage.

“He’s back already?” I ask, glancing at the door. “That was fast.”

But across the room, Jem lifts a finger to his lips. He inches back across the room to the settee. When he reaches me, he sits and leans in close. “I don’t think that’s Rhodes,” he says, and a chill runs down my spine.

We both sink into the settee as a large silhouette moves across the drawn voiles, creaking as it migrates from the back end of the side yard to the front. Its movements are announced by chimes and tinks.

That sound…

I whisper, “What is that?”

His fingertips meet my lips, eyes wide and urgent because this—this must be what he was talking about when he said the magic was becoming more than unruly. Dangerous. He leans in, his voice a loaded whisper that makes heat shimmer inside my belly. “Something bad,” he says.

His words quickly eclipse that spark of warmth, replacing it with a cold that chokes its knobbly fingers around my entire body. I hope Rhodes is far, far away from here.

Jem’s fingers slowly thread through mine, squeezing. He wears a disguise of fearlessness, but he’s shaking, too. Panic sticks in my throat, impossible to swallow down as the silhouette disappears from view. The heavy drumming of my pulse only lets up when the footfalls have drifted out of earshot.

Then the doorknob turns, and my heart stops entirely. The door swings open.

“Look what I found,” Rhodes announces proudly as he steps into the open doorway, a giant smile slapped on his face.

“Rhodes,” Jem says, scrambling across the room. “Come in.” He yanks Rhodes inside and cranes his neck out the door briefly before shutting it behind him and locking us inside. When Jem pivots back to face the room, he looks confused. There must have been nothing out there. Could whatever that was have really gotten that far? Surely we didn’t imagine it.

“Found this in the woods,” Rhodes says, setting a large piece of metal onto the table, a bent rod that’s been snapped off at either end. In the middle, there’s a clamp larger than my hand that grips around the metal rod in the center. The arm of the clamp is likewise snapped off, but I can still see the jagged sliver of twisted brass.

I pick it up, flipping it over in my hands. When I look at Jem, he’s staring at me with wide eyes. It’s part of the carousel. Not our imagination, then.

“Say, how’s the ankle, Frankie?” Rhodes asks.

“Better.” I make a show of moving it around, not a twinge of pain to be found.

“Like magic,” Rhodes says, pointing at me with a laugh. “Jem’s a witch.”

I’m about to say something when a caustic sound obliterates my train of thought. Both Rhodes and I look to Jem as, again and again, the buzzing rips through the air. Part of me worries the commotion will draw back the thing that was lurking outside, but Jem opens the door and checks outside again. The coast must still be clear, because he says, “Let’s go,” and leaves.

Rhodes and I exchange a look as the noise continues, curdling my nerves. When neither Rhodes nor I have followed, Jem reappears in the doorway and asks, “Are you coming?”

“What about Oma?” I ask, pointing the carousel part at him. “We need to keep looking for her.”

Jem nods. “We do, but right now, I have to see to that.” He points his finger up, indicating the sound.

Rhodes swallows hard. “And what is that, exactly?”

“The front gate,” Jem says, squeezing his eyes shut as the buzzing turns from insistent blips to one long, impatient beep. “Somebody wants inside.”

Copyright 1925

WILHELM STRAUSS

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without permission of the Schmerz Publishing Group.

Anna und der Fabelmacher

(Anna and the Fablemaker)

Die Märchen der Flüsterwald

estled between mountains, somewhere in the Whisperwood, there lived a master storyteller. He spent his days in a small cottage deep in the forest, surrounded by stories and scrolls. Though he was content to live alone, lost in the world of his own imagination, he would occasionally venture into town. Whenever he did, folk would travel from far and wide to hear him weave his tales, for they were so vivid that they seemed real to those who heard them.

They called him the Fablemaker. So masterful, he was magic.

One day, as he sat at his writing desk, he became so engrossed in his work that he didn’t even notice when something began to take shape across the room out of nothing.

When he felt a strange fluttering in his heart, he looked up and saw the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

He knew her name, because her name came from him. “Anna,” he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. He glanced back down at the page in front of him covered in his newest tale.

Her tale.

Anna had stepped out of his story and into the world, born from the Fablemaker’s imagination. She was amazed by the world around her—one she could touch, taste, and feel. The Fablemaker was more than amazed.

“Is this real?” he asked, thinking he must be dreaming. “This can’t be real.”

“I’m as real as the birds of the air and the flowers of the field,” Anna replied with a smile as she stepped closer. “As real as your words that gave me life and the ink flowing from your pen to my veins. I am a creation of your thoughts and feelings, a reflection of your hopes and dreams. And now I stand before you. Real.”

He had never felt so connected to his stories before; that must be the reason she was able to come to life off the page. But, for the first time in his life, the Fablemaker didn’t know what to say.

As the days passed, the Fablemaker and Anna grew closer until they fell deeply in love. They spent their days talking, exploring the forest, and creating new stories to share with the world. He couldn’t believe that he had created someone so perfect.

And together, they were writing their own story.

Until one day, an old man appeared at their cottage. He had heard in the village of the Fablemaker’s gift and begged him to tell a story for him, as his remaining days were numbered. The Fablemaker complied. As the old man listened, he couldn’t stop looking at Anna as she mended some socks in the chair across the room. Not because of her beauty, but because he could feel magic pouring off her and he knew he wanted it—wanted her—for himself.

By the time the tale was done, it was late into the night. The old man thanked the Fablemaker, and then, without warning, he lunged at Anna, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her toward him. The Fablemaker tried to intervene, but the old man was unnaturally strong and overpowered him to the point of injury. The old man fled into the forest with Anna, who struggled and screamed in fear.

After a life spent searching for a source of pure magic, the old man was convinced he’d finally found it in Anna. He took her away to a secret cave deep within the mountains.

Anna was terrified. She had never been away from the Fablemaker, and now she was trapped in a place that was cold and dark and filled with the echoes of her sobs. The old man pondered over Anna, longing to use the magic she possessed. He could demand that she make him enchanted objects, or maybe even the magic was something he could extract from her. He didn’t have the answers, but he was determined to figure it out.

He was a fool.

Back at the cottage, the Fablemaker was beside himself with grief. He had lost the love of his life and the love he had brought to life. He sat listless at his desk, surveying the room, every corner filled by the trappings of a life they had built together. His hand trembled as he held the quill he had used to breathe life into his stories. Into Anna. Now it felt lifeless in his hands. He couldn’t bear the thought of carrying on without her.

As the days passed, back at the cave, Anna began to die. Though she tried to tell the old man that commanding the magic was something neither of them could ever do, he refused to accept the truth. Without the Fablemaker’s storytelling magic to sustain her, she became weak and frail. She couldn’t survive without him.

Even from miles away, the Fablemaker could feel Anna withering. He knew time was running out. So he packed a bag and journeyed deep into the mountains, wandering through its mazelike woods, using his storytelling magic to guide him toward Anna’s hidden prison.

When he arrived, the sight that met him was grim. Anna lay on the hard ground, so close to death even the birds lingered near, daring to peck at her with unsettling curiosity and hunger. The old man who had taken her slumbered deeply at the far end of the cave.

Without hesitation, the Fablemaker whispered his storytelling magic into Anna. Color returned to her cheeks, and her eyes fluttered open. When she saw the Fablemaker before her, a smile formed on her lips.

But as the Fablemaker poured his heart into the magic, it was more heart than the small space could take. The cave began to shake and tremble. The rock walls groaned and cracked. The air filled with dust and debris that rained down from above. The cave was going to collapse.

So, quickly, the Fablemaker gathered Anna in his arms, the earth quaking beneath his feet. Even as they fled, the old man remained asleep. He never emerged and was never seen again.

Anna and the Fablemaker returned to the cottage in the forest, and they lived out the rest of their days in happiness. For they had proved that sometimes love is the greatest magic of all.

 17 

I am sitting on the front bench of a UTV, squashed in the middle between Rhodes and Jem. The maintenance tracks cutting through the park, the ones that were rough and barely visible before the park closed, have almost disappeared entirely, so our ride is dominated by unseen divots and whiplash. While the motor is so loud it makes conversation impossible, it’s not loud enough to drown out the thoughts playing in my mind at full volume.

Because Oma’s gone missing.

And the magic is going wrong.

And there’s nothing I can do to fix any of it.

Something underneath the seat grinds from within the vehicle’s bowels, rattling up my spine as it grapples with the incline. Then the UTV lurches, shoving me flat against the seat back, but thanks to my sandwiched position, I barely shift sideways at all. I shoot Jem an incredulous look that goes entirely unnoticed.

Instead, Jem is squinting at the barely there path ahead of us, saying something to himself that, because of the geriatric motor, I can’t hear properly. His arms strain at the wheel as we crest the ridge, the path slipping out of view. Overhead, whisperlings flit in the tree canopy. As we level off, we’re met with a swath of straight-backed trees shooting out from a hodgepodge floor of dead leaves, new moss, and scattered brown mushrooms. I readjust my center of balance as the nose of the UTV tips back down with the slope and we descend the other side. Slow at first, but it doesn’t take long for the UTV to pick up speed. And then more speed. And then my stomach rises up my throat because out of the corner of my eye I catch panic on Jem’s face, and I realize Jem’s got the brake nailed to the floor, but you’d never know it by the way we’re gaining—you guessed it—speed.

“Jem!” His name rips out of me at the same time we tear through a gigantic bush. A murmuration of whisperlings launches out from their hiding place within the branches. A sudden torrent of air whirls around us as their tiny bodies crack into the metal frame of the vehicle. I duck, covering my head, as silken wings batter against me. When I lift my head back up a moment later, I get a face full of smoke as it spits out from the hood.

“Abandon ship!” Rhodes yells, leaping out into the undergrowth. I force my limbs, jelly-weak from panic, to get up and follow him. When I hit the ground, my sight scatters. Earth is in my mouth and twigs are tangled into my hair. Jem lands a few feet downhill from me. I scramble to my feet as the smoking UTV continues to accelerate down the slope, bounding over the uneven terrain, until finally it finds a tree. I gasp as it bursts into a quick whoosh of flames, there and gone again a second later.

“What the heck!” Rhodes shouts from up the hill.

My ears buzz in the after-noise, as if the woods have devoured all sound but the smoky breath of the wreckage. Air feels thin in my chest as I try to pull my breakneck pulse back from the cliff edge. Somewhere in the trees, I swear I hear a sound that reminds me of a music box. A sound that is quickly snatched up by the wind and replaced with whisperling trills.

Jem pushes himself up, his laughter saturated in shock. “Well, that’s never happened before.”

I glare at Jem. “You going to blame that on the magic?” I snap, Rhodes out of earshot.

He leans toward me, his expression sheepish. “I am willing to admit that it’s possible that was, in part, due to poor vehicle maintenance.”

“Hello?” Rhodes trots down toward us, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Our ride exploded!”

“We’ll have to walk,” Jem shouts, turning on his heel. “Luckily, the Boulevard is just over this next bit of elevation.”

“Uh.” I point back down the hill to the smoldering ruins of the UTV. “Don’t we need to do something before a fire spreads?”

Jem shakes his head. “Everything’s wet from last night’s storm,” he explains, setting off away from the path carved by the crash, on a trail only he can see. “The fire won’t spread. It’ll burn out on its own.”

Rhodes is still shaking when he hauls me to my feet. I must not look convinced about the fire because he adds, “I think it’s supposed to rain again, too.”

He’s trying to placate me, but instead his words make my heart sink. Rain is not going to help us with our search for Oma. Quite the opposite. Rhodes runs after Jem, and I shake the nature from my hair and follow them.

“So, any idea who’s at the gate?” Rhodes asks as we reach the bottom of one hill and head up another. His question is met with a quiet broken only by the shuffling of our footsteps through the detritus.

After a long moment, Jem briefly glances over his shoulder and says, “I haven’t a clue.”

“Maybe it’s help?” I say, my legs burning as we reach the top of the slope. Sweat beads on the back of my neck. “Maybe someone’s call finally got through?” But even as I say it, I don’t believe it.

Because the trees are only beginning to bud, when we reach the peak, I can see straight through to the Boulevard. We pick up our pace, weaving through the trees, my sleeves scraping against low branches. My footfalls jolt through my body as I struggle to keep pace with the boys. I am desperate for air, and I wonder if my story will be about the girl who was tricked by the woods and ran forever lost within its trees until the day she keeled over, but then the woods spit me out onto the cobblestones, and I have forgotten how to breathe entirely. My pulse hits a brick wall, and a chill scrapes down my back.

“Is that new?” Rhodes asks, as if he’s read my mind. He’s pointing to a statue standing in the middle of the Boulevard. One that wasn’t there yesterday.

Jem gives me a grave look. Instead of answering, he pivots and walks away toward the gate, his entire body tense.

I’m not sure how to speak, so I shake my head, because a new statue on the Boulevard can only mean one thing. Emotions burn behind my eyes and a sick feeling twists in my stomach. My gaze drops to the plaque on the statue base, virginia strauss etched into the brass.

Oma isn’t missing.

Oma is gone—dead—and so too is my hope of finding her and having her reel in this increasingly unruly magic. There is no fablemaker, and I have no idea how to become one.

All that’s left of her is this. A statue standing some eight feet tall, mostly round with rough vertical ridges running around it. I reach out, fingertips tracing the edge of the stone pedestal it stands on. One of the ridges is cut deeper, sharper than the rest, and it’s been carved to look like there’s some sort of liquid spilling out.

“It’s a walnut,” Rhodes says.

I’m about to agree with him, when—

“Frankie!”

I freeze. My every half-processed emotion for Oma shrivels up. Not at the sound of my name, but at the sound of her voice.

I turn toward the front gate.

She’s too far off to make out any specifics, but there’s no mistaking it. She’s standing outside the locked entry gates, hands gripping the iron bars as Jem approaches from the inside.

“Hey, Frankie,” she shouts again.

My mind is going a million miles a minute. My bones have turned to liquid. Because she is here.

She is here.

“Frankie! Tell this guy to let me in.”

My feet carry me dreamlike down the Boulevard. Toward her. One incoherent thought trips over the next until I’m standing right in front of her, only the pickets between us.

She smiles at me, dressed in pale blue, raw-hemmed jeans and a flowy white top. Her deep brown hair hangs in sea salt waves that cascade down her back, windblown like a goddamn Disney princess. Behind her, the parking lot sits empty.

Then her name trips over my lips. “Zara?”

 18 

She came into my life two years ago, like a locomotive hurtling downhill with its brake line cut.

The sun was shining, the breeze smelled of sweet Osmanthus, and Mother Nature had unleashed the pollen-pocalypse with fine, yellow powder that clogged the air and blanketed the bistro table in front of me. I sat outside the Brewtique, a little coffee shop on Sycamore Street across from the railroad tracks, waiting for my friends. It’s one of those places you don’t believe actually exists: covered in climbing roses, the inside all marble countertops and pale blue velvet chairs and the most photogenic cake collection you’ve ever laid eyes on. The sound of an approaching train rumbled through the air.

It’s funny—not funny haha, but funny weird—how life works like that. One moment you’re some lonely fifteen-year-old, minding your business, blowing heat off your overly sweet vanilla latte, and the next you’re looking back wondering how something so seemingly small managed to change the course of everything. I didn’t know what was coming. But then again, who ever does?

My friends, to no one’s surprise, were running late. Eleanor had apparently miscalculated how far her car could go on the low fuel warning. Again. At least I had brought a book with me—some movie star fake dating romance that had me in a choke hold—and I was just getting to the good part when—

“Is this seat taken?”

I looked up. A girl with tan skin and wavy, dark brown hair smiled brightly at me as she rocked back and forth over the curb; her lilac sundress fluttered in the breeze.

I shrugged. “Suit yourself,” I said, returning my attention to my novel, ignoring the way my heart skipped in my chest as she slid into the seat across from me.

She swept her hair back over her shoulder, then dragged the tip of her index finger across the tabletop with a look that was more amused than disgusted. “You know pollen is essentially plant sperm?”

“I’m sorry?” I looked up, involuntarily putting distance between the pollen and myself. “Plant what?”

“It’s true,” she said, a daring look in her eye. “You look familiar. Do you go to Ashford Grove?”

I shake my head. “Foster’s Academy.”

“Ooh, fancy,” she said, cradling her chin in her hand. “I’m Zara, by the way.”

“I’m—” I started, but then paused. Mom had always told me to be careful of new friends. Our connection to the park and the stories made us targets for insincerity. Mom should know. She married, and then divorced, because of it. Uncle Geoffrey, too. Though his split with Annabel Carlisle, the Sisyphus of State Politics, was certainly more peaceful because it was an election year. People always have an agenda. I forced a smile to my face and said, “I’m waiting on my friends.”

Zara’s eyebrows shot up. “Some friends they are,” she said.

My book slipped from my hands to the tabletop, the approaching train’s brakes screeched, slowing to a crawl as it trudged through town. “They’re not that bad,” I said, uncertain why I felt the need to defend my friends to this stranger.

“Well, while you’re waiting”—she leaned in, studying me closely—“I propose you make a new friend.” She threaded her fingers through her hair. “Who knows? Maybe she’ll be even more fun than the ones that make you wait for them.”

“I don’t even know you,” I said.

Her gaze pinned me down. “You could.”

“What makes you think I want to?” I asked, a shiver thrilling through me.

“Well,” she said, rotating her wrist and inspecting the veins branching up the underside of her arm, “because I am a delight.” She curled her hand into a fist; then her attention flicked up, eyes leveled on me. I don’t know what it was exactly. Maybe it was the way she looked at me as if I were the most interesting thing on the planet, or maybe it was the way she talked with her hands, as if her words were something to paint and hang in an art gallery. “I have this idea,” she said.

“Oh, do you now?”

“It really is a great idea,” she doubled down. “Possibly the best idea I’ve ever had.”

“Okay, but if all your other ideas were shit, being your best idea doesn’t really mean much, does it?”

She laughed. “That’s what I like about you,” she said, shooting me a playful look. “You sure know how to make a girl feel special.”

I rolled my eyes. “You’re not going to take no for an answer, are you?”

“I mean”—she inspected her nails briefly—“you haven’t even tried to say no, Frankie.”

I leaned back, breathing out a disbelieving sigh. “True,” I said, my voice nearly inaudible.

“Okay, so”—her palms landed on the table between us, gaze flicking to the side—“this idea…”

“What about it?”

“It kind of has an expiration date of, oh—” She tilted her head to the side, glancing at an invisible wristwatch, her pensive expression exaggerated. “Thirty? Seconds? Give or take.”

“Seconds?”

“Twenty-seven-ish now. Probably.”

I pull out my phone, hoping for an update from one of my friends. Like a text from Soph saying they were five minutes away or a voicemail from Leah that’s mostly background laughter but the words on our way cutting through.

But there’s nothing.

“Come on,” she said, pushing away from the table, standing. “Nineteen.”

“But my friends—”

She waved her hand dismissively. “They’re not here.”

“I can’t just… ditch them.”

She spun around and leaned over the back of the bistro chair, fingers thrumming on the black metal. “But what if it’s like… something worth ditching them for?” Her tongue thoughtfully tapped her upper lip. “Four. Three. Two—”

“Okay.” I wasn’t even sure where the word came from.

Zara grinned, her hand snatched mine, and she hauled me to my feet. A nervous laugh bubbled up my throat as we ran across the road, stopping on the other side, the train inching past with a ka-thunk ka-thunk ka-thunk only a few feet ahead of us. “You won’t regret this,” she said.

A moment later, we were lifted away, metal gripped under my palms, my heart racing faster than the train beneath me, speeding up as it pulled away from town, the ground scrolling away into a blur. Zara leaned back as far as her arms would stretch, wind lashing her hair against her face, rosy cheeks glowing as she laughed. Warmth spread throughout my chest. A feeling of weightlessness and recklessness and wildness I didn’t know I could ever possess billowed up inside me.

It wasn’t until we hopped off the train some thirty miles later that I realized something: Back at the café, she knew my name even though I hadn’t told her. I didn’t think too hard on what that might mean, because she was a spark and I was a thicket in a drought. But the problem with sparks is they quickly become forest fires, consuming everything in their path. It hadn’t even been an hour, but it was already too late for me. I was ablaze.

I haven’t seen her in eighteen months, not counting the instance at that party, because that was a disaster and I’d like to redact that from the historical record. It has felt like both a lifetime and a time blip. She looks different, hair longer, the circles under her eyes a bit darker, and yet she’s also exactly as I remember her.

“Shall I let her in?” Jem asks, eyeing Zara through the iron pickets. I can tell by the look on his face he’s thinking about the time I confessed, heartbroken and sleep-deprived, that I was starting to wonder if Zara had preferred the Whisperwood to me.

“I, uh—” I croak, my voice sticky in my throat. “Can you give us a second?” I ask, and Jem and Rhodes move away several steps to give us some semblance of privacy.

When I turn back to Zara, something inside my chest squeezes. I think, You’re here, after all this time. But it comes out as a question, completely changing the heart of the words: “You’re here? After all this time?”

She looks down at her white Converse, which are caked in dirt; her teeth press into her bottom lip. “I tried calling,” she says. When her eyes flick up to mine, they are wide and earnest. She leans her elbows on the gate’s horizontal rail and rests her forehead against one of the uprights.

“I know,” I say, knitting my arms together, trying to find my balance because Zara’s sudden arrival on the heels of Oma’s disappearance has thrown me off-kilter.

No. Not disappearance. Death. Oma is dead.

Or whatever happens to fablemakers when they’re memorialized.

“I wanted to make sure you were all right,” Zara says.

The word ricochets around inside me, hot and violent. My heart drums through my body as something I hadn’t allowed myself to feel before begins to simmer: anger. Because how could I possibly be all right? She abandoned me, cut me out of her life completely. And now, she’s back. Just back? “It’s been a year and a half, Zara,” I say. “You didn’t just leave me, you pushed me away.”

Her grip on the gate tightens. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated?” I echo, my anger rising to a boil. It’s such a strange feeling to have for her after all this time of heartache and longing and want.

“I will try and explain what I can, but—”

I nearly choke on a humorless laugh. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

“Look,” she says. Her eyes sharpen as she lowers her voice. “Something really weird is going on, Frankie. And I was hoping… I don’t know. I was already on my way here when I heard about Virginia and—”

The revelation grinds me to a halt. “How do you know about Oma?”

“Uh, y’all?” Rhodes cuts in. He points to the far end of the vacant parking lot where suddenly a scattering of lights erupts from the shadows. “We have company.”

“Well?” Jem asks.

“Well what?” I snap.

“Shall I open the gate?”

I take a step toward him, looking up into his eyes. “I—I don’t know.” God, there are so many things I don’t know.

“You might want to be quick about this,” Rhodes says through his teeth, bouncing anxiously off his heels.

Jem leans closer. “It is entirely your decision,” he says softly, only to me.

“Yes,” I say, the words squeezing past my heart, because I have wanted nothing but for Zara to return all this time. “Let her in.”

As Jem makes quick work of digging out his keys, Zara’s expression turns ponderous on him. “Say, have we met before?” she asks.

Jem glances at her briefly. “Not that I’m aware of.”

He didn’t show up until she had already fled the scene.

He swings open the gate just wide enough for Zara to slip under his arm, then slams it shut and relocks it as a tidal wave of news outlets and die-hard fans and paparazzi press against the entrance. We stumble back as microphones stretch through the wrought iron bars and cell phones lift above the crowd in a desperate attempt to catch a prized shot.

“Hey! Hey, over here!”

“Is it true?”

“What are the plans for the park?”

“Has Virginia Strauss really gone missing?”

“Does this mean Whisperwood will reopen?”

“Can you comment?”

We don’t comment. Instead, we retreat up the Boulevard toward the house. Me and Zara, Rhodes a few steps behind, and Jem trailing even farther behind. I feel like I’m floating as I trod over the cobblestones, like I’ve beer-bonged pure helium into my body.

“How did everyone get here?” Rhodes asks Zara. “Isn’t the road blocked?”

She spins and walks backward as she answers. “Yeah. Well, I can’t speak for them, but I drove my car.” I must have a look of We can leave? on my face because she quickly adds, “Don’t get excited. That roadblock Rhodes mentioned? Well, I wasn’t really paying attention and, long story short, rest in peace, Gertie. Anyway, after that I walked.”

Rhodes croaks, “Who’s Gertie?”

“Gertie’s her car,” I explain.

She spins back around, and after a few silent steps, I lean in close to Zara. “We need to talk,” I whisper.

“Yes,” she says gravely. “Yes, we do.”

I feel the intense heat of someone’s stare on the back of my neck. When I twist around, Jem’s dark eyes are barreling down on me. He does not look pleased.

“Okay,” Rhodes says, his face screwed up in thought. “But, how did you—how did everyone—know about Oma?”

“Took them long enough!” Bertram shouts from the front porch. He poses for the cameras and blows a kiss. “Ella’s post about Oma’s disappearance went live over an hour ago.”

The Ellalogue Blog

Sunday, March 30

The Plot Thickens

Before I even start, if you somehow managed to miss the news on what went down during the Flüsterwald Centennial Celebration last night, Vera Coleman did an excellent write-up about it HERE.

In brief: The party was cut short when Virginia Strauss, heiress to the Flüsterwald Estate, descended into a fit of hysteria, kicking everyone out early after an outburst from her grandson Bertram Strauss. Little did anyone know, however, that would be the last time anyone outside the Strauss inner circle saw her.

Yes, you read that right. Virginia Strauss is missing. As if the party wasn’t shocking enough already. It makes you wonder if Virginia knew something was coming and wanted to make a theatrical departure. Or, you know, maybe she needed a break from all the familial drama.

Virginia’s disappearance occurred sometime between 11:00 pm the night of the party, shortly after the celebration’s abrupt ending, and 11:00 am the following morning, when the Strauss family first identified her absence. Though evidence at the scene went unnoticed at first, the later discovery of a broken window and a scrap from Virginia’s party garment covered in blood suggests there may have been a struggle.

The disappearance of Virginia Strauss has left the fandom in shock and has everyone asking questions. Is this a tragic misunderstanding or something more sinister in nature? Was it a random act or is someone plotting against the larger Strauss family? Or is it something more nuclear in nature? Is there a kidnapper—or worse, a killer—among the family itself?

I can only hope Virginia is found soon, safe and sound.

I will be keeping a close eye as this story develops, so stay tuned.

Posted by Ella Walker-Strauss at 4:35 pm

Labels: breaking news, Whisperwood, Flüsterwald, WaPo please hire me

382 comments

 19 

Ella steps outside looking very pleased with herself.

“You did what ?” The words snap past my teeth.

Bertram’s head flicks back, a laugh bubbling out as his foot pops up for another pose for the cameras. “The girl loves chaos, Frankie. She’s my hero.”

“Your hero?” Rhodes mutters. “Since when?”

“Weren’t you listening? It’s been at least an hour.”

This is how Zara knew about Oma. How they all knew.

“Did you two even leave the house?” Rhodes asks, then coughs out a laugh. “Of course you didn’t. That is such side-character behavior.”

I turn back to Ella and ask her, “Why?” But her only response is a folding of her arms across her chest and a shrug.

I mean, I get it. Breaking this story could be her ticket to writing about things she’s actually interested in. Not to mention that this family is a complete shit show on the best of days, so throwing one more wrench into this already failing piece of machinery is really just the cherry on top of a trainwreck sundae.

“Okay, but how?” I ask. “There’s no service.”

“Dial-up,” she says. “When your mom mentioned landlines, it gave me an idea. Though it appears Oma has gotten rid of all the actual phones, I found one of those cord thingies in the back of a closet. Bare copper wins every time.”

“Your laptop has a dial-up port?” Rhodes asks, clearly horrified.

“Its bones might be old, but I’ve updated almost everything else about it.”

Rhodes lets out a breath, awestruck. “That’s genius,” he says. “Less genius is Oma still paying for a phone connection when she clearly has no phones in the house.”

“How our parents survived the dial-up era, I will never know,” Ella says. “Do you realize how long it took for a single page to load? I have never required so much patience in my life.”

“Does this mean the authorities are coming?” I ask.

Rhodes scrunches up his face. “I doubt it. Local authorities won’t have Ella’s blog on their radar the way the media does.”

Up on the porch, still in his own little world, Bertram gives the flashing cameras several more poses in rapid succession, all featuring his middle finger. Then suddenly he stops. “Wait a sec—” he says as reality snaps into focus. His jaw drops. “Zara? When did you get here?”

“Just now.” Zara gives him a watery smile.

“Well”—he tips his head toward the gate—“you might as well make yourself at home because no one’s going anywhere anytime soon.”

I lose Zara as everyone shuffles up the steps in a flurry of chatter. Inside, footfalls rattle through the house. “Preston!” Uncle Geoffrey screeches, hysterical. “She still hasn’t taken it down!”

“The fuck do you expect me to do, Geoffrey?”

“Miss Francesca.” Jem’s voice is low and so close my heartbeat falters. “Are you quite all right?”

When I turn to him, I have to tip my head back to see his face. He wears a volatile expression—jaw tense, brow set, eyes on fire—like he’s looking for someone to run themselves into his fist. Yet, there’s an undercurrent of sadness to it all.

“I’m fine, Jem,” I say, reaching out and brushing his arm. At my touch, his tension eases. “I just need to talk to her. That’s all.” I force a smile to my mouth.

He nods, then steps around me and into the house. Rhodes follows on Jem’s heels, immediately scolding him for wearing shoes in the house. “Do you know the amount of toxic materials you’re tracking inside with those?”

I stare down the Boulevard at the clamoring crowd pressed against the gates. My head is spinning, my heart twisted up like a wrung-out dishrag. I sniffle and wince back a heat brimming in my eyes, then step through the doorway.

Inside, the air feels like a lullaby, still and drowsy, lit by the evening light pouring through windows coated in dust and smudged from both time and an overwhelming lack of interest in cleaning. I have to hop around Rhodes as he blocks the doorway, fussing over his laces.

Zara and Bertram are laughing in the kitchen.

I kick off my shoes and head down the corridor, but I’m intercepted by my mom in less than a second. She has one hand on my arm—the other is at her side, trying to shake off tension. “Did you find anything?” she asks, her hair frazzled, her face painted with exhaustion.

My mouth forms a flat line and I shake my head.

Her hand slips from my arm, and she shrugs out of her navy-blue diamond-quilted jacket, tossing it over the back of one of the dining chairs off the hallway. “Me neither.” Then her whole body stiffens as she switches subjects. “Was that really Zara?” Her eyes flick over her shoulder, scowling. To put it civilly, my mom isn’t fond of Zara. Mom is the type of person who doubts everyone’s intentions; thinks they’re only around because of the Whisperwood. That’s what history has taught her. Her fondness—or lack thereof—slipped even further when Zara abandoned me and she had to deal with my subsequent year-and-a-half mental and emotional breakdown.

I sigh. “Yes.”

She waits for me to continue, and when I don’t, she flips her palms up and her eyes bulge. “That’s it? Just yes? Why is she here? How is she here?”

“She got here by car and foot. And…” I pause as something inside me twinges. I can’t quite pin down the nature of it. Giddiness? Grief ? Gas? You know, the holy trifecta of feelings starting with the letter G. “Do you know where she went?”

Her eyebrows shoot up with a sharp inhale, anger burning in her expression. Then, with great effort, she swallows back the retort burning in her mouth, replacing it with a heavy sigh. “I think she and Bertram went to the breakfast room, but, Frankie—” Her chin dips, eyes soft as she shakes her head; then she lifts her gaze to mine. “Just be careful.”

A laugh sticks in my throat. “I always am.”

My mom’s eyebrows somehow lift even higher, but she doesn’t counter me. Instead she turns and heads back into the reception, collapsing onto the sofa next to Uncle Preston. I take a step down the hallway, but then pause as my mom speaks to my uncle. “This is a disaster. Where could she possibly have gone?” she groans. “We need to find her, one way or another. So what’s the plan? Go back out?”

An emotional gyroscope spins inside my chest because there’s no point in going back out. No one will ever find her. The only thing is, I have no idea how to communicate this in a way that any logical person would believe. Not that my family is logical. But still.

“Well,” Uncle Preston growls, “to start with, Bertram and Ella never left the goddamn house, so technically speaking, they wouldn’t be going back out.”

“Are we really doing this, Preston?”

“Look, none of that matters, though,” he continues. “My joints are telling me the sky’s about to take a massive piss on us any second now, so everything’ll be put on hold, anyway.”

I sigh and silently thank Mother Nature for sparing us. Then I steel myself and head toward the breakfast room.

I’m still in the hallway when I hear Bertram shout, “No way!” and dissolve into a fit of laughter. But the energy in the room shifts, his laughter evaporating, the moment I step into the doorway.

Both Bertram and Zara pivot toward me, slow and silent, bathed in cool, gray daylight from the triple aspect windows. My eyes drop to my feet as I slump onto the doorframe. The dark green tiled floor has a shine to it, as I cleaned it just last week. When I look back up, my eyes meet Zara’s, and the tension in the room snowballs by the second.

Bertram sucks in his lips, then pops them out. “So,” he says, pushing up from his chair, hands drumming on his thighs. “I’ll give you two a second to—” He squeezes past me without finishing his sentence.

In his wake, a heavy silence washes through the space, putting every sound in sharp relief. Mom and Uncle Preston talking in the front room. Rhodes clattering through kitchen cupboards. The minute squeaking of Zara’s chair as she jitters her leg.

“Hey,” Zara says finally, her head falling to the side, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

It takes everything in me to bite back my emotions. I don’t even know what emotions they are exactly. Hurt, fury, confusion?

She sighs. “God, Frankie, can you sit down? The standing is making me nervous.”

I blink hard, maintaining my stance in defiance. The doorframe digs into my shoulder. A sour taste floods my mouth as a million things race through my mind.

She reaches forward, her fingers splaying across the tabletop. “Come on, Frankie. Something is going on and I need you to say something.”

And of course the thing I say is: “The hell is your deal, Zara?”

She winces. “Frankie, please—”

“Please what?” I push myself upright, cocooning into my arms. “You said you wanted to explain. So go ahead. Explain.”

She sags back into her chair, her chin dipping to her chest. “You need to know, I came back as soon as I could.”

“A year and a half was as soon as you could ?”

She groans. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I can’t remember a goddamn thing from that night between when we left the house and when I woke up the next morning and you were gone.”

“Wait a sec,” she says, waving stop-hands in front of her. “You can’t remember either?”

My heart sinks into my heels. An ache like breathlessness squeezes in my chest.

She doesn’t remember. All this time I had thought she’d have known something, could provide some explanation of what happened. That maybe it was something I couldn’t remember that made her run away.

“No,” I say, the word peeling out of me slowly. “I can’t remember, but still, you abandoned me without a word, without any explanation. I went to you seeking answers, but you left me in the dark. Every unanswered call, every plea for closure, every—”

She slams her hands down on the table, silencing me. “Don’t you think if I could have gone to you, I would have?”

My head tips back, an incredulous huff spilling out of my mouth.

“Your grandma told me to stay away from you,” she adds.

Shock is an ocean roiling between my ears. My gaze lands on her, gaping, as if she’s spoken in a foreign language I am incapable of translating. The room spins as I drift wordlessly to the chair across from her, feeling ephemeral and gauzy. Then a word slips from my mouth, all air and disbelief. “Wh-what?”

“Yeah,” she says, jutting her chin out. “That morning, while you were still asleep, I went downstairs to get something to eat and she was sitting there. It was almost like she was waiting for me. She told me to leave and stay away from you, and she promised that if I didn’t, she would make me stay away.”

“Why would she threaten you?” I ask, indignant. “Oma knew you were all I had.”

Zara’s face drops, and she falls quiet for a moment before speaking again. “I assumed it was because she didn’t like me. Remember when I climbed the Ferris wheel trying to recreate the scene from that one movie? Gah, can’t remember the name of it, but she was real mad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone’s face turn that red before—”

“Still, I can’t imagine why,” I cut in, fuming inside because all I can remember is the way she iced me out.

“Anyway”—Zara sighs—“I guess I let it go. It was easy for me not to think about what happened that night because there was nothing to remember. It’s not that I didn’t want to see you, it’s that every time I thought about it, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was so weird. And then this morning when I woke up, I thought: You know what? Screw Virginia. I’m going to see Frankie.”

“Just like that?”

She groans. “There’s nothing I can say other than I’m sorry and I’m here now and we really need to figure out what the hell is going on.”

My fingers grip the edge of the table. “What makes you think something is going on?”

She digs her knuckles into her breastbone. “I don’t know how to explain it exactly.”

My glare on her deepens. “Try.”

A flash of light whitewashes the entire room, thunder cracking so loud it rattles through my bones and makes my heart feel like it’s been force quit. Then a rushing white sound swells, and the sky opens up in a downpour, hammering on the roof.

She leans in further, and I mirror her. “It’s like a gut feeling,” she says, her voice barely audible over the storm.

I squint at her. “A gut feeling?” I echo, skepticism drenching my tone.

“Yeah,” she says. “I could feel it, like electricity under my skin, and I couldn’t ignore it. I had to see you, had to make sure you were okay. And then on the way I got a news alert about Virginia’s disappearance and I knew—” A cold feeling rushes through me as Oma’s words come like a tidal wave from Zara’s lips. “Something is coming. Something bad.”

Suddenly, I’m painfully aware that whatever I know about the magic is so much smaller than what it actually is.

 20 

It was a few months after Zara abandoned me that I found myself standing in my dining room, the entire contents of my backpack strewn across the table. Though I had yet to begin fablemaker lessons, I was already harboring some very confusing feelings for a very specific groundskeeper. Feelings that stood at odds with the heartache I still felt over Zara. I was shuffling through the mess, trying to find my chemistry study guide, when my mom came up next to me.

“What’s this?” she asked, picking up a small piece of bright green card stock. She read out loud, “Kristine Kim’s Holiday Extravaganza, complete with hot cocoa bar. A party?”

“Yeah. She has it every year,” I told her, shuffling through scrunchies and ChapSticks, pencils with worn-down erasers and granola bar wrappers.

“It’s tonight,” she said.

“I’m not going.” I was only half paying attention, distracted by my backpack, which really needed a good and thorough Marie Kondo-ing.

My mom folded her arms across her chest. “Why not?”

I found the study guide I was looking for and waved it in front of her. “I have a test on Monday.”

Her gaze dropped to the floor. “How long are you going to hole up in your room, forcing yourself to be miserable? You really should get out. See your friends.”

“Kristine’s not really my friend.”

“Well, she obviously thought you two were friendly enough to invite you to her party.”

“She invited everyone, Mom. She’s too nice not to invite someone.”

When my mom looked back up, her face made my heart twist. “Frankie.” Her voice was loaded with feeling. She was annoyed, but she was also something else. Something bigger, like sadness, but not quite.

I hated seeing her like that, hated knowing I was the reason she felt that way. Maybe this could fix it. Maybe I could convince Mom I was fine and not stuck in this lonely paralyzing rhythm that let time slip strangely by. A day. A week. A month. Then two, three, four. I couldn’t even remember what I had for lunch, but the ache of finding Zara’s bed empty in the cold morning light was stuck in my head on repeat.

A sigh poured out of me. “Fine.” I snatched the invite. “But if I fail—”

“You won’t fail.”

She squeezed my shoulder, and suddenly I wasn’t sure if we were talking about the test or making friends, but I was too afraid to ask.

Two hours later, I was standing outside Kristine Kim’s front door, my hands cold and stiff. I never did get around to replacing the mittens I left behind in Dirty Gertie, Zara’s maroon sedan that looked like it’d been through a meat grinder.

Kristine’s redbrick house looked like a Hallmark Christmas movie. Every edge strung up with twinkling white lights. Perfect wreaths with perfect bows adorned each perfect candlelit window. Thick green garlands dotted with red berries hung from the door trim and white picket fence. I took a steadying breath and pressed the doorbell.

Footsteps shuffled inside the house. My pulse hammered in my chest.

Come on, Frankie. Get it together.

Kristine was all smiles when she answered the door. A red ribbon headband held back her shiny black bob cut. “Frankie! I’m so glad you came,” she said, and I almost believed her.

Inside, the scent of cinnamon and apples, chocolate, and peppermint candy canes wafted over me. I slipped off my boots and followed Kristine, socked feet over plush runner rugs. A Christmas village sat atop the credenza pressed against the hallway wall. We passed under marshmallows floating overhead from invisible thread like giant snowflakes frozen in time, toward the sound of voices and laughter.

This was a bad idea.

The room was bedecked in paper cutout snowflakes, tiny Christmas trees, and blue and silver tinsel. At least twenty girls surrounded the long dining table, and probably twice as many blankets lay scattered around the giant open-plan space. I recognized one of the blankets as the map of the Whisperwood grounds, the one sold in the gift shop. There were two huge pots steaming on the stove. The Post-its on the hood said they were hot chocolate and hot apple cider (for the heathens). The table everyone had gathered around was covered in graham cracker crumbs, mini marshmallows, chocolate shavings, and cinnamon sugar. And in the middle there was—I kid you not—an honest to god chocolate fountain with fruit artfully positioned on the tray next to it.

“Frankie.” My name left someone’s mouth, and not in a friendly way.

Eleanor Quinn, Sophia Rodriguez, and Leah Jackson all sat at the dining table. My friends—ex-friends—who I’d left behind for Zara. The weight of their stares drove right through me. I beelined for the kitchen and the pagan cider.

How was I supposed to exist in a world where I was not just alone, but pushed away by everyone I had ever cared about? The warm mug stung between my palms as I walked past glaring eyes to the sliding glass doors and let myself out onto the deck. Winter’s chill made quick work of nipping through my layers. I sipped from my mug. It was warm and sweet, with a slight bite to it, and I drained the whole thing in three burning gulps.

I looked out into the shapeless dark of night, across the large backyard that ended at a very intentional line of evergreens. Bitter cold wrapped around me. Somehow, the sharp edge of winter felt comforting in a way.

Then something moved in my periphery.

Kristine was involved in more extracurricular activities than the limitations of time and space should allow, so I wasn’t surprised to find someone I didn’t recognize standing under the porch light: a blond girl with beach waves and porcelain skin, wearing a giant multicolored grandma sweater. But it’s who stood next to her that made gravity malfunction. My leaden heart rose, not in the way of flight, but in the way of floodwaters.

“Zara?” Her name felt foreign in my mouth after months of absence.

She stared at me, eyes wide. I couldn’t tell if she was shocked or furious or something else entirely. A foggy breath guttered out of me as I waited for her to say something. Anything. But all she did was glare at me, her face twisting into a grimace. I wilted under her spotlight. All the things on my mind shriveled up, and I had no idea how to verbalize any of them.

That’s when she turned away from me entirely.

Suddenly, it was like I was underwater. Ears plugged, breath thin, world heavy. I couldn’t breathe. Did she really have nothing to say to me? Was she really going to pretend I didn’t exist? I didn’t know how to be angry; all I knew was how to hurt. Nausea twisted in my belly, its bitterness inching up toward the back of my mouth. My mug hit the deck with a crack.

Someone said my name as I stumbled back inside.

“Sorry,” I said, clenching the front of my sweater.

Someone else pulled out a chair for me, but I didn’t stop.

“Sorry. I need—” But I didn’t know what I needed. I just knew I couldn’t stay a minute longer. I barreled down the hallway, back under the marshmallows.

Someone shouted after me one last time, but I couldn’t process. Couldn’t stop moving as I slipped back into my coat and furry boots.

I burst out the front door and into the snow. The cold clawed at me as I stumbled down the path to the gate, where I collapsed. I was going to be sick. My heart thumped in my throat. I was all heavy breaths in a snow-globe setting, blinking away tears, trying to Uno reverse the panic button she’d managed to push.

I got into my car and drove off. I didn’t think; I just ran straight to him, through a world covered in a saltwater haze.

We sat curled up on the sofa in the front room of Oma’s house, and I choked out what had happened. He leaned close, attentive, as I took him through the shock of seeing her, and the glare she gave me, and the way I ran away.

His tongue peeked out between his lips. “I’m so sorry, Miss Francesca.” He flipped his palms open in his lap, and my hand wanted nothing more than to land right there in his, but I didn’t dare move. He continued, “I’m sorry you were hurt to begin with. And I’m sorry you’re hurting again.”

“Why are you apologizing?” I asked, sniffling, wiping tears away on my shoulder. “None of this is your fault. You weren’t even there.”

He heaved a breath, eyes flickering with uncertainty as he reached out and traced the hem of my sleeve. A tremor ran through his fingers, betraying his nerves. Then suddenly his arms were around me, drawing me close to him. My heart went wild. The smell of lavender and mint leaves poured over me. I melted into him as he whispered into my hair, “That’s what I regret.”

 21 

Night has fallen, but the rain still relentlessly pelts down outside. Ella is doing her nightly routine in the bathroom when I find myself alone in my bedroom. The room across the hallway is quiet. Rhodes, Bertram, and Zara are already asleep. I’m peeling off my layers, when something clatters to the floor and disappears under my bed.

Half-dressed, on my hands and knees, I reach under the bed. I’m not sure how I forgot about Uncle Geoffrey’s recording device that I took earlier from the library. Actually, my world kind of imploded, so forgetting about it makes a lot of sense. I rewind it to the beginning, and press play as I quickly put on pajamas.

This is Geoffrey Strauss. It is—uh—10:45 pm on March twenty-ninth, and I am making this recording between me and Virginia Strauss to present as evidence of deteriorating mental awareness to the courts to gain power of attorney for the benefit of her well-being and the well-being of her property.

Oh my god. Was he trying to force Oma out?

The recording deteriorates into pocket rustles and indistinct mumbles for a long while, so I fast forward until it sounds like chipmunk voices.

Uncle Geoffrey: Person. Man. Woman. Camera. TV.

Oma: Come off it, Geoffrey.

Uncle Geoffrey: I’m serious. I’m worried about you, Mom.

Oma: You are wasting your time.

Their conversation continues, but it’s drowned out by the screaming in my brain. Uncle Geoffrey was trying to seize control of the estate by testing Oma for Alzheimer’s, never mind that that is not how you do it.

By the time I hear Ella’s footsteps in the hallway, the recorder in my hand has gone quiet with empty noise. I turn toward the wall and pretend to be asleep until Ella’s tucked in and her breaths even out in slumber.

I watch the tape hubs, mesmerized, as they turn in the machine, like stuck tires spinning in the mud, convinced I won’t be able to fall asleep, until I’m awoken by the sound of my mom shouting at my ear, “You’re being unreasonable. This has gone on long enough.”

“Shit,” I hiss, worried the recorder is going to wake Ella in the other bed. I feel around in the dark, my palms gliding over the sheets, as Oma’s voice seethes, “You wouldn’t know reason if it bit off your nose and spat it back in your face.”

Then my fingers knock into plastic. I fumble with the tape recorder in my hands, my sleepy fingers clicking the pause button, except it’s not the pause button and it’s not in my hands. Loud, indiscernible chipmunk noises spew from the speaker as the recorder shoots out of my grip and hits the ground with a clatter. I lean over, reaching, stretching, hanging half out of the bed as I snatch up the device and locate the correct button.

Quiet thrums through the room. I push myself back under the covers and nearly leap right out of my skin because Ella is sitting up in her bed, staring right at me. “Frankie?” she says, her voice groggy.

I squint at her through the dark. There’s a glazed look in her eyes; she’s not anywhere near awake. “Go back to sleep, Ella,” I whisper, hand still fisted around the recorder.

She nods slowly before curling back into her bed, pulling the quilt up to her chin.

I wait until her breaths level off again, then slide out of bed and tiptoe down the hall and into the old playroom, where I close myself inside. The storm has passed and pale moonlight illuminates the space. The night lies still as a gasp but for the gentle patter of raindrops falling from the trees and the far-off sound of something I can only describe as a baby crying. Probably a coyote; I hope. The glowing red-numbered clock sitting on top of the bookshelf claims the time is just past two in the morning.

I flip the recorder over in my hands and find the volume knob, turning it down, and I press play.

It’s Oma’s voice. She’s mumbling; there’s no real words to parse out. I imagine she must be alone, sometime after Jem left for the night. Then there’s a tinkling like a music box. The notes pluck through the speaker, and a familiarity that I can’t pin down turns my stomach into knots, tighter and tighter—until it’s swallowed by the brittle sound of shattering glass and a stifled scream. It only lasts a moment, before the recorder falls quiet again. I swallow back bile rising up my throat, and my pulse throbs a panicked rhythm in my chest. Just as I’m digesting the quiet, the trill of whisperlings folds over the static of vacant sound.

I switch off the recorder and push it onto the floor, not wanting anything to do with it. A shiver arrests my entire body, but it’s not from the cold. Still, I grab a blanket draped over the back of the sofa and wrap it around myself. As I lie down, my eyes grow heavy staring blankly at the moon outside.

A moment later, I startle awake, pushing up my aching body from its accidental slumber on the couch. In the hall a door creaks, and I hear the unmistakable sound of someone shuffling down the old staircase.

I throw off the blanket and tiptoe into the hall. The door to my cousins’ room lies open. I peek inside. Blinking back the shadows, the forms of my cousins appear. Bertram is curled up like a fetus. Rhodes looks like he’s hog-wrestled the duvet. The third bed, however, the one where Zara should be, is empty. The quilt’s been pulled back, exposing the white sheets beneath.

Downstairs, the front door groans open, then clicks shut.

“Zara?” I whisper. “What are you doing?”

I scamper down the stairs, through the corridor, and out the door. It smells like rain. The stony Boulevard shimmers in puddles that mirror the open night sky. At the end, the parking lot stands quiet and vacant, the crowd already gone. I guess it wasn’t worth it to stick it out through the weather. Guess they moved on to the next thing in the news cycle.

Maybe that means in the morning we can all go home.

On the opposite side of the courtyard, Zara’s silhouette disappears into the trees.

I move, barefoot and pajamaed, down the porch steps and across the courtyard. Slimy worms squish underfoot. Rainwater creeps up the cuffs of my pajama bottoms. I pause at the tree line and hiss into the darkness, “Zara.”

I’m met with silence. And more silence.

And then: a scream.

I bolt through the trees, swatting back branches that feel sharper than any plant has a right to be, like glass shards lancing my skin. Cold, fat raindrops drip down from the tree canopy. There’s an ache deep within my belly and a phantom taste of vomit in my mouth.

I stumble over tree roots and fallen twigs; night creatures skitter through the undergrowth away from my stampede. I feel dizzy, lightheaded, like I’m not entirely awake, like time is collapsing in on itself.

Then my toe catches and I’m pitching fast toward the ground, landing hard on the forest floor with a thud that punches through my entire body, echoing in my teeth. All the breath whooshes out of me in a single, explosive rush. I’m left gasping for air. Air that is sweetness and soil all at once.

I push myself to my feet, only it’s like something’s got me tethered to the earth, pinning me down like gravity tenfold. It winds around my neck like a noose. I can’t see it—the darkness is too thick, robbing my vision—but I can feel it. Smooth, cold tendrils wind around me. Tightening. Curling. Squeezing the last beads of life out.

I think: This must be a nightmare.

I wonder: If so, when am I going to wake up?

My gaze drifts helplessly through the trees. I can barely make out the shapes of the forest as my vision narrows, and I hope desperately that Zara is okay, wherever she is.

Then I hear my name.

“Zara?” I call back, my voice threadbare. But then it’s not Zara’s face I see in front of me, haloed in moonlight a moment later. I see, just before I’m swallowed whole by the darkness…

It’s Jem.

 22 

Moment is the only measurement of time I have within my reach. I am here for a moment, as Jem’s panicked face leans over me, his hands warm on my cheek. Then for a moment I am adrift. Then the world flashes back into view as he curls me tight into his chest, but only for a moment before the darkness buries me again.

Moments and moments and moments.

I’m in his arms plowing through the trees toward the yellow lantern light of the Boulevard. I want to scream for him to stop. To turn around. Zara is still out there. What if she needs help? What if she needs me? I try to push sound past the fear crushing my throat, but then my moment is up and the world sputters away once more.

I float in darkness, carried on a current of nothingness.

When I finally bat away the shadows, I’m lying on the settee in the library and Jem is peeking into a teapot that has steam rising out of it.

I shiver.

“Zara,” I groan as I roll over and try to get up.

He catches me before I fall and pulls me close, holding me as I sink into him, and we drop back to the settee. Panic wrings out my heart until it burns. His fingers bury into my twig-tangled hair as I tuck my face in the hollow of his neck. The familiar scent of lavender and mint envelops me, grounding me. “Where’s Zara?” I mumble into the collar of his shirt.

He peels me off, gripping my arms as he looks into my eyes.

Panic has me in a choke hold. “Jem. She’s still out there in the woods. I heard her.”

“Miss Francesca—”

I’m edging into hysteria. “She wasn’t in her bed. I saw her leave out the front door.”

“Miss Francesca—”

“I saw her. She went out the front door and into the woods and—”

“Frankie, listen to me.” His use of my name stops me on the spot. Jem’s hands tighten on my shoulders. “You are the only one who has come downstairs tonight, much less left the house.”

“What?”

“Once the rain let up, I considered going home, but the hour was late and I was fairly certain I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Moreover, I would just be back here first thing in the morning. So instead, I sat down in the living room. The front door has been in my sight all night.”

“That’s not possible,” I say, words thin.

“Then you left and, well, I didn’t really like the idea of you out there by yourself, especially considering”—his voice drops—“the magic. So I followed you. And it seems I was right to do so.”

“But Zara—?”

“Are you quite certain she’s not in her bed? Maybe you yourself were still a bit asleep when you checked in on her.”

“I’m sure,” I huff, annoyed. “Come. I’ll show you.”

I’m on my feet, wobbling for a moment before I find my balance, then I drag him out of the library and up the stairs, the steps creaking under our tipping toes. We peek into the gray room on the top floor and my brain malfunctions.

There, on the third bed, Zara is wrapped up in the charcoal quilt, dark brown hair slipping over the edge of the bed. I march past Jem in the hallway and stumble into the playroom. “It was empty,” I say, slumping onto the sofa. I can feel my grip on my composure fraying. My voice breaks. “I swear to god.”

Jem sits down next to me as I bury my face in my palms, and I start to shiver. “What is wrong with me?”

His fingertips land gently on my wrist. “Not you.”

I turn to him, the look in his dark eyes stirring up an agony inside me, but it’s an agony I don’t want to go away. “The magic?” I ask.

He purses his lips, his level gaze bearing the answer.

Even though I can feel exhaustion gnawing away at the edges of my attention, a breath staggers over my nerves as my mind goes into panic mode. “What are we going to do?” I ask. Guilt and sadness and confusion and something else I don’t really care to name construct a Jenga tower inside me. If I make a move, everything around me will collapse. I say, “We need to do something.”

My every thought disintegrates as his thumb brushes over my cheek, sending a flare of heat out from the hollow of my throat. “Everyone’s safe inside for now,” he says. I try and fail to stifle a yawn that comes out of me. He smiles. “You need rest. We’ll figure something out in the morning. It’ll be all right.”

“How do you know?” My voice is a whisper. I think of all the things that are wrong. Oma and the magic and how I don’t know how to fix any of it. “How do you know it’ll be all right?”

He adjusts his hand, and my head tips back. I meet his eyes. “Because the story’s not over, and we have each other now to help us tell it.” My chest is a torrent of beating wings. A reply sits in my mouth, but it sticks to my tongue, so instead of speaking like a properly functioning human being, I release a strange laugh that stumbles up my throat. He lifts an eyebrow, his dark hair falling across his face as a smirk tugs at his lips. “Now rest,” he says, and when he pulls away, I find myself wishing he’d lingered a bit longer. The place where his palm once was is now shocked with the chill of his absence.

I must be tired because the number of feelings currently bouncing around inside my body is more than one human should legally bear at any one time. See, exhaustion can do that to you: make you stupid.

I nod, but instead of heading back into my bed, I wrap myself in the blanket I used earlier tonight and grab a throw pillow off the floor, wedging it into the armrest, then curl up on the sofa to sleep. I am so, so tired. It doesn’t take long to tip into slumber, and when I do, I see his face.

“I have to tell you something,” I say, because dream-me is fucking bold.

Dream-Jem glances over at me, placing his hand on my calf, only the thin weave of the blanket between us. “And what might that be, Miss Francesca?”

“I think,” I start, but my voice shrivels up on my nerves. Maybe dream-me isn’t as bold as I thought. But then the words fall out. “I like you. A lot.”

A smile tugs at his lips.

“But I can’t,” I clarify, sighing.

“You can’t?” he echoes. “Is this because of what happened with Zara?”

I ignore his question. “It’s just a bad idea, Jem. You give your heart, whole and beating, to someone, only to receive something incomplete in return. It’s an imbalance that inevitably leads to fragments and cardiac arrest.” God, dream-me is so poetic. I sigh or yawn or something, then say, “Love really is the most beguiling form of self-destruction.”

He slings his arm over the back of the sofa, leaning toward me, his gaze on me like a beacon. “Why do you break your own heart before it even has a chance to beat?” His voice dips and he says something further, but my dream has already evanesced.

Copyright 1925

WILHELM STRAUSS

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without permission of the Schmerz Publishing Group.

Glas mit Herzen

( Jars of Hearts)

Die Märchen der Flüsterwald

igh on a rock, above the pebbled river shore of the Wütender Fluss, there lived a nymph named Lorena. She was the most beautiful creature in all the Whisperwood, with long golden hair and eyes as blue as the water rushing below. Her heart loved many things—the thick fragrance of mountaintop wildflowers, the warm glow of sunshine on her skin, the way moonlight danced on the river—but her heart ultimately belonged to a young river captain named Heinrich.

When it was time for Heinrich to set sail, he’d place a kiss on the soft skin of her wrist. “Soon shall I return to you, my love,” he would say.

Though she never knew how long he’d be gone, every evening she would sing her beacon song, which could be heard from afar, to guide him home. And he always came.

Until one time, the days stretched into weeks, then months, and still he did not return. The echoes of her music began to feel like a cruel joke. Still, she continued her nightly song, but her melody evolved as her patience withered to worry, her worry to hurt, her hurt to anger.

Heinrich had betrayed her, abandoned her. Broken her heart. If he ever dared to cross her stretch of the river again, she vowed to cut out his heart while it was still beating, so that it might make hers whole again.

Her song became so powerful and enchanting that there wasn’t a soul who could resist it. Every night, she would sing, and passing sailors would leap from their ships, drawn to her like moths to a flame. They battled the treacherous currents of the Wütender Fluss until their broken bodies would wash up onto the rocky shore.

Each time, Lorena was waiting. And each time she saw that it wasn’t Heinrich, she was filled with more and more rage. She took out her anger on the sailors. Every last one of them stood wide-eyed in fear as she used the seashells from her shoreline to carve out their hearts. Once the hearts were removed, she placed them in stoneware jugs and stored them on the very shore on which they’d perished.

Until one day, a familiar ship drew near on the Wütender Fluss. How dare the man who broke her heart sail down her stretch of river. She sang her song, but Heinrich knew these waters and he knew her. He reached the shore, then scaled to her rock. He called her name, but as soon as he reached the top, she—consumed by rage and heartbreak—pushed him off, hurtling him to his death on the rocky river shore below.

As she watched his life leave his body, she realized something about his appearance. His sun-worn skin, his unkempt hair, his filthy, ragged clothes. And all of a sudden she knew.

He hadn’t left her. He’d been lost at sea and had only now found his way back to her.

When Lorena realized what she had done, guilt consumed her. She had taken the life of the one she loved most dearly.

As Lorena mourned her loss, she looked around her at the stoneware jugs filled with the hearts of the sailors she had claimed. For the first time, she truly saw the horror of what she had done. In that moment, Lorena realized that her revenge had only brought her more pain. She sat on her rock, mourning the loss of her love and the lives she had taken.

She was truly sorry.

Though regret can’t undo what has already been done, out of the depths of grief, the most powerful magic can occur.

That’s when the hearts in the jars began to beat again.

Slowly at first, but then with increasing strength and vigor. Lorena watched in disbelief as the hearts started to crack the stoneware jars open.

One by one, the sailors whose hearts she had taken emerged from the broken jugs, but they were not the same as they had been before. They were twisted and corrupted, filled with a darkness that had consumed Lorena and brought about their demise.

They looked at Lorena with hatred, knowing it was she who was responsible for their deaths and the suffering they had endured. They began to climb up the rock toward her, intent on claiming her life.

Lorena tried to defend herself, but she was no match for them. They easily overpowered her and dragged her down into the river below.

The sailors whose hearts she had taken became spirits of the river, guiding sailors on their journeys. And as for Lorena, she is now forever lost to the dark depths of the raging waters, her song swallowed by its current. Her resting place became the most silent stretch of the river, a quiet warning to all who might choose to seek revenge.

 23 

I wake up alone on the playroom sofa to a stiff neck and a strange drumming noise humming through the air. My head is splitting. Squeezing my eyes shut, I run through what happened last night. Going out into the park. Then something strange happening with the magic in the woods. Then Jem finding me, saving me, bringing me home. Then—

I’m gonna be sick.

I can hope all I want that what happened was a dream, but hope is not a time machine.

I bury myself under the blanket, wishing the sofa cushions would swallow me whole so I can live in the land of dust bunnies and lost pocket change. But the sofa doesn’t seem hungry at the moment, and that chuffing sound is getting louder and louder by the second, until I can feel it. The windows begin to rattle.

From downstairs, Uncle Preston shouts, “The fuck is that?”

In a heartbeat, I’m on my feet, throwing on clothes and stumbling into the hallway, then down the stairs.

On the landing between the second and third floors I collide with Bertram as he exits the bathroom in a cloud of steam and cologne. He finishes tying the belt of his silky floor-length dressing gown, which is covered in what I believe is golden strips of bacon. I continue down, Bertram now on my heels. In the corridor, I find my entire family pressed against the front windows, stealing looks outside, then glancing back into the house. I don’t need anyone to tell me they’re worried; their faces do that well enough without words.

I plow down the hallway and slip on my shoes. Someone gasps when I swing open the front door and step onto the porch. In front of me, halfway to the entry gate, a helicopter deftly lands on the Boulevard between two of the statues. The surrounding trees shiver at the fabricated wind.

I gape as the helicopter blades slow and an older white dude with a graying beard hops out. He’s wearing a sharp tan suit, and if he were holding a striped bucket, he’d be indistinguishable from Colonel Sanders. But instead of fried chicken, he holds several large black folders close to his chest. After him comes a tall South Asian woman, who looks distinctly out of place among the neglected surroundings with her long, thick black hair, stylish heels, and tailored pencil skirt.

My family trickles out of the house behind me as the heli-people approach. I am speechless. There’s a helicopter on the Boulevard. A freaking helicopter!

Ella stops next to me, letting out a sound that is almost a laugh. “This is gonna be good.”

“Obviously.” Bertram huffs, sinking his hands deep into the pockets of his bacon robe. “But any guess what brand of good we’re dealing with? Like, does anyone know what the hell is going on?”

“Don’t you fucking dare, Kat,” Uncle Preston growls as my mom reaches for a broom propped against the outside of the house.

She freezes and changes course to sit down on the porch swing instead. “So just how much trouble do you think we’re in?” she asks, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

As if in answer, Uncle Geoffrey gasps—“Oh dear”—and disappears back inside.

Stone-faced, scowling dead ahead, Uncle Preston says, “Just brace yourself for the shitstorm.”

Rhodes holds his fist up to his mouth and makes a throaty static sound as he leans toward his brother. “That’s a negative, Lady Mallowan. Uh, nobody knows what the heck is going on.”

We clam up as the two newcomers reach the porch steps and look up at us expectantly.

“We hear Ms. Strauss has gone missing,” the man says.

Uncle Preston shifts stiffly from foot to foot, knotting his arms across his chest. “Who the fuck are you?”

“We,” the woman replies, thumb sweeping from her to Colonel Sanders, “are Shah and Porter of Porter, Shah & Associates.”

They are met with blank stares.

“We are the attorneys who manage all of Ms. Strauss’s legal matters.”

“All right,” my mom says, confusion compounding with every creaky rock of the swing beneath her.

The man, Porter, lifts the black folders in his hand. “We are here to carry out Ms. Strauss’s instructions.”

“The will?” Uncle Geoffrey asks, reemerging breathless onto the porch.

“Pretty sure it’s not the will,” Ella says, slumping against one of the porch pillars. Uncle Geoffrey gives Ella a sharp look that doesn’t faze her in the slightest, and she says, “A will requires someone to have died.”

“Death,” Shah interjects, “was not the triggering event for the execution of Ms. Strauss’s instructions.”

From the swing, my mom leans forward, elbows on her knees. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, it’s not technically a will.” Porter clears his throat and motions toward the open front door. “Perhaps it would be best if we went over the paperwork inside?”

Uncle Geoffrey clears his throat. “Right this way.” He motions to the door. “Can I get you two anything? A glass of water or tea?”

“Is that coffee I smell?” Porter asks, sniffing the air.

Next to me Ella murmurs under her breath, “By now, it’s probably a health hazard.”

Uncle Geoffrey pales. “Rhodes?” he calls.

“I’m on it,” Rhodes says. The suits follow him into the kitchen, and Bertram and Ella follow close behind. I, however, hesitate in the doorway.

“Geoffrey,” my mom says, pushing off the swing to meet my uncles, creating a tight circle between the three of them. “Why do you look like you’re ninety miles from home and just remembered you left the stovetop on?”

He shakes his head. “Nothing is adding up.”

“Right, but if we can get control of Whisperwood without having to find Mom, that’s good news, isn’t it?”

“But where is she?” Uncle Geoffrey asks.

Uncle Preston tips his head back and throws his hands in the air. “Can’t you just take the fucking win and move on?”

“She was here just last night,” Uncle Geoffrey says, blinking hard. “Where did she go? It’s like she just disappeared.”

Uncle Preston shrugs. “Who cares? It’s not like it fucking matters.”

Uncle Geoffrey rakes back his hair. “I’m not exactly thrilled about this either—”

“Like hell you aren’t,” Uncle Preston scoffs. “We all know what you were doing with that Jurassic-age recorder.”

“Which has gone missing, by the way,” Uncle Geoffrey says. “Have either of you seen it?”

My mom reaches out and nudges his arm. “Who cares? We don’t have to convince anyone she’s lost the plot anymore.”

“So that’s it?” Uncle Geoffrey says. “We’re just done looking for her now?”

“Are you seriously doing this,” my mom hisses. “After all she did to us?”

Uncle Geoffrey’s mouth drops open. “I wasn’t—”

“But,” Uncle Preston cuts in. “She brushed off our every fucking accomplishment and criticized every-fucking-thing we did that was less than perfection. She was out so late, we had to ask the staff to make us our goddamn dinners, and then we put ourselves to bed. And when she did manage to haul her ass back to the house, she drank herself shit-faced into the night. She all but flat out told us that the park was more fucking important than us.” His breath heaves, as if he’s just run a mile.

My mom’s eyebrow quirks. “That therapy’s really paying dividends.”

“Okay, so it wasn’t the best,” Uncle Geoffrey offers. “But you have to admit, Virginia got so much worse after Henry died.”

Uncle Preston rolls his eyes so hard you can hear it. “Fucking call them Mom and Dad, you weirdo.”

“Not the best?” My mom’s gaze pivots to Uncle Geoffrey. “That’s all?”

“Kat,” Uncle Preston says, holding his hand up. “He’s got fucking first-child syndrome, so not the best is about as scathing a remark as he’s contractually allowed to concede.” His tone turns mocking. “Henry Spruill and Virginia Strauss.”

“Grow up, Preston,” Uncle Geoffrey groans, but then they all start laughing softly.

I pivot into the house, hovering by the door’s sidelight, breath heavy and strained. In the dining room, Ella is engrossed with something on her computer at the table. She looks up at me and smiles. How has no one confiscated that thing? I can’t help but wonder what she’s up to now.

“You look awful, Frankie.” Zara is wearing one of my mom’s vintage Whisperwood graphic tees, a pair of leggings, and some fur-lined slippers. Lingering panic from last night makes me want to grab her. Hug her. Shake her until her eyeballs rattle about inside her head like a maraca.

But instead I say, “Thanks. I feel awful.” When I look up at her, I see she looks pretty awful, too: the dark smudges under her eyes, the paleness to her complexion, the glassiness in her gaze that makes her seem lost.

She gives me a pitying look that’s torn away when Bertram calls her name from the reception. She spent the whole of that one summer at the park with us, melting right into the family as our ice creams melted over our knuckles. So I guess I shouldn’t be all that shocked when Bertram pats the sofa next to him and says, “Front row seat, right here.”

Her eyes say sorry, but still she crosses the room and sits with my cousin as my mom and Uncle Preston step inside and join them in the reception.

I can feel the weight of Jem’s gaze on me as he sits on the love seat. He motions for me to take the spot next to him, horror crashing into me head-on. I really do not want to, not after my sleep-sick confession last night. It takes everything in me not to run up the stairs and lock myself in a closet, but it would be weirder not to sit with him now that he’s invited me over.

I’ve forgotten how un-squishy this seat is, so when I collapse onto it, the motion rebounds back up my body. I try to act normal, but out of the corner of my eye I can see that Jem is still watching me as I drag my clammy hands over the thighs of my pants.

“Miss Francesca?” he says, his tone heavy. He’s got a whole lot more to say than just my name. “About last night—”

“Please don’t,” I say, because I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear his pity or have him ask if I’m okay or hear him say that we can pretend I never said anything. My focus is zeroed in on the floor, my legs restlessly jittering in a way that shakes the whole seat. “Just—”

He stacks his hand over mine on my knee, and a giddy thrill rockets through my veins. “It’ll be all right,” he says, and my heart goes thump-thump-thump heavily against my sternum. I feel the heat of Zara’s gaze before I see it, but it’s more injured than irate. I don’t have time to dwell on it because Shah steps into the large cased opening between the hallway and the reception, collecting everyone’s attention like scatter jacks.

“All right,” she says, Porter at her side. I shrink away from Jem as Shah tentatively sips her coffee. Her face screws up, but she’s quick to correct it. “If everyone could find a seat, we will begin.”

The last time I saw anyone sit down this fast was during musical chairs at my eighth birthday party where, in the final round, Chelsea Dotson leapt right over the back of the seat, Pelé-punting Gordon Abbot in the face so hard his nose bled all over the rugs. I would have felt bad, but Gordon made a habit of testing the limits of just how annoying one singular human being could be.

“Let’s get to it, then.” Porter opens a sealed manilla envelope and withdraws a single sheet of paper. He peeks back inside the envelope and pulls out a smaller white envelope and shrugs. Shah’s eyebrows shoot up as they exchange a quick look. “Maybe we’ll make that four o’clock appointment after all,” he says jovially.

“What’s it say?” Uncle Geoffrey asks, unable to keep the fervor out of his voice.

“Right. Yes.” Porter adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. “I, Virginia Strauss, hereby execute this document, cognizant of the impending circumstances. Imminently, my presence shall cease to be, a state which should not be misconstrued as demise—”

My mom trades a pointed look with my uncles. Oma knew she would go missing.

“—I hereby request the transfer of the following assets. I, as the sole proprietor and executor of the Whisperwood Estate, hereby affirm my mental capacity… yes, yes, and all that good legal stuff here…” Porter trails off as he scans down the page, muttering to himself, then starts up again. “The accounts held at Clovis Holdings Incorporated, in accordance with the provisions herein, without reservation or limitation, and all funds presently contained therein, I hereby transfer in full entirety to Jeremiah Durchdenwald.”

My stomach bottoms out. I had expected to hear my name, or if not my name, you know, someone’s name that I have heard before in my life, but—

“Durchdenwald?” Uncle Preston barks, voicing the question we’re all thinking. “Who the fuck is that?”

Next to me, Jem goes rigid. “That’s—” he starts, then seems to stumble over several thoughts before he finishes. “That’s me.”

I can feel the heat from Rhodes’s eyes as he cuts a stare in my direction, wordlessly screaming my name, but I can’t tear my gaze off Jem. His wide eyes on his fear-strung face. I want to say something to him, but confusion has body-checked every thought right out of my head, a tilting sense of betrayal knocking me off my axis. Why him? Across the room, Zara’s eyes go wide in amusement as Bertram slouches back on the sofa next to her, waving his hand and muttering, “Not like there’s much in there anyway.”

“Ah! Very good,” Porter says, ignoring Bertram’s comment, then continues. “In accordance with this instrument, the ownership of the Whisperwood Historical Artifacts, encompassing the Gallery, the Collections, and the Archives, all of which are securely stored within the Vault, I hereby transfer in full entirety to Jeremiah Durchdenwald.”

Jem’s breath has gone shallow. My heartbeat throbs in my ears, everything drowned out by the red-hot rushing sound of what the hell surging through my head.

Shah glances over to Jem. “I guess today’s your lucky day, kid.”

“Who cares about that stuff,” Uncle Geoffrey groans. “Of course she’d leave that stuff to her groundskeeper. What about the actual park?”

Porter turns back to the paper and hmmms. “Ah, yes! Whisperwood Park—”

My family holds their collective breath, because this—this—is what really matters.

“In consideration of the foregoing, I hereby transfer the park, inclusive of the grounds and all associated assets, inclusive but not limited to: the real property, the residential structure, the inventory of the house and library, the amusement attractions and rides, the aviary livestock, and the botanical collection, in their entirety… to Jeremiah Durchdenwald.”

My stomach plunges through the floor, and my thoughts dissolve like a sugar cube in the sea. All the air has been sucked out of the room. It’s a stillness only the dead could compete with. Looks ranging from shock to fear to complete and utter fury overtake each and every one of my relatives’ faces. Then the stillness cracks.

“What?” Uncle Geoffrey slips Jem a lethal glare.

“No,” my mom says, rising from her chair.

Bertram stares straight ahead, all color drained from his face. He looks like he’s about to pass out.

Uncle Preston huffs. “What in the ever-loving fuck—”

“No. That can’t be right.” My mom approaches Porter and reads over his shoulder. Her hand goes to her mouth. “My god—”

“Oh, wait. Here,” Porter says, and everyone freezes. He crosses the room and hands Jem a sealed envelope. “It says, This will help you find your way.”

“And what about the rest of us?” Uncle Geoffrey spits out. It’s a subtle movement, born out of insecurity and habit, his fingers reaching for his concealed firearm.

Porter looks again in the folder. “That’s all I have.”

“And you?” my mom asks.

Shah shakes her head. All eyes turn and land on Jem, who is staring at the unopened envelope in his hands.

“What did you do?” Uncle Geoffrey accuses.

Jem’s head snaps up. “Do?”

Rhodes suddenly leaps to his feet and points at Jem. “Did you know about this?” he asks, his expression like a safe-breaker finally hearing the telltale dial-click of a cracked vault.

“Know?” Uncle Geoffrey says, then rounds on the lawyers. “Of course. He must have known.”

And then there’s me, over here suffocating on questions. What was the point of the last eighteen months? Why give me all those lessons and teach me to become fablemaker if she was just going to leave the place to someone else? Next to me, Jem’s head drops, his knees buckling out and brushing against mine, creating a surge of electricity that echoes under my skin. Sweat prickles along the back of my neck. As much as I’d love to have a good meltdown over yet another betrayal, even with the lawyers present, this is going to get ugly. I need to focus on the more pressing matter of getting Jem out of here.

“How did this happen?” I spit out. “The change in the will?”

“Not a will,” Porter corrects with a gentle smile.

“Well,” Shah cuts in, voice low and conspiratorial, as every single one of my family members crowds around her and she explains. “Two weeks ago we received a phone call—”

Jem’s about to join them when I snatch his elbow. “You need to get out of here,” I whisper in his ear. He narrows his eyes, lost in thought and calculation, but he doesn’t move. My fingers track down his forearm to his hand, and I squeeze it hard enough to knock him out of his stupor.

“Come on.” My voice is all breath, crawling unnoticed beneath Shah’s; her commanding tone holds tight the attention of the dense gathering around her.

I glance back at Zara. I don’t even think about it. It’s a habit, a reflex, an addiction; there’s a gravity to her I worry I will never be able to escape. Jem slips the envelope into his jacket pocket, and we disappear down the hall.

We step into a midday sun that hasn’t fully burned off the night’s chill. I leave the back door open behind us, afraid I’ll trigger the hinges that groan as loud as a car alarm. My footsteps rasp over the gravel path. We’re racing across the courtyard, closing in on the tree line, when I hear Bertram’s shout cut through the walls of the house. “Hey! Where’d he go? Where’s Jem?”

I turn to Jem, my breath heavy, muscles coiled and ready. “Run.”

 24 

We skid across the gravel path, taking a hard left out of the hedges. Our feet pound on the cobbled courtyard. Cool air, fresh and clear and not yet weighed down by the yellowy haze of pollen, burns in my lungs.

It would be a perfect day were it not for, quite literally, everything but the weather.

Oma betraying me—I was meant to get the park.

Jem, who gets everything I’ve been working toward. I know he’s not the one who made the decision, but tell that to the heart that’s going full Hulk in my chest right now. The heart that is also feeling… things. Things I do not have time for right now.

A shout splits the air. I flinch, and we dive into the trees, footfalls trailing us. We tear through the undergrowth, kicking up dirt and a deep earthy smell. My arms scrape against ragged tree bark; my feet tangle on vines and roots.

“Here,” I say, leaping over the fallen part of an enormous tree that had long ago been snapped in two. I push Jem into the time-worn cavity of the remaining stump. I squeeze in next to him. Except there’s no space, so I’m pinned up against his chest. Rapid footsteps approach through the brush, then—

THUD!

We flinch. Jem’s arms tighten around me, drawing me in closer as if he could make me disappear inside him. Dirt and decaying wood work into my hair; creatures with every number of legs imaginable snick across my skin. Jem’s grip on me tightens, his heartbeat hammering into my spine.

I slowly lean forward. Just fifteen feet away, Uncle Geoffrey stands on top of the felled tree we’re hiding under as he scans the woods for movement. I flinch back into Jem’s chest; his lips hover at my ear, breath unraveling down my neck.

I gasp as Uncle Geoffrey leaps off the tree, but Jem’s hand lands on my mouth before any sound escapes my lips. Leaves rustle, and scattered sticks snap underfoot as Uncle Geoffrey steps forward. He withdraws his firearm to inspect it.

I think: He wouldn’t.

But actually: He might.

He snarls, “If that little—” then stops, his gaze flicking up as the lawyers’ helicopter buzzes away overhead.

That was quick. Must have really wanted to make that four o’clock.

Uncle Geoffrey grunts and returns his attention to his weapon, muttering, “If he thinks he can waltz in and just take everything this family has worked for… he’s got another thing coming.”

Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t put it past this family for the other “thing” to be a quick shot to the back of the head and a thorough disposal of the evidence.

Satisfied with his gun’s condition, Uncle Geoffrey stretches his arm, then marches farther into the woods, until he vanishes from view entirely.

Jem’s hand drops from my lips, fingertips trailing down my neck, my shoulder, my arm, my side. It’s a very tight space. There’s nowhere else for it to go.

Still, I shiver.

“Miss Francesca?” he says.

It takes me a moment to realize he’s waiting for me to get off him. “Ah, sorry,” I murmur, peeling myself away. I spin around and offer him my hand, which he takes.

Once upright, Jem dusts himself off. “Well, that was close.”

“That wasn’t just close, Jem,” I say, unable to keep the tremor out of my voice. “That was way too fucking close. You know he’s a card-carrying member of the NRA and does not go to therapy?”

My body leaps out of my skin at the sound of a branch cracking.

Jem jerks his head to the side, and we’re off through the undergrowth, into Zauberwald. The Magic Forest. Hurtling between trees, over soft soil and leaf litter. We pass toadstool huts and the Trollkönig, the Troll King, tucked away in a tree hollow and the Whisperwood version of Rapunzel’s blond hair spilling down her chalk-white tower.

We’re spat out of the forest and onto the stretch of Die Straße that is dominated by carnival games. Overhead, the sky tram gondola cars swing in the wind.

“Hurry. This way,” Jem says, urgently dragging me across the thoroughfare. Just as we disappear down a narrow path on the opposite side, out of the corner of my eye, I see the cause for urgency: someone emerging from the trees.

Gunfire rips down Die Straße.

“What the hell?” I pant, but I don’t think Jem hears me. A cold cord of dread tightens around my neck. We race under a metal arch that reads monster mayhem in elaborate script. I feel a vague sense of delinquency as we spring over and under and around the queue rails, but mostly I’m just feeling like I need to run faster because—holy shit—we’re actually being shot at. With real-life ammunition. I know this isn’t the something bad that Oma was talking about, but this is pretty damn bad. Panic is a creature with teeth, tearing away the tender skin of my composure. The staircase groans as I bound up, taking the steps two at a time. I grip the rail to heft me up quicker, bullets plinking off the structure around me.

“Jesus,” I gasp as we reach the landing. My limbs feel like Jell-O and my heart hammers throughout my entire body. “He’s going to lose his right-wing cred if they ever find out how bad a shot he is.”

“Is this really something you wish to complain about?” Jem’s voice pitches to a squeak as he bolts across the platform to a control panel and flicks it open.

He inserts a key and hits a button.

“I’m just saying, I may have failed statistics twice, but he definitely should’ve hit one of us by now.”

From both ends of the deck, the gates lift open, and out of one side comes an empty boat. Then a small electronic beeping sound starts, the tempo speeding up with every blip.

It takes a moment for me to realize the gunshots have stopped. At first, the lack of pistol pops tearing the air to shreds gives off an illusion of stillness. But then I hear what’s replaced it: the clattering of feet on the stairs. Growing closer by the second.

I begin to peek over the edge when Jem barks, “Come on!” He’s already in the boat.

The electronic beeping turns into one long tone as I hop in next to him; the boat wobbles for a moment, then floats forward. Jem clicks the lap bar into place, and we slip into the shadows of the ride.

“Won’t he just follow us?” I ask, glancing back, and as if in answer, the gates close just as Uncle Geoffrey reaches the landing, howling and firing wildly.

Jem lets out a nervous laugh with a small shake of his head. “Test ride setting,” he explains.

The boat drifts down a dark tunnel, ceiling flecked with pinprick stars as the creepiest lullaby known to man plinks over the sound system. Then a quick blur of light—a shooting star—and suddenly the tunnel opens up into the first room of the ride. A quaint village with a crowd of people gathered on a lakeshore. Ambient folk music skips through the space. The boat gently rocks as fake snow begins to fall, but my racing heart just won’t settle. I spin toward Jem.

“Did you know?” I ask.

“Know?” He scowls in confusion. “About the will?”

“Not a will.”

He rolls his eyes. “How could I possibly have known? It’s not like Virginia discussed every private detail of her life with me.”

“Sure, but—” I groan. All this bullshit makes me feel even stupider about what I said last night. “I don’t know. You guys talk, though? And you knew about the magic. Are you telling me she never once mentioned anything at all about—”

The boat turns sharply, throwing him into me. I catch his shoulders. He is a breath away when he says, “I did not know.”

I grit my teeth, pushing him off of me. “But why, then?”

His eyebrows knit in confusion. “Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Why would she do this, Jeremiah Durchdenwald?” I emphasize his full name. It is a mouthful. “Why would she give everything to you when she was training me?”

“Look, I’m just as bewildered as you are.” Jem shakes his head slowly. “Perhaps she thought I could help you?”

We both gasp as the boat dips into the pre-drop. A moment later, we’re thrown into the back of the seat, howling as we plummet through mist into the first valley. My stomach leaves my body. My voice snags in my throat, and damp clings to my skin. The rail in front of me burns in my grip as I curl forward. My insides slam back into me as the drop bottoms out before an animatronic water monster. It roars, a sound I once found frightening but is much less terrifying when the speaker it’s coming from is malfunctioning, sputtering, and crackling. The monster crashes into the water, sending a tidal wave at us.

I’m soaked to the bone, spitting out a mouthful of stale water, when the boat turns again and enters another room, less dark than the one we just left. Hot air reeking of sausage and beer foam hits us as a busy scene comes to life. An entire town gathers inside a tavern of sorts. The colorful cross-vaulted ceiling painted with geometric shapes is overlaid with more fluid designs of rushing waters and various depictions of monsters.

“So, how are you going to help me?” I ask.

But he doesn’t reply as the boat rocks, the lap bar lifts away, and before I’m even aware of what’s going on, Jem is in the water, wading toward the dry, wood-planked stage platform.

“Jem,” I say. “What are you doing?”

“Getting off ?” he says. “Come along.”

“Ugh!” I groan as I tip into the water and follow him. “If I die from legionella, I’m going to haunt you until the earth crashes into the sun.”

He hoists himself up over the platform ledge, then helps me up. My clothes are heavy and reeking.

“Is there a reason we disembarked into the roller-coaster swamp?” I ask, removing my sweater. I abandon it on the floor and wring out my T-shirt underneath.

“One more room and then the ride heads outdoors.”

Oh.

Outdoors.

Where, surely, Uncle Geoffrey will be waiting.

“What now?” I ask as he shrugs out of his jacket, which hits the ground with a wet slap.

We both shriek at the same time. “The letter!”

As Jem flips open his jacket and digs into the concealed breast pocket, I stand at his periphery, hands hovering uselessly as he produces a soggy envelope.

“Don’t tear it,” I say, as if he were going to shred it with his teeth. What he does is delicately open the envelope, peel out the letter inside, and drop the damp envelope to the ground. Then he works his fingernail at the corner of the paper, trying to peel it open.

A groan shoots out of him, face grimacing, as the paper begins to rip. “It won’t—” Jem tries to peel the page open more carefully.

“Can you tell what it is?”

He squints, peeling at an angle. “Dear Jeremiah. I hope I’ve had…” He groans. “The next line, sorry to have…” He makes another sound of frustration. “I fear sh— It’s no use! As I open it, the ink bleeds into an indiscernible mess.” His hand holding the letter drops to his side. “What should we do?”

Surprisingly, I know this answer. “Come with me,” I say.

 25 

Donuts?” Jem asks, staring at the sign pinned above the shop door.

krapfenkönigin

the donut queen

They are by far the best donuts I’ve ever tasted, but when I was young, I used to cry whenever my mom insisted on one to round out the day. Not just because the front door to this shop looked like you were stepping into an oven—that was awful enough.

But because of the boy.

Next to the oven-esque door stands a statue of a little boy. Six, maybe seven years old. Trapped inside a cage. Hands gripping the bars. Screaming his brains out.

Kind of kills the appetite.

“This was the nearest microwave,” I say, heaving the heavy door open. “I saw something on YouTube once.”

The door groans and what we find inside is a preserved relic. Chairs turned upside down on tabletops. A broom propped by the door to the kitchen. A chalkboard menu behind the counter advertising the seasonal specials: a pumpkin-spiced cheesecake donut sprinkled in cinnamon sugar, and a cranberry-jelly-filled one with an orange glaze.

Jem follows me as I step around the empty glass display case, every last crumb picked over, the edge littered with rodent droppings. This is so gross. I try not to touch anything. On the back counter behind the register, I pop open the microwave and hold out my hand.

“This is odd,” Jem comments as he passes over the soggy letter.

“It is.” I carefully place it inside, sandwiched between sheets of paper towels, and close the door. The machine beeps as I set the time and power level, and then—start—it whirrs to life. “And it may take a while.”

“So we’re… cooking the letter?”

“Less cooking and more volumetric heating of moisture.”

By the look on his face, he hasn’t a clue what that means, but he nods slowly anyway. And now we wait.

Though I was able to wring out most of the water from my clothes, the stagnant slime didn’t get the memo and has begun the process of pasting every inch of fabric to my skin. I pull my shirt away from my stomach, cringing at the sludgy feeling. “I need to take this off.” Jem lifts his eyebrows as I crouch down and rifle through a lower cabinet, muttering to myself. “There should be… somewhere in here…”

I stand, smile slapped across my face, triumphant, a pair of red T-shirts in my hand. I toss one to Jem, and he shakes it open. On the front is a roller-coaster graphic that ends in a donut loop with the words KrapfenKönigin above it, and on the back are the words Donut Stop Me Now.

I’m about to explain the grade-A pun this T-shirt contains when Jem whips off his top, and instead the word “shit” tumbles out of my mouth. He gives me a look. One that I immediately break away from as he tosses the shirt on top of the display case with a wet slap. I’m pretty sure I’m choking on my internal organs, and I can literally feel my ears turning red as every inch of my body starts to sweat.

He slips into the KrapfenKönigin shirt and looks at me like What’re you doing? so I say, “What the hell are you doing?” beating him to the punch like I’m the goddamn undisputed featherweight conversational champion of the universe.

“Changing?” he says, confused. “Was that not the idea behind the shirts?”

I laugh. For no discernible reason other than I’m losing my mind. “Uh—right.” My fingers work along the crusty hem of my top as Jem spins around. He leans over the back counter and stares intently at the letter spinning inside the microwave. I can’t tell if he’s actually fascinated or just affording me an ounce of privacy.

I peel off my shirt and drop it on the filthy floor. It’s not like I’m going to ever use it again. Then I slip into the KrapfenKönigin shirt. Jem continues to stare at the microwave, its electric hum drifting through the quiet. His shoulders shift as he tilts his head, hypnotized. Fascinated by his fascination, I take a step toward him, then another.

Then he stands up and spins around, any space between us disappearing in an instant. We are frightfully close, face-to-face. A phantom feeling buzzes across my lips. My breath falters. There’s a fire behind his eyes, daring me to move. I lean in.

“There you are.”

A voice like an electric shock launches Jem and me away from each other. My back knocks into the display case, and I turn. Someone stands in the doorway, silhouetted by daylight, then steps inside.

“Rhodes?” I choke out. “How did you—?”

Rhodes narrows his eyes and shrugs. “Lucky guess.” He pulls a chair off a table and swings it around to sit on it backward. “You know everyone’s looking for you, Jeremiah?”

“Is that so?” Jem folds his arms and leans against the counter.

“You too, Frankie.”

I give him a hard look. “Your dad was trying to turn us into human Swiss cheese.”

Rhodes smirks. “Oh, he’s harmless.”

“I don’t know. Angry person with a gun doesn’t sound all that harmless to me.”

“He might kill you with a lucky shot, but he’s never had a lucky shot a single day in his life.”

Jem turns back around, his attention on the microwave, unaware that a watched soggy letter never dries, or something like that. Rhodes glares at me. I know he doesn’t trust Jem. Part of me feels a bit guilty, keeping Rhodes in the dark about the magic, but there’s a reason why in all the stories magic is kept a secret. And that reason is people are (a) stupid and (b) evil.

Behind me, the microwave beeps. Jem opens the door, and I lean over his shoulder.

“Not even close,” he mutters, entering more time.

On the video I saw, it took them something like fifteen minutes. It is a fine art, a delicate balance, to dry paper but not set it on fire.

“God, I’m hungry,” Rhodes says, as his stomach growls audibly. “Think there’s still…” But he’s away down the back hall before he finishes his thought.

I collapse against the counter next to Jem. “It’s yours now,” I say, folding my arms over my chest. Betrayal is a sharp-edged creature that lives inside me, clawing past my lips. “What’ll you do with it?”

He winces. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I stole this from you. I didn’t deceive you, Miss Francesca.” He takes one of my folded-away hands and gives it a squeeze that makes my skin burn.

He’s right. I close my eyes. Why? The word is a predator that wants to play with me at the edge of death but never actually kill me.

Why did Oma do this? Why did she bother trying to teach me about being fablemaker? Why am I staring at Jem’s mouth, wondering what it would feel like to—

This. This is exactly why I hate feelings. If only I knew how to run away from the thoughts in my head. Thoughts that I apparently understood better when I was half asleep. I pull my hand free from his. Why is this happening? Again. I told him how I feel, and he said nothing in reply. The feeling just isn’t there for him. My heart is just so good at breaking in someone else’s hands. It’s like I never learn.

When I look at Jem, something smolders under his expression.

“Well?” I shrug.

He scratches his cheek and avoids my eyes. “I don’t know what I’ll do,” he says.

Then from outside comes a loud clattering of metal and a muffled voice. We exchange a wide-eyed look.

“What was that?” I whisper, but Jem holds his finger to his lips. Shhhh. Stock-still, breaths shallow, we stare at the entry. The gentle hum of the microwave is the only sound amid the silence. Until behind us: a creak.

I whip around so fast I nearly spin off my feet.

Rhodes stands at the back hall’s entry, mouth full of donut, lips dusted in icing sugar, fingers sticky with jam. He swallows hard. “You both heard that, right?” He stuffs the rest of the donut into his mouth, gnawing heavily on it because, I realize, he’s pulled it from the deep freezer.

The noise from outside comes again, and Jem points to the door. “I’ll go see if I can’t—”

“If that’s my dad,” Rhodes says, plucking several napkins from a dispenser to wipe off his hands, “this’ll get interesting real fast.”

But Jem is already across the shop.

“Wait for me,” I call, Rhodes on my heels.

Along the side of the building, the chained-up bistro seats have been knocked over. Chair legs porcupine in every direction, covered in ripped-off vines that trail out toward the woods skirting the patio.

Then there’s rustling within the trees.

Jem’s deep in the underbrush before I can piece together what the sound could possibly be, never mind the odds that whatever it is might consider us a snack. Rhodes and I stir up the smell of loam and dust as we follow him. Clouds of tiny insects drift around us in the still air, dappled in sunlight.

“I hate spring,” Rhodes moans from several paces behind. I turn and give him a sharp look that goes entirely unnoticed. He slaps at his forearm and whispers, “Gotcha.”

“Rhodes,” I hiss.

He looks up at me, pleased with himself, but I scowl at him, silently telling him, in no uncertain terms, to shut up. He ducks his head, his teeth pressed into an apologetic grimace as he swats at the air in front of him.

I turn back around, squinting into the trees, straining to hear something. Anything.

I spy skeletal branches dotted with bright green new growth, small white buds fighting through the tawny collage of dead leaves on the ground, and vines. So, so many vines. They don’t know the meaning of moderation.

But nothing that might have made the racket we’d heard.

Then, up ahead, several whisperlings burst into the air, scattering into the canopy above.

I race toward the spot, spiderweb threads netting over my face and arms as I run. There’s something there.

My feet stumble, head spinning as I choke down air that tastes like moss and powdery blossoms. Then I skid to a stop and nausea rises up my throat. There, blanketed by bracken and brambles, is Zara. She lies face up, limbs sprawled wide, hair splayed, eyes shut.

She’s not moving.

 26 

Mom was never sure about Zara from the get-go, and not just because of her general skepticism of new people. I think it had more to do with the fact that the first time she met Zara was when she had to pick us up after our stowaway train ride, the day we met. Ever since, she questioned every adventure Zara proposed.

Mom glanced up from her computer, eyes flashing a warning as she spotted the duffel bag at my feet.

“I told you we were going camping tonight,” I said. “The meteor shower—”

She let out a sigh, straightening the screen in front of her. “I do remember. I also remember telling you that we would talk about it later.”

I gave her my best I’m-a-poor-starving-puppy-trapped-at-a-kill-shelter-please-adopt-me-PS-I’m-also-extremely-cute face.

“Look, kiddo. I don’t know.”

“Well, can you tell her that? Because she’s, like, three minutes away.”

She sighed. “Fine.” But her eyes said something different. Something along the lines of You’re a real handful, Frankie.

I wrapped my arms around her, her chair tipping a little as I squeezed her. Her hand gripped my arm back. “Thank you,” I said. “You know I love you?” It was a question. Because, according to the school counselor, I’m shit at communicating that sort of stuff.

I might be paraphrasing.

“I love you, too,” she said.

As I released her, she leaned over onto her elbows, staring at the screen in front of her, a spreadsheet full of numbers.

“What are you working on?” I asked.

She sighed again. She had been doing a lot of that lately. Sighing. “Budgeting,” she said. I saw her thumb reach for her wedding band to twist it—an anxious twitch—only to find it wasn’t there. It had been almost six months since Dad left, but some habits are harder to break. “Real exciting stuff.”

“I thought Dad was going to—”

“No, Frankie.” She lifted her hand, and the rest of my words evaporated from my mouth. “We don’t need your father’s help. Between the park and royalties, we’re more than able to make ends meet.”

We both turned at a knock, followed by the groan of the front door opening. “Anybody home?” Zara’s voice echoed down the hallway.

I kissed the crown of my mom’s head. “Coming,” I shouted back, then snatched up my bag and rushed down the hallway.

“So,” I said, buckling myself into the front seat of Dirty Gertie, nudging an empty bag of tortilla chips further down the footwell. “Where we off to?”

“Crowtop,” she said. It was the next peak over from Der Flüsterplatz, where Whisperwood Park sat. It was a bit taller. Fewer trees. Good for stargazing.

As we traveled the switchback road, the sky sank deeper into blue. She showed me her old A-frame tent stuffed into the trunk, but there was nothing that even resembled weather, so we never set it up. We lay side by side in our sleeping bags, the endless dark interrupted only by stars like scattered granulated sugar and meteors racing for the horizon. A cool breeze drifted past, and with it the smell of lichen and sweet pinesap. We counted shooting stars that felt like they made landfall inside my stomach. Somehow the expanse hanging above us made it hard to breathe.

Or maybe it was because of the way Zara tilted her head so it pressed into the side of my neck.

One of the two.

I race through the trees and crash to the ground when I reach her, forest floor chaff digging into my legs. The earth underneath turns to mud on my still-damp jeans. Her lips are rosy pink. Dark smudges on her cheeks spoil her complexion.

Then her eyes flick open. I flinch back as breath stutters into her gaping mouth, as if she’s only just remembered the essential nature of oxygen.

“Zara?” I whisper, inching closer. “What are you doing?”

She glances around, her movements slow as honey, her expression dripping with confusion. “Searching?” she says, but she doesn’t seem sure.

I reach out to her, my fingers curling around her forearm. “For me and Jem?”

She blinks—once, twice. “Maybe?”

Rhodes slaps his face hard, drawing everyone’s attention.

“You get it?” Jem asks him.

Rhodes inspects his hand for the bug. “No dice.”

“Frankie?” Zara whispers. Her mouth twists up in frustration as her fingers close around my shirt, sluggishly bending closer. And that’s when I realize that the look in her eyes isn’t confusion, it’s something closer to fear. “I don’t feel right, Frankie.”

“What’s wrong? Are you sick?”

The question multiplies the panic on her face. “I don’t know.”

“Come along,” Jem says, glancing around anxiously. “Let’s get back inside.”

I nod and help Zara to her feet. We trudge back to KrapfenKönigin, falling into step. My hands grasp her red-and-blue flannel top tight to help keep her on her feet as her lethargic steps catch on every rut and root.

By the time we step through that god-awful oven door, perspiration is gathering along Zara’s hairline. “Sit here,” I say, helping her onto a wooden bench near the spiral staircase leading up to the second-floor gift shop. I sit down next to her and place the back of my hand on her forehead, but she’s not warm. If anything, she’s cold.

“Are you okay, Rhodes?” Jem asks.

Rhodes grunts as he talks. “So itchy. I’ve never… in my life. This is ridiculous. It’s like the blutmilbe. Am I cursed to scratch until I bleed to death like in Der Immergarten?”

“You’re not going to bleed to death by fictional bugs, Rhodes,” I say flatly. “Besides, there’s too much good in you. They’d hate the taste.” As I continue to inspect Zara’s face, it’s her eyes that worry me the most. Like they’re perpetually shifting in and out of focus.

“You do need to stop scratching, though,” Jem says, taking Rhodes’s arms and pinning them to his sides. “Stop scratching. And let me look.”

The boys fall silent for a moment, Jem inspecting the bites. Rhodes’s face scrunches up, as if the stillness is the thing causing him pain.

“Nope. Not blutmilbe,” Jem says, releasing Rhodes’s arms. “That’s just a lot of mosquito bites.”

“How come none of you were treated as an all-you-can-eat buffet?”

“Because none of us looked like a walking, talking donut.” I nod to the hallway at the back. “You know where the bathroom is. There should be a first aid kit in there. Wash up, take an antihistamine, and cover the bites with calamine.”

“Okay, mom,” Rhodes says, disappearing in an instant. A moment later, the microwave pings again, and without thinking, I leap to my feet.

“Miss Francesca,” Jem says sharply. “It’s my letter.”

I bite down on my lip and sit back down. “It might still need a bit more time,” I say.

He nods and places the letter back in the microwave, then watches out of the corner of his eye as Zara slouches onto my shoulder.

“Are you sick?” I ask her.

“I don’t know.” She shakes her head slowly, placing her cold, clammy hand in mine. Jem visibly bristles. The air in the room goes suddenly hot. Zara’s face pinches up, but she continues, “I wake up every day feeling like I’m not whole. Like at some point I broke and part of me got lost and I’m itching, impatient to gather up the missing parts. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“I think it does,” I say, because isn’t that what I’ve been doing all along? Trying to put back together what was broken.

“I think I’m finally finding the pieces,” she says, grabbing my shoulders. “But I think… I think I have to stay. I don’t want to break again. I don’t ever want to leave.”

Me? I hate that my thought is a question. Hate that I’m out here trying to bend her words into a path that will keep me wandering in the dark, safe from reality.

But then Jem lets out a loud breath, arms knotted over his chest, and pulls out the floodlight. “What is it exactly you don’t want to leave, Zara?”

She turns to him sharply. “What do you mean?”

Jem’s eyes become something that could tear you limb from limb. Then he shakes his head. “Oh, nothing.” But his words are too gruff.

I know exactly what he means.

Leave me? Or leave the park?

And by the look on Zara’s face, she’s teased out his meaning, too. She glances between me and Jem, brow furrowed, the weight of Jem’s accusation tied to her like a drowning stone. “You can’t possibly believe that,” she says.

“Have you ever given her a reason not to?”

Jaw set tight, Zara pushes to her feet from the bench, wincing. She buries her face in her hands. “I can’t deal with this right now,” she hisses and rushes away. The spiral staircase rattles as she disappears to the second floor.

I’m on my feet, crossing the shop to him. He knows how much I’ve wanted her back this whole time, so why is he doing this now that she’s finally here? His eyes flick to the ceiling as Zara’s footsteps cross the floor above us and stop at the opposite end. Only then does his gaze drop to me. I step behind the counter and shove him in the chest.

“What?” he asks. “What is it?”

My insides simmer. “The hell was that?”

“I was there, Miss Francesca,” he says, combing back his hair. “Do you not remember? I know how much you got hurt.”

“Jem,” I growl, clenching my hands into fists. “I get that you care, but I don’t get why you care this much.”

“How can you possibly think that?” he says, his voice thin.

“You don’t get a say over who waltzes in or out of my life, because this”—I motion between us, digging up the speech half-asleep me made last night—“is an imbalance. It is incomplete. It’s a recipe for fragments and cardiac arrest.” My heart is hammering, and I swear he can hear it in the silence that hangs between us.

There’s calculation in his expression, and then his entire body sags, like the answer he got was the inverse of what he’d hoped for. He steps closer. “I told you. Completely. I never wish to see you hurt again.”

Hot tears sting behind my eyes, threatening to betray me. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but honestly I don’t care right now. I know if I start crying, I won’t be able to stop. I’ll be like the girl in “The Rising Tide” that wept until she caused the great flood. “Dammit, Jem.” My voice is a sob lodged in my throat. I turn on my heel and run up the spiral stairs.

At the top, I’m met by a tidal wave of color. Dark stained shelves carve a path through the shop, displaying red and black licorices, Schoko-Bananen, a kaleidoscope of pastel fizzies, Katjes fruit gummies, Scho-Ka-Kola chocolate discs, and every flavor of Hermann hard candies. I follow the trail, back and forth. When I reach the end, I find Zara sitting in the opening of a suspended birdcage. It’s a photo op. A haggard witch hovers at the fringe of the photo stage. The whole thing is covered in dust and cobwebs and smells like an old, forgotten attic space. Zara rocks back and forth, rolling onto her heels and then to her toes. The metal chain holding the cage creaks as she does so. When she looks up, a tight smile pulls at her lips, and she scoots over for me.

I shake off Jem’s words, shove aside my own creeping doubts, and sit down beside her. Her head immediately lands on my shoulder, sending the butterflies in my stomach flying.

“Sorry about that,” I say.

Her face tilts and she breathes in deep at my collarbone; a chill trips down my spine. My jaw stiffens as we sit there for a moment. Her hand lands on my knee, but it immediately curls into a fist. “You can’t possibly believe that?” she says, only this time it comes out as a question.

I angle toward her. “Why did you become my friend, Zara?” There’s a sharp edge to my words, and I hate myself for letting Jem get to me, even though these thoughts have plagued me for months. “Never mind,” I say, shaking my head, rising to my feet, only for her to mirror my movements. Then her palm cups my cheek and—

“The truth?” she says, shaking her head. “I’m sure you already know it. But I recognized you that day outside the Brewtique. Obsessed with Whisperwood, I knew who you were. And I knew my intentions were… less than honest.”

“And now?”

Her hand slips from my face, and she sighs. “Everything became more real the more I got to know you.”

“But then you left.”

She goes rigid, gnawing on her lip. She’s about to speak when Rhodes’s muffled shout comes from downstairs.

“Frankie?”

I ignore him, staring at Zara, a silent plea for her to continue, but all I get is Rhodes again.

“Frankie, where are you?”

I groan and shout over my shoulder, “We’re coming!” I spin around, winding through the path of sweets and down the stairs, where Rhodes waits at the bottom, covered in patches of pale pink calamine. He looks behind me, sees Zara, then looks behind her.

“Where’s Jem?” he asks.

I glance quickly around the shop. “He was just here,” I say, then turn. The microwave is open and empty. “Oh shit.”

Jem’s gone. And he took the letter with him.

Copyright 1925

WILHELM STRAUSS

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without permission of the Schmerz Publishing Group.

Das Versprechen der Waldschützer

(The Forest Protector’s Promise)

Die Märchen der Flüsterwald

embellished Though Friedrich was a handsome young man, he was cursed with a cough that neither physician nor herb witch could cure, and it was taking a toll on his health. Three months, his family was told, before his lungs would give out like a buggy wheel on a bumpy road, for there was no cure to be found.

Friedrich’s younger sister, Gisela, loved her brother dearly and was desperate to save him. “But what of the gebetspilz?” she asked her parents. “The morels that grow deep in the Whisperwood where the ancient hag, Gundrun, met her end.”

Her father’s face blanched. “Don’t be foolish. Those woods are guarded by the Leicheziege. No one has ever entered his domain and lived to tell the tale.”

It was known far and wide that the Leicheziege was a fearsome creature, but Gisela was brave and kind. And perhaps, indeed, a little bit foolish. But who can be truly brave without a bit of foolish disregard for the risks?

She gathered her courage and a small pack filled with rinderwurst and zwieback, and while her parents still lay in their bed, she snuck off into the forest. The trees were as old as time itself. They stood tall, their boughs intertwining like giants’ fingers. In the rising sun, they cast long shadows across the ground. Gisela tread carefully, and just as the outside world disappeared from view, she heard the click-clack of the Leicheziege’s hooves as he patrolled the forest. A moment later, a voice growled through the trees, its rumble sending shivers through the very air, startling several whisperlings to the sky.

“Who dares enter my forest?”

“Gisela,” she replied, her voice shaking.

The Leicheziege stepped into view, towering over her, its horned head tilting with a cruel curiosity. “And why have you come?”

Gisela took a deep breath and stepped forward, standing as tall as she could, careful not to speak the creature’s name, for to do so would allow the creature to temporarily modify itself with additional natural weapons. “I seek the gebetspilz, for my brother lies in bed at home, gravely ill.”

“And what will you offer me in return?” The creature’s red eyes glinted in the shadows.

“Offer?” Gisela asked. She hadn’t considered she’d need to strike a bargain. “I have nothing but rinderwurst and zwieback, which I packed for my journey.” Her voice faltered, but her resolve did not. “Other than that, I have only myself. Would you take that?”

“You would offer yourself in exchange for your brother’s life?” he asked, a flicker of confusion softening the edges of his expression.

Gisela’s heart pounded in her chest. “Yes,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “If you let me live—let me retrieve the gebetspilz and administer it to my brother so he might be saved—I will be yours and serve you as you wish.”

The Leicheziege regarded her for a long moment and then nodded slowly. “Very well,” he said. “I accept your offer. But know this: Once you enter my service, you can never leave. You will be mine until the end of your days.”

A chill ran down Gisela’s spine. To be the servant of a creature like the Leicheziege would indeed be a terrible fate, but she could not stand by and let her brother perish. She swallowed her fear and spoke as bravely as she could. “I understand,” she said. “I will do whatever it takes.”

The Leicheziege nodded and stepped aside, allowing her to pass through the forest unscathed. “Go, then,” he said. “But forget not your promise. Before too long, I shall come for you.”

She hurried through the forest, her heart heavy with the weight of her bargain, her mind racing with thoughts of what lay ahead of her. But by the time she returned home with the gebetspilz and saw the hope on her brother’s face, she knew she’d made the right choice.

Though her brother regained his strength, Gisela was plagued with worry. She didn’t know when the Leicheziege would come for her, so every moment was filled with anxious uncertainty. She tried to go about her days as usual, but the anticipation gnawed at her. Every sound, every movement out of the corner of her eye, made her jump.

Days, weeks, months went by as she waited for the Leicheziege to claim her, but he never came. Time helped her relax. She found her rhythm to life again—cooking and cleaning and assisting her father in forging farm tools and weapons and door hinges. She cherished the time she’d won back with her brother, and eventually she began to wonder if the creature had decided to spare her. Or if possibly he had forgotten about her entirely.

Until one night, as Gisela slept in her bed, the Leicheziege came to her in a dream. “Your time has come,” he said.

“What?” she replied.

“Do you not know who I am? Have you forgotten our agreement?”

“You are the Leicheziege. I have not forgotten.”

A smirk flicked across his face, for she had spoken his name. “Then come to the forest at once. You belong to me now.”

Gisela woke with a start, her heart racing. It felt cruel that he would ask for her now. Now that she’d finally settled back into her days.

She simply wasn’t ready.

“Maybe it was just a bad dream,” she told herself, and by some small miracle, she drifted back to sleep. The next morning she woke to the sound of screams.

Gisela’s heart sank as she rushed outside where a small crowd was beginning to gather down the street.

“What happened?” she asked as she broke through the crowd. An old man lay on the ground, his body bent at odd angles.

The woman behind her stifled a sob. “It was the—”

“Do not speak its name!” a man cut her off, while another woman said in an ethereal tone, “It must have been its scream. I heard it can turn bones to dust.”

Gisela felt a wave of terror wash over her. Had the Leicheziege killed someone in the village because of her? She backed away through the crowd, fear gripping her, and ran back home.

Though there was some solace in knowing the man was very old and that no one knew it was she who had caused this, her hands still trembled as she went about her chores.

That night the Leicheziege came to her again in her dreams. And again he said, “Your time has come.”

“Please!” she begged.

“Do you not know who I am? Have you forgotten our agreement?”

Her voice was stuck in her throat. “You are the Leicheziege. I have not forgotten.”

He nodded. “You belong to me now. Come to the forest at once.”

Again she woke, though this time she knew it was no mere dream.

“I can’t go,” she muttered to herself in the dark. “I’m not ready.”

She lay awake in bed, paralyzed with fear. She knew what was coming, but she still jumped out of her skin when the scream came at daybreak.

This time when she ran outside, the crowd surrounded a little boy lying on the ground. Bloodied holes marked the place where his eyes had once been.

“The rapier tongue,” a man said. “What’ll come next? The shiv claws? The fire touch? The basilisk’s gaze?”

Gisela turned from the sight and stumbled away. “What have I done?” she asked of herself. “And what am I to do now?”

“You made a deal with it, didn’t you?” asked a voice behind her.

When she turned around, her brother, Friedrich, stood before her.

“I did,” she said. “I promised myself to him to save your life.”

“And now I shall save yours,” Friedrich declared, turning toward the forest. “I will take your place.”

Gisela grabbed him by the arm. “You can’t. He will never have you. His bargain was with me alone.”

Friedrich nodded slowly. “You were brave once and saved my life. What’s stopping you from being brave now to save the village from the Leicheziege’s wrath?”

“I am afraid,” she confessed.

Friedrich placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “We are all afraid, Gisela. But that shouldn’t mean we can’t be brave. It doesn’t mean we can’t do what’s right.”

She knew what she had to do. Wrapping her arms around her brother, she squeezed him tight. “Tell Mother and Father I love them,” she said.

“Of course,” he replied.

Without delay, she walked straight to the forest where the Leicheziege was waiting. As she approached, she saw him standing at a clearing, his horns glinting in the daylight.

“You have come,” he said.

She nodded, her eyes welling with tears. “I made a promise, and I will keep it.”

“I’ve seen how fierce you can be to protect what you love,” he said, eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he let out a low growl of approval. “Together, we will protect this forest from those who seek to harm it.”

Gisela nodded. She knew that this path would be difficult, but she was ready to face it.

And with that, they turned and disappeared into the forest.

 27 

I run outside, staggering into the sunlight.

The door whacks against the wall. Jem’s name rips up my throat and echoes down Die Straße. You’d think that I’d have known, that I’d have learned. You’d think I’d be used to this after—

I curse under my breath, cutting the thought off short. The thoroughfare is empty, so I turn to the woods, squinting at the shadows between the trees, looking for any clues as to where Jem might have disappeared to. Surely he can’t have gotten far.

A haunted stillness grips the air. Heat unfurls across my skin. A tingling buzzes through my bones. We have each other now, my ass.

I turn around at the sound of footsteps, blinking back the rising tide of sadness as Rhodes comes into focus. He reaches out his Heffalump-pink arm toward me. “You might want to keep your voice down.”

I’m out of control. I know I’m out of control, and somehow the knowing makes it worse. Like I’m watching it play out in front of me and there’s nothing I can do but let it run its course.

“He left.” I’m not sure how to trim the panic out of my voice. The sadness. The hurt. “He must have read the letter and taken off and now—”

“So?”

“So!” Several breaths heave out of me rapidly, making my head feel too light. Zara appears in the doorway, arms cocooned around her middle, slumping weakly onto the frame. It takes me a moment to pluck words from the whirlwind inside my head. “I am sensing a real lack of urgency here.”

Rhodes pulls his phone out of his pocket and swipes the screen. “We’ll find him,” he says, glancing up at me, a coy look in his eye. Zara shrugs. “He’s still got his shoes on, right?” Rhodes asks.

“What? I—” My voice cracks in confusion. “I would assume so?”

“Excellent. Ah! There.” He turns his phone around to face me. On the screen it says car keys at the top, selected in a drop-down menu, and below it shows a map with a dot slowly inching across. “I slipped my key locator under the insert in his shoe back at the house.”

I stare at him, speechless.

“What?” Rhodes shrugs. “I do not trust that guy.”

“But how? There’s no service.”

“GPS satellites. It’s space magic, Frankie. All you need is the sky.”

My arms are around him. Squeezing him. “I love you. You are a genius.”

“Would you still love me if I were an imbecile?”

“I’d probably still love you, just less,” I say with a smirk, releasing him. Relief spills over me.

“I think that’s fair.” He smiles back, then returns his attention to his phone. His expression goes from curiosity to confusion, eyes narrowing on the screen. “Huh?”

“What?” I crane my neck to see. “What is it?”

Rhodes points. “It looks like he’s headed back to the house.”

“Why would he do that?”

A frown crosses his face. “I don’t know.” He gnaws on his bottom lip and pockets his phone. When he meets my eyes, he says, “Need to save the battery. We can check to make sure we’re on track every so often, but we should get going.”

I nod and turn to Zara; she strains, pushing herself upright.

“Come on, ladies,” Rhodes barks. “We got a runaway beneficiary to find.”

We follow Die Straße, past the amphitheater and the edge of Zauberwald. Overhead the sky tram creaks and groans in the mountain breeze. Our progress is slow. I drag Zara along because she can’t seem to figure out how to move at a normal speed. Halfway to the house Rhodes pulls out his phone and stops abruptly.

“What? He’s… moving away from the house now?”

I look. “The Plaza?” I ask.

“I’d say so.”

“Let’s go,” I say and pick up the pace. “It’s just up ahead.”

The Plaza is a large flagstone courtyard at the end of Die Straße, filled with haphazard metal bistro tables and chairs. The place is empty. We inch forward as Rhodes checks his phone again.

“It says he’s here,” Rhodes says.

We weave through the tables until we are literally standing on top of the dot. Overhead, a group of whisperlings stirs in the treetops.

“Rhodes,” Zara says, grimacing. “Just how accurate is this thing?”

“Within three inches,” Rhodes says. “And if you can’t find something that is three inches away, you got bigger problems.”

I crouch down, scanning the ground to see if maybe Jem found the locator and ditched it here. I drag my fingers over the flagstone, pondering.

“Do you hear that?” Rhodes asks.

“Hear what?” Zara replies.

He lifts his finger to his lips. “Shhhh.”

I didn’t hear anything, but it’s not like I was listening. So I still myself. Press my eyes shut. Listen.

Nothing. And nothing. And then maybe?

I think I hear something. Then the clear sound of rustling. Normally, I’d assume it’s an animal. A deer or a fox, maybe. But normally is a concept that’s rapidly slipping away. My eyes open, searching. The sound is coming from the trees on the other side of the Plaza—and then I hear a scream.

I definitely heard that.

I meet Rhodes’s gaze, my insides suddenly cold.

Then a loud crack of gunfire punches holes in any remaining quiet. And another. And another.

He’s found us. Uncle Geoffrey. Only the person he’s really after isn’t here. The bullets don’t know that, though.

“Get down,” I snap.

We dive behind a row of chained-up aluminum bistro chairs stacked several high. From the opposite end of the Plaza, Bertram and Uncle Geoffrey stumble backward out of the woods.

It takes a moment for my brain to comprehend: They’re not shooting at us. Uncle Geoffrey has his firearm aimed into the trees at something I can’t yet see. Bertram cowers behind him. Then a large figure emerges from the shadows.

“Oh shit,” Zara gasps.

Rhodes’s eyes look like they’re in danger of falling right out of his head. “Is that—?”

“Don’t,” I say to him, even though he knows. It might be covered in vines and pincushion moss, but I know exactly what it is. We knew things were going askew, but it is, quite possibly, the worst way the magic could go wrong.

The Leicheziege.

According to the stories, should you say its name, it will awaken another layer of the creature’s accoutrements. Including but not limited to foot-long claws, a scream that can shatter bones, and a quick, sword-sharp tongue that can stretch up to five feet away and stab right through a full-grown man.

Its broad bristle-haired body stands at least eight feet tall on scruffy, stifle-jointed legs. A set of saw-blade teeth sits in the goatlike jaws of its oversized pale-boned head. Bulging red eyes smolder in their sockets. Bloodied horns protrude from its skull, curling toward the sky, and its tail flicks catlike, back and forth. It slinks toward my cousin and uncle, hooves click-clacking across the stony ground. The vines wrapped around it drag in its wake.

It is, most unfortunately, entirely unbothered by the bullets.

“We should do something,” Rhodes hisses over the rhythm of gunfire.

“Like what?” I snap, because I’ve got nothing.

Then, from across the Plaza, comes the hollow click of an empty bullet chamber. Everything stills. It takes a moment for the atmosphere to shed the memory of noise. And when it does, the Leicheziege rolls its neck and snaps its teeth.

“Hey!” Rhodes shouts, and both Uncle Geoffrey and Bertram turn to look.

My stomach drops.

Distracted, they don’t see the swift coiling of the creature’s body underneath all that verdure. A hoarse cry catches in my throat, but before I can produce any sound, the creature lunges.

Bertram shrieks, leaping backward, narrowly missing a direct hit. Uncle Geoffrey, however, bears the brunt of the blow, rattling across the flagstone. His spine cracks into a stack of chairs that crashes around him, while his useless gun skids into the undergrowth. He has just enough time to rasp out a single word to Bertram—“Run!”—before the creature swipes at him. Uncle Geoffrey rag dolls across the ground, clattering into a table. I flinch at the sound of snapping bones and battered aluminum and raw-edged agony.

Rhodes springs to his feet, and I yank him back down. “You going to try and take the Leicheziege in a fistfight?” I ask.

It’s not until Rhodes’s face nose-dives from fear to utter terror that I realize my error.

I said its name.

Fuck.

Bertram clambers toward us, knocking into tables and chairs, but Uncle Geoffrey can’t seem to find his feet. He scuttles backward, but there’s no escape. The Leicheziege shivers and lets out a low, guttural growl; then its mouth snaps open, and from within unfurls a black tongue, slick and slithering, that rockets past its teeth and sinks into my uncle’s abdomen. Uncle Geoffrey buckles, choking on a gasp. I think I’m going to be sick. The Leicheziege rears up and strikes again and again, and Bertram winces at every blow, every death-choked cry. He braces himself on the back of a patio chair, breath heaving, emotions spilling over as he whimpers, “Someone wake me up.”

Again, Rhodes makes a break for it, but my arms wrap around him instantly, pinning him to my chest.

“Let me go, Frankie,” he snaps.

“Not yet,” I whisper, as my uncle’s cries wither away and the air around us grows heavy with the sound of macerated gasps and the soft scuffling of restless hooves.

“Come on, Bertram,” Zara urges, tight-jawed as she swings her arm wide. “Just a few more steps.”

Bertram trembles, but instead of continuing toward us, he instead slowly starts to turn around.

“Hey,” Rhodes cries, still locked in my bear grip. Bertram’s gaze snaps back to us. Away from the human demolition scene that looks all too much like a slaughterhouse during peak processing hours. Rhodes offers his brother a gentle smile, his voice steady. “Just keep your eyes on me. Yeah? One step at a time.”

Bertram’s teeth press together, but this time he shuffles the final few steps. Once behind the chairs with us, he collapses, folding into himself, chin into his knees, arms around his legs.

Silence casts over the Plaza. Slowly, the Leicheziege rises, straightening its spine. Gore clings to its claws and mottles its fur. Then it lifts its head, and its eyes land right on us.

It takes one leaden step forward, and I shudder as the ground trembles under its weight. The air almost feels like it has a pulse, like my racing heart has become so intense it’s taken over the atmosphere. Sweat snakes down my back. Then the monster takes another step, and the sharp taste of fear bites at the back of my mouth.

Overhead, whisperlings stir, snagging the creature’s attention. For a moment, I think the Leicheziege is going to attack them, but instead, the monster backs away—one step, then two—then it huffs. A look that I can only describe as supremely annoyed paints across its face. Then it pivots and vanishes into the trees.

Time sways like a storm-abandoned playground swing, drifting on a ghost’s breath.

No sooner is the creature gone than Rhodes breaks free from my arms and does what he does best: run. I trail him, clattering through the furniture, across the Plaza.

We skid to a stop. Uncle Geoffrey’s face is so battered and bruised, so swollen and blood-smeared, it’s nearly unrecognizable. Underneath the carnage, his expression is frozen mid-scream, his eyes stuck wide open. His gore-soaked button-up shirt hangs in shreds like a shagbark hickory.

“Somebody do something!” Rhodes shouts, his hands hovering over his dad’s body.

But there’s nothing that can be done.

Rhodes rocks back and turns to look up at me. “He’s dead?”

I reach out for him, and he allows me to help him up. My arms fold around him. “I’m so sorry,” I say, turning him away from his dad’s ruined body.

As we shuffle back to Bertram and Zara, I glance around for movement, in case the Leicheziege plans to come back for round two, but everything hangs motionless, wrapped up in a gallow’s gasp. I choke back a sob. “I’m sorry,” I say again, and this time the word is stitched with guilt, because I had no idea it would get this bad. “We need to get out of here.”

“Wait up,” a voice calls from the woods. We all turn as Ella emerges from the trees, shoving aside branches. She seems very intent on not looking at the murder scene. “You guys okay?”

“No,” Bertram says, shakily pulling himself up on a planter, his voice thin, face pale. “And I’m starting to think that the stories maybe aren’t all made-up.”

“You don’t say,” Ella says, then points at Rhodes’s pink skin. “What the heck happened to you?”

Rhodes shakes off his shock and chokes out, “Mosquitoes.”

She then turns to me, gaze narrowed, voice edged with suspicion. “I thought you were with Jem.”

“I was,” I say, frustration stirring in my gut. Couldn’t she leave her press pass at home for once? “But he took off and now we’re trying to find him.”

“Where did you even come from?” Bertram asks.

“I was tailing you the whole time,” she says. “You got any leads on the runaway?”

Rhodes sniffs, his fingertips working into his eyelids as he lets out a sharp sigh and raises his phone. “I put a tracker on him,” he says, his voice turbulent.

Ella’s eyes widen. “I have so many questions about that, but I’m going to skip them for now in favor of: We should keep moving. If that thing comes back, we’re screwed.”

I turn to Zara, who has been quiet for a while now. Her gaze is distant, and when she meets my eyes, she flinches.

“Hey.” I step closer to her.

“I’m fine,” she says, turning away. “Let’s just go.”

I want to ask her what’s wrong, but we just saw a full-grown man get disemboweled by a mythical creature, so that feels like a really stupid question, even though I know there’s something other than that bothering her.

“We can’t just leave him like that,” Bertram says, arms flailing. “It’s not like he was great at that whole parenting thing but—”

“We’ll come back for him,” I say, squeezing Bertram’s hand. “But right now, we need to get out of here and figure out what the hell is going on.”

It always bothered me how in stories the characters just plow past tragedy without a moment to breathe, as if they aren’t broken by what happened. How they just accept the unbelievable. But once you see it with your eyes, the unbelievable ceases to be something impossible to believe. And things don’t stop or slow down just because of hurt. And just because you’re hurting, doesn’t mean you have to stop.

“The problem is,” Rhodes says, but even the tunnel vision on his phone can’t keep the hitch out of his voice, “the locator says he’s right here.” He taps his foot on the ground.

And just like that, a wave of understanding surges through me. I cough out a breath of disbelief. “That’s because he is right here.”

Rhodes looks down, and when he looks back up, his eyes are red-rimmed, but his mouth hangs open in revelation. “The Vault.”

“The off-limits Vault?” Bertram asks, throwing his hands in the air. “The Vault that we’ve never been to and don’t even know where the entrance is?”

I meet Ella’s eyes, and she nods. “You don’t. But I do.”

 28 

You have got to be kidding me,” Bertram groans as Ella leads us to the back door of the house. “Inside? Like. In the house? That’s how you get to the Vault?”

Ella shushes him. “Yeah.”

“And,” Bertram continues at a whisper, “you never even bothered to mention it?”

She gives him a silent, unamused stare.

Bertram flicks out his hand dismissively. “Yeah whatever. I probably wouldn’t have told us either.”

“Besides,” Ella says, “it’s not that simple. The entrance is hidden, and to get to it you have to have a master key for the door to the basement, which—” She turns to me.

Because she saw me take it off the sofa.

“Oh, right.” I reach into my pocket and produce the key. “Ta-da.”

Rhodes points at me, jaw dropped, as Bertram says, “You have a master key?”

Ella shushes him again and smacks him with the back of her hand.

“Yeah,” I whisper with a shrug, wrapping my fingers tightly around it.

Bertram stares at me for a long moment, waiting for me to explain further, and when I don’t, he finally asks, “But how?”

I’m about to say I just do because I don’t really feel like explaining, when Ella hisses, “She’s been coming and taking care of Oma for the past year and a half. Surely your single brain cell can at least put those two puzzle pieces together.”

Well, that shut them up. Didn’t have Ella covering my ass on today’s bingo card.

Ella spins on her heel, returning her attention to the door. My throat is fist-tight, mouth chalk-dry, as her fingers curl carefully around the knob. She slowly opens the door a crack, when it groans. We all wince.

“Just do it quick,” Rhodes whispers. “Like… whoosh. Get it over with.”

She does, and it opens without a squeak. Rhodes smirks.

“You clever little muffin,” I say.

Then: a voice.

We all freeze.

“Should we go looking for him?” It’s my mom, her voice echoes down the hallway from the front room. “I’d have thought he’d be back by now.”

“I think he’ll be all right, Kat,” Uncle Preston drones. “We’re kind of on the clock right now.”

Oh my god. They’re talking about Uncle Geoffrey.

“Right. So one hundred twenty hours?” my mom asks. “That’s how long we have to fix this?”

“Had,” Uncle Preston corrects.

“And your… what? Lawyers?”

“People,” Uncle Preston says stiffly. “They said there would be a bit of things to orchestrate behind the scenes, what with Mom being missing and not dead, and it not being an actual will, but they could make it revert to the earlier one, which we are all familiar with.”

“And the seven years thing?”

“Because she had already tweaked things to her being missing, not dead, they think that’s more than enough to swing things in our favor.”

Rhodes nudges me to move. My heart is beating so heavily the sound of it floods my ears as we slink into the hallway. I weave to the front of the group, breathless in front of the door to the basement as I slip the key into the keyhole and—

“Who knows,” Uncle Preston’s voice rises. “Maybe Geoffrey’s taken care of things already?”

“Come on,” Ella whispers at my shoulder.

I twist the key, and the lock clinks just as footsteps start moving around. The door swings open, and everyone silently hurtles past me, down into the stairwell. I remove the key and slip into the dark, swinging the door almost shut behind me, just in time for the footfalls to reach the hallway.

“God bless survivorship laws,” my mom says airily. She lingers in the hallway, a tumbler full of amber liquid in her hand, unsteady on her feet. I stand statue-still, hands sweating as I hold the doorknob so the latch doesn’t click. My heart dips. I guess after a drink, breaking the cycle doesn’t seem quite so important.

“Right, so we know what we need to do,” Uncle Preston says. “But how the hell do we make it believable?”

“They were having an affair,” my mom suggests.

“I said believable, fuckwit,” Uncle Preston shoots back, snatching the drink from her hand. “He’s a kid.”

“Love is a mysterious thing,” she says.

“The only mystery is how you’re still standing, Kat. What is that? Your sixth?”

“Just listen to this: Distraught by her sudden disappearance, he thrust himself into the darkness that was his broken heart—”

“Don’t say thrust,” Uncle Preston says.

“It’ll work,” my mom says. “Look, if you have any better ideas—”

Silence. Then Uncle Preston makes a sound that is half groan, half growl, stepping into the dining room. “You have any more of that?”

I slowly close the door the last sliver, then gently release the doorknob, grateful that Mom and Uncle Preston are too caught up in scheming first-degree felonies to notice. Then I trot down the stairs, where Ella is waiting, jaw dropped in the dim basement lighting. “Holy shit,” she says.

“What?” Bertram asks, pulling out from the closet he was snooping in.

“Didn’t you hear them?” I ask.

“Something about survivorship laws and some number of hours?” He leans against the hallway wall. “What’s that even mean?”

“It means,” Ella says, “that to inherit, Jem must outlive Oma by one hundred twenty hours after her being declared dead, or in this case, missing.”

Bertram’s mouth makes an O shape. “And if he dies before that—?”

“From the sound of it, they think they can get it reverted to the previous draft,” Ella says, her eyes narrowing in thought as she starts down the hall in the opposite direction from a closed door with a brass plaque pinned to it that reads office. “But that would look really suspicious.”

Bertram waves off her concern. “Do you know how many illegal things this family has weaseled their way out of or got swept under the rug with a story half as convincing as distraught by her sudden disappearance?”

Rhodes shakes his head. “Trust me, you don’t know and you don’t want to know.”

Zara is busy gnawing on her lip, so I nudge her to join the rest of the group.

“Well, then.” Ella stands at the end of the hallway, in front of an old painting of two young men. She presses on a piece of floral millwork in the middle of the bottom edge of the frame. The rosette flips open, exposing a keyhole. Ella holds out her hand for the master key, which is currently digging into the flesh of my palm. I pass it to her and she fits it into the lock. With a click, the entire wall moves. She steps back to open it fully, revealing an old wrought iron elevator. Ella slides away the elevator’s wooden landing door, then yanks open the scissor gate. “All aboard,” she says, standing to the side.

But nobody moves.

“I’m not getting in that thing,” Bertram says. “As we now know, the stories are more than just stories, and this is very Segrid Sonnenblume.”

“How is this anything like Segrid Sonnenblume?” Rhodes asks, but he glances at me nervously. In the story, Segrid climbs a giant sunflower into the clouds and steals a magical hen that lays gemstones instead of eggs from the sky trolls that live there. When trying to escape, she slips on a scattering of sunflower seeds and plunges to her death. The end.

“Splat,” Bertram says.

An anxious breath rushes out of me as I retrieve the key from Ella and step inside. My stomach crashes into my heels as the whole thing dips under my weight. The cables groan, the metal gate rattles, the lights flicker.

And then everything evens out.

It smells like the back of a forgotten closet, all stale air and dust mites. Overhead, a struggling incandescent light buzzes. There’s a brass sign pinned to the wall that says 2,500 lb capacity. Though I’m not sure how 2,500 pounds could fit in here. It’s very small.

Bertram shuffles back a step. “I don’t know about this.”

“It’ll be all right,” Rhodes says and, without any more hesitation, joins me. Again the car sinks under the added weight, but I’m at least ready this time.

When the elevator settles again, Zara sticks out her toe cautiously, testing it, before stepping inside.

I stare at Bertram, daring him. “If this isn’t supporting character behavior—”

“Okay, fine,” he groans, stumbling a little as he steps inside.

Ella follows on his heels, shutting the door and gate behind her before anyone can change their mind. It’s a tight squeeze. “That knob there, Frankie,” she says.

In front of me is a smooth, black knob atop a brass crank.

“Pull it out and rotate,” she instructs. “One way is up and one is down.”

“Please keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times,” I say, then swallow hard. “All clear.” I pull the knob and rotate the crank, and down we go.

The quiet is dense, punctuated only by a subtle clicking of the elevator’s mechanics and the buzz of the light. My pulse reverberates throughout my entire body, ever-anticipating the inevitable jolt of reaching the bottom. But we just keep going down. So long, my palm grows sweaty on the knob.

Rhodes clears his throat. “Read a book about an elevator once,” he says, and I twist my head toward him. “It was very… uplifting.”

“Oh my gawd,” Bertram groans. I shake my head, but I feel a smile fighting to show. And I let it. Just a little.

“That floored me,” Ella says.

Rhodes smirks. “Nice.” And the car jolts to a stop. We’re crammed in so tight, there’s no room to fall. I tuck my smile away and return the knob to the center as Ella begins the process of opening the gate and then the door.

My head spins as I step out of the elevator and into the Vault.

 29 

It’s not that I don’t know what the Vault looks like—I do. But it’s much in the same way that we all know what a shipwreck looks like—not by strapping on scuba gear and diving to the ocean floor, but by photographs and the accounts of others.

It’s nothing like seeing something firsthand.

The overhead tube lights cast a bilious glow that makes everyone look a bit seasick. Our footfalls echo down the short stone hallway, a hollow sound that sets my nerves on edge. At the far end sits a door with a tarnished brass plaque pinned to it. Once closer I can see that it reads the gallery. The heavy door groans as I drag it open.

The Gallery is the part of the Vault famously photographed by Ella those many years ago. It houses off-exhibit attractions that sit in angled rows to either side of a main aisle that bisects the space, leading to another door on the opposite end. I remember Ella’s post; it’s seared into my memory. In part because it felt unjust that she, a stranger at the time, was able to go places in the park I had never been allowed. She photographed attractions that had never seen the light of day: a crablike cart with a human head sticking out as if it were a tank, a clawfoot bathtub filled to the brim with segmented snake toys made of heavy tungsten metal, a towering stone wall with a hundred different faces carved into it. The brightest thing in the space is the green-lit emergency exit sign hanging from the ceiling in the far corner of the room. Rhodes pokes at his phone, bringing up his finder app.

“How do you even have coverage down here?” I ask.

“Possibre Maps. That man is—”

“That man is an ignoramus billionaire douchebag,” Ella sneers.

“That is true,” Rhodes replies, “though I do have pinpoint accurate GPS however many stories underground we are, and he has a mechanical bull soaring through space on its way to Neptune.”

Ella scowls. “He also managed to completely tank a perfectly good chat app and one of the most recognizable brands on the planet. Literally any hope of a social media dopamine hit is shattered by the sight of that stupid infinity symbol popping up on your screen.”

“Also true, but”—he folds his arms across his chest—“Landon also happens to have coinvented the best cereal known to mankind.”

“I will never understand that man’s business portfolio,” I mutter. God. I can’t tell if we’re all just trying to drown out what just happened with normal conversation or if Oma’s “buck up” approach to life has profoundly altered our brain chemistry so we’re incapable of processing anything normally.

“Since when are you on a first-name basis with Landon Possibre?” Ella asks.

“Look, the rule is if you fork over enough money to the robo-glitterati, the least you get to do is call him by his first name. Or Rich-Bitch McGee. But I save that one for special occasions.”

Yeah… we’re not normal.

“Berry Bust is extraordinarily good,” Ella concedes.

“I know, right?” Rhodes nods, playfully elbowing her. “And Burglar Barry—?”

“He is a pretty good cereal mascot, isn’t he?” she replies, then steps into the first aisle.

“Pretty good?” Bertram scoffs, moving into an aisle farther along. “That’s blasphemous!” As he wanders away, my eyes stay on Ella, who is crouched down, squinting from one artifact to the next, as if she’s trying to tease out their darkest secrets.

“So, Ella?” Rhodes glances around. “Has this place always been this creepy?”

“Definitely a different vibe going on from what I remember.”

Zara looks at the high ceiling. “How does all this stuff get down here anyway?”

“Somehow,” Rhodes says, “after everything that’s happened today, I no longer feel compelled to question how.”

Ella stops perusing, a look of confusion capturing her features.

I approach her, standing in front of an elongated glass box. Except, it’s not really a box. It’s the Der Stiller Mann display. A shiver runs down my arms. The top is shattered, edges broken and jagged and covered in—

“Is that blood?” Zara asks, hovering behind me.

The air in the room grows instantly heavy, like a damp cloth has been pressed over my mouth. “It looks too dark to be blood,” I say, swallowing back my unease.

“Oxidation can do that,” Ella explains. “Makes it turn brown or even black.”

The ink-dark stains marring the fractured glass are an itch at the back of my mind that I can’t quite reach. The Quiet Man is a lot of people’s favorite tale. The romance. The betrayal. The triumph of justice. Ever since Ella’s post, it’s sat up in the park. “I hadn’t realized it got moved back down here from Zauberwald,” I mutter.

“But why would the display be covered in blood?” Rhodes leans in closer. “What do you think happened?”

Bertram’s face sours. “Do you think Jem did something? Maybe he got himself hurt?”

“No.” Ella shakes her head. “This blood is old.”

“Maybe someone broke in a while ago?” Zara says, scanning up and down the aisle.

“We’re getting distracted,” I groan.

“Frankie’s right,” Rhodes says. “Let’s keep moving.” We make our way to the far end of the room, leaving the Gallery. Lights flicker on as we travel down another corridor to a door with a sign that says the collections.

Going into the Collections room feels like I’ve stepped into a very deranged hole-in-the-wall hardware store. Unlike the wide aisles of the Gallery, these aisles are only just large enough for passing at a sideways shuffle. The top half of the shelving is glass fronted, displaying an array of bones. The bottom half is a flat file system of long, shallow drawers. I pull one open and yelp. My back thumps against the cabinet on the other side.

A moment later, three pairs of eyes are peering over my shoulder at a drawer full of dead birds.

“Those are whisperlings,” Zara says.

Rhodes grimaces. “What the heck?”

I open another drawer to find the same thing. And another drawer: also the same. Wings tucked in, bodies stretched long. Heads tilted up. Eye sockets stuffed with tiny pieces of white cotton wool.

Bertram does a full body shiver. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“What happened here?” Ella’s voice makes us all whip around at turbo speed, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

“Ella?” I call out.

“Over here,” she shouts back.

We find her several aisles away, reaching into a cupboard that’s been busted open. Her tiptoes crunching over the shattered glass scattered around her feet. A short distance away, lying on the floor, is a tungsten toy snake, one of the ones from the Gallery.

Rocking onto her heels, Ella pulls out a small wooden box.

“What’s that?” I ask, peering over her shoulder. Though the indentation on the bottom suggests it’s meant to hold something, the box is empty. Ella closes the hinged box. Engraved on the top are several symbols. A lightning bolt, a circle with perpendicular lines cutting through it, a feather, and a spiral.

I know what those symbols mean.

Oma’s voice punches through the back of my mind, the thwack of a book cover slapping her palm with every word. Inspiration. Exploration. Expression. Legacy. An echo from my lessons on how to become fablemaker. Fury and confusion and panic stir in my chest. Thoughts connect in my head. Is that what the letter was about? Did Oma entrust Jem to become fablemaker? Jem… and not me? Surely not.

“Those symbols appear on the Boulevard statues, don’t they?” Ella says.

“Oh hey, yeah. She’s right,” Bertram chimes in.

“We need to keep moving,” I say.

“Frankie’s right,” Rhodes says, holding his phone in the air with a shake. “Battery’s about to die and Jem’s still a ways ahead.”

I squint. “How many more rooms do you think there are?”

Rhodes shrugs. “No idea.”

Ella places the box back in the cabinet, and we move on. Just before I leave the Collections room, I catch a green flickering light in the far corner. Another emergency exit.

We move down another hallway. When we shove open the heavy wooden door at the end, I’m hit with the intense scent of old paper and dust.

“Jem?” I shout. The silence that calls back is dense.

Like the Collections, the Archives room is fitted with narrow-aisled shelving, only its shelves are taller and packed tight with books. I step farther into the room and shout Jem’s name again. Again, nothing. And that’s when I realize, unlike the other two rooms, there’s no door at the end of this center aisle.

I turn to the group, pointing to where it should be. “I think we’ve reached the end.”

Ella steps away to explore, calling over her shoulder, “Do you think he could have somehow snuck past us and headed back out the way we came?”

“No,” Rhodes says. “It said his location was ahead of us.”

“If he’s not here, then where the hell is he?” Bertram huffs, running a hand through his hair, frustrated. He turns to Zara, who’s staring at the ceiling, frowning in concentration.

“We must be missing something,” she says.

“Yes,” Bertram replies dryly. “We’re missing Jeremiah.” He says Jem’s name like it’s a chore.

“Well, this is strange,” Ella’s voice comes from down the aisle. She’s crouched down, head tilted sideways as she traces her finger over the spines, translating titles as she goes. “ ‘Ulfric Once Again’? ‘The Dancing Bear’? ‘Hedy and the Hazel Witch’? None of these are Der Flüsterwald stories.”

“Looky here,” Rhodes says, pulling a book off the shelf. “It’s ‘Anna and the Fablemaker.’ ” He holds it up. The cover is brown leather, its gilded German title winking in the light. It was one of the first Der Flüsterwald stories, about the romance between a creator and their creation. Rhodes lets it fall open in his hands and delicately leafs through the crackling pages, which are stiff and brittle.

Bertram comes up behind his brother and looks over his shoulder. “I found ‘Jars of Hearts,’ ” he says, shaking the book in his hands, then starts singing one of the Sasha Moore songs about the vengeful nymph, Lorena, that includes the line seashell, scraped out, heartbreak over Chinese takeout.

Ella sinks into her hip. “So this must be where every Flüsterwald story ever written is kept. Including the ones that never made it to print.”

“This is a lot of stories,” Rhodes notes.

I think: Of course it is. Fablemakers have been creating stories for four generations. Creating them, then burying them away in the Vault.

Next to me Zara groans, her face strained.

“Hey.” I reach out and help her to her feet. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just—” She kneads her breastbone. “My chest hurts.”

“What do you mean?”

She cringes. “It feels like someone’s got my heart in their fist and is trying to yank it out of my chest.”

Bertram’s eyes widen. “Think it could be a heart attack?”

“God, I hope not,” Zara says, slapping his arm. “I’m only seventeen.”

“Do I need to get help?” I ask, resisting the urge to reach out, to fix whatever is wrong.

“I just need a minute,” she says, a tense look in her eyes. “I need to do something.”

I pull back and meet her eyes. “What?”

She thrusts her fingertips into her sternum, face scrunched, voice low. “I’m not sure exactly. I just need to go.” She turns and, in an instant, disappears down an aisle.

“We should head back,” Rhodes says.

I nod. “I know. You go ahead.”

“We can wait,” Ella says.

“No, really. It’s okay. We’ll catch up.”

As my cousins backtrack, I follow Zara wandering up one aisle and down the next one. And again and again. Like she’s on a line, being reeled in. Our footfalls echo up into the shadows soaring overhead, the ceiling indistinguishable.

Zara’s fingertips skim silently over book spines until suddenly she stops. “This one?” she asks herself as she pulls it out. She’s about to walk away when she pauses. “No way.”

“What is it?” I ask, slowly approaching her.

She tucks the first book under her arm and pulls out a second, a confused scowl on her face. “It’s ‘Der Stiller Mann,’ ” she says, letting it fall open in her hands. It is her favorite. Was that what she was looking for? Now, Zara’s one of those people who can read an entire novel in a couple of hours. Still, the pace at which she’s flicking through the pages is wild. Just as I reach her, she glances up, mouth hanging open. “Oh my god.”

“What?” I ask again, my patience eroding. “What is it?”

“Frankie, I—” She pulls in a sharp breath; there’s no end to her sentence in sight.

“Seriously Zara?” I snatch the book out of her hands, and her head drops. She clutches the other book tight to her chest as if it’s a lifeline.

I start reading. As I take in the story, my stomach twists. Page by page. This isn’t the version I know; not the one that appears in every bookshop around the world. In the story everyone knows, Der Stiller Mann is the villain. But here…

I read as fast as I can.

Der Stiller Mann

It was said that deep in the North Carolina mountains lies a summit where the earth pulses with magic and the air sparks with the possibility of the impossible. Throughout history it’s been called many things. The German immigrants who settled in the region called it Der Flüsterwald. The Whispering Woods. A place near the ear of the gods.

Like others, Wilhelm Strauss and Jeremiah Durchdenwald had heard of the mountain and the magic. As young boys, at dawn while they walked to school and in the evening as they completed their chores, they told each other stories about what might lie up there. As they grew, they wrote those stories down. They were still young when they began to achieve some publishing success with their ever-growing collection of fairy tales, which they called Die Märchen der Flüsterwald. The Tales from Whisperwood.

“We should find it,” Wilhelm said. “It would make a great story.”

Jeremiah couldn’t argue with that, so they set off at once to find the magical place that had fueled all their stories.

What no one knew, however, was that the magic wasn’t just weak, it was dying. Barely surviving.

Because magic must be used to live.

Still, somehow, they found it, though they didn’t realize it at first.

The sun was setting and Jeremiah began to tell a new tale as they built a fire near the shelter of a cave. He spun his story with imagination and heart, and since stories are in a way their own kind of enchantment it was easy for the magic to latch on to. To create. To begin regaining its strength. “No one ever suspects birds to be dealers of magic,” Jeremiah said. “They expect witches and sorcerers. Never birds. But birds liked it that way. Being underestimated always gives one an advantage. They were called whisperlings.”

Jeremiah stopped speaking at a noise nearby. The young men looked up from their work to find they were not alone—hundreds of winged creatures were swooping and soaring and chattering around them. Unlike any bird they’d ever seen before.

They were each about to say something when one landed in front of them, head cocked, a glint of knowing in its eyes. It was in that very moment they learned that sometimes the things we want are, in fact, terrifying when they’re standing in front of us.

It hopped closer, and the young men were about to run when it opened its beak, and instead of birdsong, it spoke human words, its voice raspy and racked. “Finish… the story.”

Jeremiah did so, long into the night. Sweating from exertion, trembling from the power and from the fear that he’d drifted into waters more treacherous than he could sail. At one point, a coyote crept up and sunk its teeth into one of the birds. The flock quickly descended, and when they were finished, all that remained of the coyote was its bones.

The injured bird limped toward Jeremiah, but what spilled from its wound was not blood. Owing to the story magic that created it, thick black liquid coursed through its veins. It wasn’t a real bird—Jeremiah knew it wouldn’t die from its injury—but it was a nagging loose thread in the story he’d constructed. So he spoke a line of the bird’s recovery. The words drained him, but the bird was healed.

When he finished the story, the magic thanked them. It was stronger now. Just a little.

Jeremiah worried about what that might mean, but Wilhelm was fully consumed by a plan forming in his head.

“Are you sure this is such a good idea?” Jeremiah asked.

“It’s not a good idea,” Wilhelm replied. “It is the greatest idea.”

They then turned to address the flock, only there was not a single bird in sight. What stood in front of them was a man. Or, at least, something shaped like a man. It was tall and broad, but its edges blurred as if in constant motion. Then understanding came over them: It was the birds, the murmuration amalgamated. At once not the magic itself but also the magic entirely. The narrative embodiment, the story of how the magic came to be, without which it would be less than a whisper in the woods.

“Magic?” Wilhelm asked, and the magic nodded. Then he proposed an arrangement. They would remain in the Whisperwood and use the magic, strengthen it, keep it alive. In return the magic must answer to them, create for them, breathe literal life into the stories trapped inside their heads. They would be fablemakers.

“But you are mortal. What will happen when you’re gone?” the magic asked.

“We will hand over the role to someone new,” Wilhelm said. “So long as there’s a fablemaker, stories will be made, sustaining you. That is a promise.”

The magic nodded.

“And a blood pact,” Jeremiah interjected, his mind racing back to the dark liquid that bled out of the bird.

“With this,” the magic said, plunging its hand deep inside itself. It withdrew something shaped like an inkwell. “The heart of magic,” the magic explained, and the men thought it fitting, considering what they were and what they were about to become.

“Yes,” Wilhelm said. “Give us your heart, and we will fill the world with the magic of stories.”

So, at the cave where the magic was born, with blood the deal was made, and immediately they began to breathe life into all the tales they’d only ever known on paper. After that, they moved on to stories they’d only just begun to imagine. The stories became flesh and bone and breath, and tomes that filled their shelves.

As for the park? That, too, was Wilhelm’s idea.

“How much do you think someone would pay to see this sort of thing?” he asked.

And thus, Whisperwood Park was born.

It was a fantastic idea. At first, anyway.

New stories were made. The park of magical creations grew in tandem with the young men’s collection of published works. Other things grew, too, though more quietly: the magic’s strength and Jeremiah’s sense of foreboding. He alone sensed the danger that plagued their every word, and he feared the day this entire plan would unravel.

But while magic might be dangerous, it was love that proved lethal.

Wilhelm hadn’t meant to make a story as beautiful as Anna. He was fascinated by her and her beauty, and took his time telling her story. He feared THE END. He also hadn’t meant to fall in love with her. But it felt strange—wrong, even—to love something you control completely. So, slowly, he loosened his grip on her. She was perfect, and he trusted her entirely. To him, she was so, so right.

He, however, was wrong.

One night, she slipped into the house the young men had built. She moved, quiet as yearning, and held a knife to Wilhelm’s throat. She would have killed him, had it not been for Jeremiah. He knocked her over, the knife flinging out of her grip as he wrapped his arms tightly around her, restraining her.

She had tricked them.

Nothing but lies.

“You have to do it,” Jeremiah shouted over her protests. “Her story needs to end.”

They took her outside, a short distance from the house. Wilhelm finished her story, through gritted teeth and choked-back tears, all the way to THE END. It was dawn by the time it was over, when she moved from a work in progress to a completed tale. Her eyes shot wide and she let out a deafening scream. She writhed and bent and re-formed into something new, something that would be shared and immortal. She became Die Spiegelungfluren, the Mirage Halls, an ornate, golden schloss manor that winked in the morning light, with winding, mirrored halls inside.

“Maybe this was all a mistake,” Jeremiah muttered.

“The only mistake,” Wilhelm replied, “was believing fairy tales had happy endings.”

Wilhelm turned one way, disappearing into the house, and Jeremiah turned the other, but his path was blocked by several birds, their feathers raised, eyes locked darkly on him. Above, the flock rustled menacingly in the trees. Jeremiah backed away slowly; then he, too, retreated indoors.

Exhausted and broken, Wilhelm spent the day in fitful slumber, while Jeremiah busied himself with chores, his thoughts consumed by the dangers of their magical arrangement and what they’d created. That night, while Wilhelm remained in his bed, Jeremiah was unable to sleep. He quietly rose, determined to unravel what they had done.

He began to tell a story—their story—only he would tell it in reverse until it had never even happened. Starting with that very morning when Wilhelm had finished Anna’s story.

“It all started at sunset,” he said, “at the precise moment when a broken heart began to believe in happy endings once again. That’s when the golden schloss manor collapsed. Within the rubble, covered in dust and debris, lay a girl.”

He didn’t see Wilhelm, didn’t see the stillernerium—a plant created by their story magic—in his friend’s hand. Wilhelm shoved the plant into his friend’s mouth. As soon as the leaves reached Jeremiah’s tongue, his world slipped away, his half-told tale trapped behind his teeth.

In an instant, a man became story.

He was no longer Jeremiah, a fablemaker of flesh and blood; he was Der Stiller Mann, a figure woven through with story magic.

As Der Stiller Mann collapsed, Wilhelm caught his limp body in his arms and lowered him to the ground.

“I’m sorry,” Wilhelm muttered through sobbing breaths. “I’m so, so sorry.”

Thus began Der Stiller Mann’s one-hundred-year sleep.

Years passed. Generations of fablemakers made their blood pact with the magic. A century of seasons and lives and societal progress. Wilhelm was long dead when Der Stiller Mann awoke. He gasped for breath, but because magic now ran through his veins, the half-told story caught in his mouth could not be contained within him. It leapt upon a girl who hovered above him, and she became Das Märchen Mädel—the Story Girl. One who loved the tales a little too much and was all too willing to let the magic reside within her.

 30 

I snap the book shut.

Jem is Der Stiller Mann.

Jem is Der fucking Stiller Mann.

My stomach churns, heart pulsing thick in my neck. I’m going to vomit. This story is nothing like the one I’d always been told. This is history unedited. Der Stiller Mann never betrayed his brother.

God, it wasn’t even about brothers at all, but friends so close the word brother fell short of what they really were: a bond that had no name. It wasn’t blood that tied them together—it was something deeper, something carved into their bones. And the betrayal? Well, what we have here seems to be textbook gaslighting 101.

Jem had tried to save Wilhelm, my great-whatever-grandfather, from the story he created, the story he was foolish enough to fall in love with. A foolishness that compounded when he tried to give it freedom.

What was he thinking?

Then he stabbed Jem in the back, when all Jem was trying to do was make things right. Wilhelm put Jem to sleep for a hundred years, stripping him of his fablemaker status, cursing him as part story.

A haunted feeling settles over me. And that last bit, about the Story Girl. Who the hell is that referring to? The answer feels close, like something I should know. A word on the tip of my tongue, but my tongue has been chopped off. Overhead, the lights flicker. I rack my brain, gathering up the familiar threads within this story, ones that feel like they were ripped away from something else. “Anna and the Fablemaker.” The one about the romance between a creator and his creation. Though I suspect that it, too, is different from the one I was told as a child. Or maybe this story was ripped in two, to become palatable to a wider audience, to erase Wilhelm’s sins. History is penned by those who’ve prevailed, and they’ll write it down in any way they choose, because who’s there to make sure they tell the truth? Maybe that’s what all the Flüsterwald stories really are: archives, watered down and tweaked.

Next to me, Zara leafs through the book she’d originally pulled from the shelves. My nails dig into the “Der Stiller Mann” cover until my fingers ache. The air feels thin and inadequate. I want to throw the book across the room, but don’t know how to put it down.

I need to get out of here.

I stumble toward the corner where, if this room is like the rooms before it, there should be an emergency exit.

And this is most definitely an emergency.

I slam through the door; Zara shouts for me to wait up, but I can’t. I won’t. My footsteps echo off the walls of the stone stairwell as I spiral up flight after flight. Legs burning. Mind racing. Heart breaking.

I burst through a door, kicking up dust clouds as I shuffle into dappled daylight. The book slips from my hands as I reach out, catching my fall on a wooden bench. My knees hit the ground hard, jeans taking the brunt of the scrapings. Wet spring air floods my chest in shuddering gasps. I blink away tears burning behind my eyes, choke back the sob gurgling up my throat. The wood beneath my palms is damp. My heart is still hammering in my chest as I push myself to my feet and get my bearings.

I’m in the park’s open-air theater—Baumbühne, the Tree Stage—standing in the wide dirt path that separates the raised stage from the stadium seating. The benches go up some thirty rows or so. I glance behind me to see where the hell I came from, but can’t see any door, just the giant animatronic oak tree built into the wall of the stage’s left wing. I can’t count the number of times I’ve sat on these benches and listened to the deep voice of the tree narrate a story’s opening lines as actors took their places on stage. Just another way Flüsterwald stories were brought to life. The tree sits motionless now, of course. Its eyelids shut, mouth closed. The deep lenticels of the chin and brow and cheeks stiff as stone.

I take a slow and cautious breath, then take a slow and cautious step toward the tree, squinting, willing the thin lines of a door’s edge to appear. But none do. I definitely came from this direction. Time stretches out, yawning deeply as I try to make sense of things.

Then suddenly the tree’s chin swings open. I startle back as Zara appears in front of me. The door closes behind her, once again disappearing into the tree. She folds over, hands on knees, head bent toward the ground, out of air.

“Dammit, Frankie! I haven’t done cardio since freshman PE.” Several breaths later, she tilts her face up to meet mine. Her cheeks are flushed. Beads of sweat gather along her hairline. “Didn’t you hear me shouting for you?”

“I heard, I just—” I growl, heavy-breathed.

A flame of panic flickers in her eyes. “I found something,” she says, voice choked.

I narrow my eyes on her. “What is it?” I ask, and when she doesn’t answer me, I ask again. “Zara, what is it?”

She glances down to the book held tight to her chest. “I don’t know,” she says. But I can tell what she really means is: I know the answer, but it’s one that terrifies me.

The space between us vanishes as I reach out and take the book in my hands. “ ‘The Story Girl’?” I translate the title. Like in the Der Stiller Mann book. And as I open the book, a memory that was sunk to the bottom of my mind rises to the surface, like a corpse, bloated and buoyant from decomposition.

The top floor hallway lies quiet, the entire house caught in the stillness of slumbered breaths. “Come on, Frankie,” Zara whispered. “Let’s go investigate.”

We tiptoed down the stairs, opened the door carefully so it didn’t creak. Cool autumn air wrapped around us as soon as we stepped out of the house. We crossed the cobblestone courtyard and headed into the woods of Zauberwald, where we’d seen the figure disappear.

As we wandered through the woods, we passed by various attractions—the Ghost Lights, the Schoolhouse at Salvation Creek, the Underlord’s Messenger—each one enchanting Zara more than the one before it.

“There’s something about these story scenes at night,” she said, lit by moonlight scattered by the tree canopy, tracing her fingers along the low stone wall surrounding the Whisperwood equivalent of Rapunzel’s tower.

We were about to reach her favorite attraction: Der Stiller Mann. But we stopped short upon hearing a grumbling voice.

“Wilhelm.”

It took me a second to realize it was my grandmother. She stood across the clearing ahead, in front of the glass case, a notepad in her hands, the barrier gate swung open behind her. “You really were shit at bookkeeping.”

“What’s she doing out here?” I asked, but Zara took my hand and shushed me.

Oma heaved a sigh. Her hand with the notepad dropped loosely to her side. “They won’t be happy about this.” She ran her hand through her gray hair, which hung long and straight past her shoulders, then looked down at the glass box and groaned. “I’ll have to call the handyman in the morning.” She jotted something down in the notepad, then turned on her heel, slamming the gate shut behind her—

—and headed straight toward us.

Zara shoved me into the hidden side of a large tree, her hands splayed on the trunk to either side of me. We hid there, pressed together like flowers between pages, her breath on my neck. I kept waiting for Oma’s scolding voice, for the torrent of anger and disappointment to rain down on us, but as we waited there, pinned and out of sight, all I heard was the crashing of my heart against my ribs and Oma’s footfalls fading away through the crunchy detritus.

Oma was long out of sight before Zara peeled herself off me. “That was close,” she said.

“You think?” I squinted through the trees where Oma had disappeared. “What’s she doing out here in the middle of the night?”

But Zara was already across the clearing, clamoring over the metal barrier and pressing her face right up to the glass case. I followed her.

I always followed her.

“I sometimes wonder what color his eyes are,” she said, the glass surface fogging under her breath. She wiped it clear with her sweater sleeve, and looked down again, adding, “Bet he’s a good kisser.”

Then she flinched.

“What is it?” I asked, squinting, but it was impossible to see because of all the smudges covering the glass case.

There was hesitation in her voice as she leaned forward again and whispered, “I just thought I—”

She gulped back the rest of her sentence as a muted, music box sound filled the forest. We spun around, searching out the source that threaded through the trees. Then our screams obliterated every last shred of quiet as the glass coffin shattered in front of us. I tumbled back—shards rushing over my skin like a thousand honey locust thorns.

I lay sprawled on the forest floor, Zara slumped against the barrier, as Der Stiller Mann bolted upright inside his broken box. When his body teetered, his hands shot out for balance. He gripped the jagged edges to either side of him, tight. Then his mouth opened wide, and ink-black tendrils flung out and launched at Zara, seizing her as her scream capsized the world.

I scrambled to my feet, my legs made of jelly. A breeze chilled past. Blood brimmed between Der Stiller Mann’s fingers and slipped down the dingy glass remains of his box. No, not blood. What bled from him was black as night. Panic coursed through me as Zara’s body lifted off the ground, caught in the tendril’s grasp.

I leapt over the barrier, reaching for her bonds to tear her free, but my hands closed around nothing but cold air. As if it wasn’t there at all. So I took Zara’s arm instead, but her skin was slick and she slipped from my grip. I fell back, hitting the ground hard, and noticed blood on my hands. The tendrils weren’t just winding around her; they were forcing their way inside her, through every opening, every pore they could find.

Zara’s scream guttered out, voice hoarse. “Frankie…”

I turned and lunged at Der Stiller Mann. My arms wrapped around him as our bodies collided. We crashed to the forest floor; the impact rattled through my body. For the briefest of moments, the shadowy connection broke between them, before finding their target again. There was nothing I could do. He writhed as if it were out of his control, but I kept his body pinned under me.

I felt around the forest floor until my fingers closed around a large rock. Nausea roiled in my stomach as I lifted it over my head, ready to slam it down on his head.

Then a voice cut through the chaos.

“Stop!”

Oma emerged from the shadows of the forest, and Zara crumpled to the ground, gasping for air, her body flecked in bloody pinpricks. The tendrils retreated in both directions like startled sea anemones. Der Stiller Mann struggled beneath me. It was only when the tendrils cleared and he stilled that I saw he was no man. Not in the way I’d always imagined him, anyway. In my mind he’d been ten, maybe fifteen years my senior. But in reality, he must have been around my age. He locked eyes with me, his breath heaving beneath me. He looked terrible. He looked terrified.

I broke away, rolling off him, and he slowly sat himself up. My ears were still ringing as I crawled to Zara, reaching her at the same time my grandmother did.

“What have you done?” Oma asked.

“I—I don’t know?” I stammered. “What’s going on, Oma?”

Oma bent down and scowled at Zara’s wounds.

My mouth soundlessly opened as I watched Oma wipe across one of Zara’s still-weeping wounds. Only now, what stained her fingers was black, not red. Questions piled up in my chest, but before I could tease one away from the others, Der Stiller Mann spoke.

“Wilhelm,” he said. “Where is Wilhelm?” His voice creaked, as if it hadn’t been used for a century.

“Not now, Jeremiah,” Oma said through her teeth, and Der Stiller Mann’s eyes shot wide.

“How do you know who I am?” Der Stiller Mann knotted his bleeding hands into the hem of his linen top. “Who are you?”

I gripped the barrier and hauled myself up. Then Oma and I helped Zara to her feet. “Come along,” Oma said. “We need to tend to your injuries.” Immediately Zara and Der Stiller Mann followed her, but instead of leading us back to the house, she led us deeper into the park.

“Oma—” I started, but she shushed me.

“Why is—” I tried again, and again she hissed for me to be quiet.

For a long while, we walked in silence. Me between Zara, who kept shooting me loaded looks, and Oma, who kept glancing back at Der Stiller Mann as he trailed behind us, his face a mixture of confusion and resignation.

“Where are we going?” I asked as we walked under the sign that read the wilds at the far end of the park.

“Just a little farther, Frankie.”

When we reached a cabin deep in the woods, Oma ushered us inside and told us to take a seat. Zara and I perched ourselves on a settee across from Der Stiller Mann, who took one of the wingback chairs.

She uncorked a bottle and poured each of us a glass of water. “Drink slowly,” she instructed, then muttered to herself, “I have no idea how to properly dose this stuff and I don’t need any of you turning into a turnip.”

Oma tended to our wounds with poultices and tinctures. I was halfway through my glass when she spoke to me. “People are not meant to be tangled up in the story magic like this.” She gave a mighty sigh, her hands raking over her face. “I’m sorry, Frankie. You can’t remember. It is the only way to protect you.”

“Remember?” I asked, but the more I tried to recall what had led us to this cabin in the woods, the fuzzier things became.

But now, standing in the Baumbühne, I saw it all perfectly clear in my mind.

Oma telling Der Stiller Mann, Jeremiah, Jem, to stay put; there was a bed in the loft and she’d return soon. Oma then led Zara and me back to the house, our drinks still in hand. Time dragged on as we tromped through a silence that seemed ten times deeper in the dark. It wasn’t until we hit the Boulevard lights that I caught Oma’s eyes, sharp with calculation. With what, I had no clue, and I wasn’t about to pry. We followed her upstairs, where she tucked us into bed and said we’d talk in the morning. My sleep was thin and I woke much too late. Zara had already left and Oma was standing at the front gates making a press statement.

Whisperwood Park was to close its gates, immediately and for the foreseeable future.

 31 

That’s why you never came,” I say, my voice hollow as I weigh up my emotions with this new information and the things I already know. “You… you’re part story. Just like Jem.”

“Der Stiller Mann,” she says.

I nod. “Both of you were subject to the will of the fablemaker. And Oma kept you away from me.”

“That’s what she meant by her threat,” Zara says, tracing the title of the book in her hands. “She could make me stay away. She could and she did.”

I groan. My fingertips counter-press the pain rising behind my eyes.

“I didn’t know, Frankie. I would have come to you, you know that, right? I didn’t have a choice and I didn’t even know I didn’t have a choice.”

Something like regret stirs inside me. There are endings that are like closed chapters—but with hers, it was pages ripped right out. I don’t know if I can keep going with the raw edges gaping in the middle. I don’t know how to forget and I don’t know what’s more tragic, that I was reaching for her wherever I went, or that now that I have her, I can’t figure out how to hold her with all the scars cutting between us.

Zara takes one of my hands and squeezes it. “I came to you as soon as I could,” she says, quick and staccato. Her expression carves further into worry with every word. “And now I have a choice. Virginia’s gone. There’s no fablemaker. And—” Her arms are around me, the book knocking into my spine. Her sobs are an avalanche, snot-covered and tear-streaked. She clings to me, her breaths come in shallow gasps, her body leaning into mine. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Zara?” I say, squeezing her back. “It’s not your fault.”

But somehow, even though I know that it wasn’t her fault, I don’t think I can ever shake loose the chain of emotions attached to these past eighteen months, regardless of fault. The heartbreak will haunt me forever. It’s a tragedy of no one’s design.

When she releases me, she’s shaking, and not just from the tears. Beneath the surface something dark stirs, and it makes me feel like I’ve swallowed a snowstorm.

“Are you okay?” I ask, reaching out, but she steps back and shakes her head. I ask again. “Zara, what’s wrong?”

Blush-cheeked and wild-eyed, her gaze searches me. “Frankie, I… I need to—” Her voice fizzles out.

I grip her shoulders. “What? What do you need? Just… tell me. I can help you.”

Again, she shakes her head, her expression twisting into knots as she starts scratching at her arms, hissing in sharp breaths over and over again. The fear inside me tightens. It’s Rhodes and the mosquitoes all over again. Except, it’s so much worse. It’s not just pain or discomfort on her face, it’s terror, and it’s also something different. It’s the face of the front coaster car, crested over the edge of the largest drop, seeing the distance ahead of you and waiting for the fall. There’s a hint of thrill.

“I think I understand now,” she whispers. “I am part story, yes. But… but I am also an unfinished story.”

“Okay?” I say, the hornet’s nest of tension making me gag on the word. “So—?”

“It’s like I said. There’s no fablemaker. No one to keep me to some narrative I never agreed to.” She is silent for a second, the cogs turning behind her eyes as her body rattles. Then she snaps her arms to her sides. “There is something I need to do.”

Before I can ask what, she’s away up the aisle. Leaping step to step through the benches. I snatch up the Der Stiller Mann book from the ground and race after her, my breath a branding iron in my chest.

At the top, she doesn’t break stride as she continues through the amphitheater’s arched entry. When she reaches Die Straße, she pauses, and I come even with her. She looks down at her arms, and I gasp. Black lines run like rivulets from the hem of her purple sleeve down to her fingertips.

“Zara!” I try to shout, but it comes out mangled. “What is going on?”

When she turns to me, I wish I hadn’t called for her attention. Her eyes are pitch black, her teeth bared. “I have to do it, Frankie.”

“Have to do what?”

“I have to finish the story. I have to write the end.” She drops the book as her hand reaches up and grips tight the collar of her shirt. There’s a pulse-like rhythm that courses through the air. Or maybe it’s just my heartbeat on overdrive.

In one clean motion, Zara pulls down, tearing her shirt in two. Exposing her pink lace bralette, and her skin that’s become a road map of tar-dark lines. She lets out one ragged breath after another, until they build to a throaty wail, her voice a thing of nightmares. Her nails dig into her skin.

I run to her, dropping the Der Stiller Mann book at our feet as I grab her. “Zara, stop!”

She shoves me, and I hit the ground so hard it knocks the wind out of me. An ache rolls through my body, and I curl up against the sharp pain throbbing in my side, helplessly watching as she tears what remains of her clothes to shreds, until they lie in a heap on the stony path. Her body is exposed and ruinous. A moment later, my stomach cliff dives.

Her fingernails sink into her flesh in a way I didn’t know was possible. She screams, a thing of triumph and horror all in one, as she tears her body apart, blood spilling out.

No. Not blood.

It is black and reeking of the strong sweet odor of printer’s ink. Ink. Just like Jem, from the night that for so long I could not remember. A shiver runs down my spine.

Dark rivulets rush out of her trembling body as she collapses onto her hands and knees, vomiting up black sludge that puddles beneath her. With each convulsive lurch her form breaks down a little bit more. Her head tilts back to an impossible angle and her leg twists in a contortion that defies the laws of anatomy. I am frozen to the spot and can’t look away.

The beautiful features of her face blur. Her skin ripples and shifts. The air groans, the atmosphere pulses, and then in one booming thump, a cloud black as soot surges from the ground. Just before my vision is annihilated, shock washes over her as her body shreds into dark ribbons, like a human party-popper.

I duck, holding my breath and shielding my face inside the collar of my top from the dust. For a moment, time seems to stand still. I’m in a universe all by myself, just me in an infinite dark with a gaping wound and my brain a hamster wheel of what the fuck what the fuck what the fuck. Then something hits the ground next to me, close enough in the quiet to feel it through the earth. I peel open my eyes, slicing through the dredge. Then I startle back. On the ground lies a bird, a whisperling. I wait for it to move, even just a flutter of its chest or flit of its wing, but: nothing. It’s dead. I’m about to poke it, just to be sure, but then the air clears on a breeze, revealing that Zara is gone. Not dead gone, but rather, she is no longer there. In her place is a ride, right in the middle of Die Straße. The track rises above the treetops and wraps around the sky tram line. There are several loops, an over-banked turn, and a heartline roll that peaks, then plummets into the ground, through a tunnel shaped like a sharp-toothed mouth. The sign above the entry reads fuchsnetz.

I rush over to the spot where Zara once stood, landing hard on my knees next to the discarded books. My lips form her name, but my voice is choked as tears burn at the corner of my eyes. Panic shudders through me; my throat closes around a sob.

But I can’t stop.

I reach down and pick up one of the books. Not Zara’s, but “Der Stiller Mann.”

Jem’s.

I flip past the beginning. Past finding the magic and my grandfather’s betrayal and Jem’s half-told story that attached to Zara. To the place where the blank pages begin.

I read the final words that have taken crisp shape on the page.

Since liberated from the fablemaker Virginia’s grip and learning his true nature, Der Stiller Mann knew one thing for certain: He needed to regain his title as fablemaker once more. But he couldn’t do it while the Der Stiller Mann story lived inside him. So he set off for the Nest, to write the end of his Flüsterwald tale, hoping this ending was just the beginning of something greater.

Most unfortunately, hope isn’t enough to keep one alive.

The book falls heavily into my lap, clapping shut. My hands curl into fists; my breath sticks in my chest. “What is he doing?”

The end.

I stare down at the spot where Zara vanished. The end is not something you go through, it’s something you land on. What happened to her will happen to him.

He’s going to get himself killed. Or whatever it is that happens to stories.

I need to get to the Nest and stop him before he makes a big mistake.

 32 

The Nest is a giant iron structure shaped like an antique birdcage. I approach the open doorway. Next to the entry is a sign that says keine sorge, the birds won’t urinate on you. A little bird humor because, fun fact, birds can’t pee, technically speaking.

They do, however, poop in abundance. A fact that is laid out before me; the packed-dirt ground inside the Nest is absolutely caked in bird shit. Overhead, the sound of caws and clicks and the wild beating of wings comes from the enormous tree situated at the center stuffed with an array of bird species. Its thick trunk shoots straight up, branching out at the top. At ground level, along the periphery, are various isolated alcoved cages connected to the main aviary.

From one, I hear a voice.

“You must believe me.”

It’s Jem.

His voice comes from a shadowy enclosure off to the side, its metal-barred door hanging wide open. I take a step toward it, but then I stop midstride. Cold pours down my spine.

“I shall entertain such a notion as belief only once irrefutable evidence graces my presence. My memory remains razor-sharp and I refuse to overlook what you did—or rather, what you tried to do.” It’s a voice I’ve never heard before. Moreover, it’s a voice that sounds all wrong. Every word begins with a shink, then chafes through vowels like cutlery scraping porcelain. The tone rakes inside my head, making the world tilt. I press my fingertips to my temples and hush myself to solid footing as the voice continues. “After all, belief costs a great deal, and you, my boy, are impecunious.”

It’s just my family and Jem inside the park—isn’t it? So who is he talking to?

And who the hell—other than Jem, probably—would use the word impecunious?

The conversation quiets to indiscernible undertones that I can’t hear over the restless bird noises. I cross the main space, my footfalls susurrous among a mess of excrement and shed feathers. I am aware that in some regions being defecated on by a bird is considered good luck, but in my opinion that’s illogical because you’ve literally just had the bad luck of being shat on by a bird.

As I approach the enclosure, I blink back the shadows until my eyes adjust to the lack of light. The first thing I see is something small and white moving in the gloom, and a moment later, I see the solitary shape within the dark that holds it.

“Jem?” I whisper, stepping in. He’s holding a piece of paper.

He spins around. The shadows peel away to reveal giant, once-vibrant wooden beads scattered across the floor and unraveled seagrass chew toys hanging from the ceiling. I search every unlit corner for the other voice, but it’s only Jem in here. I feel weak and weightless and want to run headlong into his arms and also punch him in the shoulder and let loose every emotion burdening me, but instead all thought is buried by the sound of my name on his lips.

“Miss Francesca?” The oxygen thins at the urgency in his tone, at the shape of my name in his mouth, as if it is the last thing he will ever say. He glances over his shoulder into the empty darkness behind him. “You shouldn’t be here. You—” He crosses the space to me, taking my arms, the paper crinkling under his grip as he pulls me closer. His eyes search me. “Heavens, you’re shaking. Are you hurt?”

I force my voice past the lump in my throat. “No. I’m not hurt,” I say, which honestly couldn’t be further from the truth—a truth that suddenly burns behind my eyes, and I can’t stop it. I can’t stop it. It is too familiar a feeling, my wounds ripped wide open. “You left me. Without a word, you up and vanished and just… left.”

A strained look of calculation crosses his face as he eases his grip on me. “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated?” I snap, backing away. “You, more than anyone, should know what that would have done to me.”

His expression breaks, hands pulling through his hair, air stuttering out of him. “You’re right. I’m so sorry.”

I ignore his apology. “We followed you to the Vault.”

“The Vault ? But how… ? You’d need a—” His thought cuts off and he glances over my shoulder. “We?” he asks.

“It’s just me now,” I say.

“But how did you know where I went?”

“Let’s just say the CIA should really consider recruiting Rhodes for their spy program.” I inch closer again, shrinking the electric space separating us, and shove the Der Stiller Mann book into his chest. Every cell in my body is volcanic. “I know who you are. I know what you are.”

“Hmmmm.” He sighs, his palm dragging across his mouth, kneading his jaw.

“Hmmmm?” I say back. “Is that all you have to say?”

“What would you have me say?”

“Did you—?” My voice hitches as I scramble to collect my nerve, because it’s the larger ramifications of my question that make my heart feel like it’s got cutting wire wrapped around it too tight. “This whole time, did you know you were a story?”

He shakes his head. “Not exactly, Miss Francesca, no. I wasn’t aware people could get tangled up in the magic like that. But then I read ‘Der Stiller Mann’ and—”

I scoff. “But, surely you knew something happened?”

“Of course I did, I just didn’t know what. One moment, I was standing outside the cave, unraveling the story magic, and the next I’m sitting in a cottage with Virginia, entirely unable to verbalize any of the questions I desperately needed answers to. For eighteen months I went from theory to theory, trying to figure out what had happened to me. It never even crossed my mind that I could be a story. The idea is just preposterous. But I’ve read the book, same as you. I understand now. And somehow understanding part of the truth must have weakened the forgetting spell from the well water, because I remember that night now, too—about you and Zara. But trust me, I didn’t know. The magic the fablemaker wields is so… subtle, so built into the story itself that I didn’t realize.”

“So was it ever you?” I ask. I don’t want to cry, but tears burn behind my eyes. “Or did my grandmother—” My words fall away as I choke back the unsaid thoughts.

Did my grandmother make you be nice to me? Did she make you like me?

“Not like that,” he says. He chews on his lip, again glancing over his shoulder before focusing down on the book cover—his book cover—fingers tracing the lettering. “It doesn’t seem like a fablemaker has that kind of control. Look at what happened with Anna and Wilhelm. When I said completely, I meant completely.” His eyes narrow on me. I must be wearing my confusion on my face because he says, “You don’t remember.”

My palms are sweating. There’s a loaded look in his eyes that makes me feel like I have a hot air balloon burning inside me, inching me off the ground.

“The other night?” He pauses, thoughtful. “When you were talking about cardiac arrest and self-destruction. That you couldn’t give your heart to anyone because no one would ever give their whole heart to you. That it was unbalanced. Incomplete.”

My entire body catches fire with embarrassment.

His voice dips. “I told you that you have me. Completely.”

I shake my head, my heart suddenly in my mouth. “How can completely be true? You’re trying to become fablemaker again.” I swallow hard. “I can’t let you. I won’t let you.”

His face carves into a scowl. “I must, Miss Francesca.”

“She knows.”

I startle. It’s that voice from earlier, coming from the darkness behind Jem… coming from nowhere. It continues, “She has seen the dramatic end that strikes a story when the final curtain falls, Jeremiah.”

“Jem?” I whisper, leaning closer to him.

The voice laughs, amused.

At first I see nothing, but then something unfolds before my eyes. It’s the shape of a man, trimmed in iridescence. Its features are a sucker punch, its presence otherworldly. It shoves off the cinderblock wall and approaches us, steps slow and measured. It’s only when it’s a breath away that I see it is fashioned entirely of whisperlings, stitched together so tightly it is impossible to discern one bird from another.

“Who are you?” I ask, voice thin.

It reaches out. A finger, silky and chilled, traces my chin. “You know who I am.”

I search its glassy eyes, a daring glimmer in its smirking expression. I don’t know how to be brave, but I suppose I can try my hand at being scared shitless and plowing ahead anyway, pretending that I’m not. “You’re the magic,” I say.

It nods. “Close enough,” it says, its feathery hand dropping away from me, at the same time Jem asks, voice grave, “Wait. What happened?”

At his question, everything inside me unravels. Her name chokes out over my lips, “Zara.” My vision floods with images of her tearing herself apart. I wipe away the welling tears on my sleeve. “She said she had to do it, she had to write the end… but then she came apart and this thing built up around where she was and she was gone.”

“Her monument?” Jem asks stiffly.

“Fuchsnetz.” The magic’s skin flutters, a thousand shivering wings.

“How do you know that?” I ask, sniffling.

“I know every storyline. After all, they all lead back to me.”

“Wait.” I point to Jem, swallowing back the sadness. “You’re the same. Part story, just like Zara. Why aren’t you compelled?”

“What do you mean?”

“She didn’t seem to have a choice. She had to finish the story. It was almost like she was possessed.” When I meet Jem’s eyes, something like guilt splinters across his face.

“Though they may both be part story, they are far from the same, Francesca.” The magic laughs, harsh and dry, and it is a miracle I don’t tear it limb from limb. “That friend of yours—Zara?—she allowed the story to get so twisted up in the very essence of who she was that it controlled her.”

“She couldn’t live without it,” Jem mutters.

It’s a reality that makes every inch of me ache. “But that’s not the case for you?” I ask.

“Maybe it’s because I was once fablemaker?” Jem says. “I can feel the magic’s pull, and it’s strong, but for some reason I can still resist it.”

“She died because she was too weak to separate herself from the story,” the magic sneers, its words made of daggers that sink deep between my ribs. “When the story ended, so too did she.”

Jem clears his throat. “And what was it?” he asks. “Her monument?”

“It was a ride,” I say, my voice thin.

Jem squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing through a sigh. “I’m so sorry. I know she meant a lot.”

It’s such an uncomplicated way of describing things—words that if said by anyone else might come off as dismissive, but not from him. Doesn’t he know he means a lot too? My hands ball up tight, fingernails digging into my palms. “Why risk it, Jem?” I ask.

“I already told you. I must.”

“You must,” I echo bitterly, my heart snagging on a truth I don’t think I’ll ever escape: I will never be the thing that matters most. I exhale sharply. “To keep Whisperwood alive?”

His face contorts, but all he does is repeat himself. “I must.”

I reach out for him, ignoring the magic’s eye roll as I grip Jem’s arms tight. He meets my eyes, and I am begging. “Please, don’t. You can’t let all this carry on. Not after all that’s happened. And I—” I don’t immediately know how to finish my sentence, stumbling over a heart that’s breaking and words that aren’t quite right.

He pulls me in tight to his chest. “I assure you, I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t know that.” I tilt my head up. “Besides, that’s not the whole point.”

My cheeks burn as his fingers thread through my hair until he’s cradling my head. His hold is solid, and I have forgotten how to function. He bends closer, my heartbeat lurching as he presses his forehead to mine. Warmth unfurls inside my chest; my fingers curl around the rolled-up cuffs of his sleeves, the smell of lavender and fresh mint pouring over me. His voice drops to near silence. “You should leave.”

“You’re forgetting another important part of the equation,” the magic says, singsong, as it inspects his hand.

I pull back from Jem. “What is he talking about?”

Jem’s jaw works, as if he were chewing rage like bubblegum. “When Wilhelm and I first became fablemakers, we poured ourselves—our blood—into the heart of the magic, which it had given willingly. But now someone is being uncooperative.”

“I have no need for a fablemaker anymore,” the magic replies. “And you speak as if I have no recollection of the past.”

“Have you forgotten how I found you? Weak and on death’s doorstep? You recall that before that, you had been strong as well, but you eroded away. See, humans live and we die and we pass on the torch and there is strength in that constant renewal that you can never achieve.”

“You, boy, tried to end me. Permanently.”

“I’ve already told you, Magic. I have no intention of ending either the park or you. Furthermore, I have no desire to confine you as Virginia did.”

The words in his mouth make my heart dip.

“I didn’t like Virginia,” the magic says, bristling its feathers. “She made me sit so still.”

“Let me be fablemaker again. I’ll keep the magic alive and tell the tales. Just give me the heart.”

“I think I can manage on my own,” the magic says.

“If you’re so certain,” Jem says, folding his arms, “then why are you still here speaking with me?”

The magic stands silent for a while, a look of consideration about him, then says, “Very well. Prove it.”

“Jem,” I say, demanding his attention. I press my teeth together until I feel like they’re going to crack.

He turns to me now, his hand taking mine. A touch that makes my entire body surrender to a flood of warmth. His gaze barrels into me as he nods slowly.

“Jem, don’t.” Fear grips my voice. “This is a really bad idea. And I—”

“You what?” he says, a small smirk to his lips. “Be careful, Miss Francesca. You might make me think you’re preparing to self-destruct.”

I look at him, and all the things I said while half-asleep bubble up to the surface of my mind. Like: I like you. And: A lot. And the irrefutable, all too real, capital T Truth: Love really is the most beguiling form of self-destruction. And I, ladies and gentlemen, have self-destructed to oblivion. Me and my stupid heart and my stupid brain. My hands drag down my face; then I step back, groaning. “God, I really fucked everything up.”

“You?” Jem’s eyes narrow on me, searching my face for answers. He follows my retreat. “What am I missing?”

I sigh. “I’m going to tell you something, but I need you to hear me all the way out and try to remember all that talk of self-destruction.” I lace my fingers together, take a deep breath to calm my nerves. “Jem—” I say, my voice falling away, uncertain.

I know his story, have read the pages of his life, and now it is time for mine. It’s a story. But it is also a confession.

“This,” I say, choking on the words, “this is all my fault. I’m the reason the magic has no fablemaker and went haywire. The reason Oma is gone… the reason she’s dead.”

 33 

Oma was not the easiest person to be around. We both know that. She was the hellish blueprint for all her hellish offspring, and even they didn’t want anything to do with her once the park was out of the equation. Even I’d be lying if I said that my reasons for visiting every week were entirely honorable.

“I couldn’t remember anything from the night before the park closed and Zara effectively vanished from my life. Something had happened, but the morning after, when I tried to broach the subject with Oma, she shot me down. I tried to reach Zara. But as days of unanswered calls and texts piled up, I grew more desperate. I had lost everything in one fell swoop: the park I had grown up in—with its stories I so often hid behind—and the person who had managed to tease my own story out of me. Both gone. And in the loneliness, the grief of those two things spiraled around each other in a way that made them feel inextricable. I became convinced that the solution lay in bringing them together again. If I could just get Oma to reopen the park, I could get Zara’s attention and get her to talk to me about what happened. I could get her back.

“I had to be sneaky. I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere unless I was close to Oma. So, a week after my world went up in flames, I began to bring Oma weekly provisions.

“It must have been six months since she shut the park, long enough that you and I had started to become… friends… by then. Okay, fine. Something more than friends, but that’s besides the point. I was losing hope and starting to wonder why I was still coming, when Oma asked me two peculiar questions as I was leaving the house one day: Do you think there are secrets worth dying for? And do you believe in magic?

“When I arrived the following week, I found Oma in the kitchen tearing a telephone off the wall. I caught her eye, exhaustion held her by the throat. It was in the way her posture sagged and the dark bruises that ringed her heavy eyes. She set down the phone and told me to follow her.

“There were so many questions I had hoped would get answered—about that night I couldn’t remember and about why Zara might have left me in the lurch like that—but Oma instead told me something so much bigger. Pointing to the statues as we walked up the Boulevard, she told me about the magic and the fablemakers. She told me that she no longer had the strength to command the magic. That she had chosen me to take over the role of fablemaker.

“And all I could think was: This is it. This is exactly what I need to get Zara back.

“Oma gave me lessons, groomed me. I knew she wasn’t telling me everything, but each week I brought her groceries, and she taught me a little bit more. About the magic, how it worked, and most important, how dangerous it was. That was the refrain to our lessons.

“Then, the other week when I was dropping off supplies, no one answered the door. I took them into the kitchen and put them away. Still, Oma never appeared. We were nothing if not consistent. I always came on the same day at the same time and Oma always taught me a little bit more.

“But that day, the house wasn’t just still, it was dead quiet.

“I poked my head in the bathroom and library. Both lay empty. Then I went to the breakfast room, then the scullery, then out to the far end of the hedge garden, even though I’d never seen her venture that far since the park closed. She always kept to the house. She rarely went upstairs during the day, but still I climbed to the second floor and then to the top.

“Nothing.

“I came back to the ground floor and stood in the main hallway, wondering where the hell she could be, when I noticed something: The basement door was open. Just a sliver, but I had never seen the basement unlocked, much less left ajar, even before the gates closed. No one was ever allowed down there. Something about mold and dust and it being structurally unsafe.

“I went down. At the bottom was a hallway that stretched in one direction to a portrait hanging on a dead-end wall, and the other to a door. Directly in front of me, a closet stood open, packed with leather-bound books. I picked one up. On the cover, in gilded letters, were the words The Untaming of Magic. And below it: Die Märchen der Flüsterwald.

“It wasn’t a story I’d ever heard of before. I was about to reach out for another book when I heard a noise and saw dull light slicing out from the gap under the door at the end of the hallway.

“I followed the sound. I didn’t see Oma at first. All I saw was a large wooden desk. Then I heard it again: a noise.

“I circled around the desk and found Oma sprawled on the floor. I called her name, reached down for her, braced her brittle frame as I helped her sit up. She scolded me and told me I shouldn’t be down there. And all I could think of was how frail she looked. I’m not sure how she had the energy to be angry.

“I offered to call an ambulance, but Oma told me I was being ridiculous. But there was a spot on her temple that had already begun to swell and bruise, and I asked her if she was sure she didn’t want it looked at. Pain sparked the side of my head when she smacked me. She told me not to test her.

“Once I’d moved her onto the sofa, she bent over, cradling her head in her hands, and I asked her what was wrong. She said that she couldn’t do it. And when I asked her do what, she told me how she’d been trying for months to snuff out the magic, destroy it for good, but she had only gotten weaker and the magic had only gotten stronger. It was up to me now.

“I thought: She couldn’t possibly be serious.

“You want me to destroy the magic? I asked, and she nodded. I was so confused. This whole time, I had thought she was preparing me to take over as fablemaker, to reopen the park—my one chance to get Zara back. But now she was telling me I had to tear it all down.

“It’s much too dangerous, she said.

“But what’s been the point of my training? I asked. The family has been waiting, hoping you would reopen. They won’t last much longer without the park.

“But Oma didn’t care. She just said, Sometimes we have to do what feels wrong, in order to do what we know is right.

“I wasn’t just frustrated, I was furious. Seriously, the arrogance of this woman. And who gets to say what is right and what is wrong? I asked her.

“She looked at me hard and said, The fablemaker.

“The smart thing would have been to bite my tongue and just keep my mouth shut, but I was burning with emotions, and feelings make fools of us all. So, stupidly, I said to her, A little danger feels like a small sacrifice in order to keep something that can never be replaced.

“That’s when she told me to leave, and when I asked her about our magic lesson for the day, she told me, Not now. She didn’t have to say more for me to know what this really meant: I blew it. And I knew I had to do something quick before she found another way to destroy the one thing I needed to get Zara back. I told her I’d see her next week.

“I hadn’t even left the parking lot when the idea came to me: stillernerium. As shitty as putting someone to sleep for a century might be, I rationalized that I wasn’t killing her. God, I would never do anything like that. And Oma would do ten times worse to me or anyone else without a second thought if she thought she had no other choice. I would put the stillernerium in Oma’s tea and she would drift peacefully off to sleep.

“But then Uncle Geoffrey roped me into that party… and I knew Oma had to make an appearance. I didn’t have a bunch of time.

“After. I told myself, I could wait until after the party. But my family decided to stay and I had to work around them. And you. You insisted on joining her for tea.

“I didn’t know what to do. I tried to get you to leave, but you wouldn’t. You have no idea the relief I felt when you showed up the next morning. At first I thought you didn’t drink it, but your teacup was empty. It didn’t make any sense. But then I found out who you were, and it suddenly came together: You already had that story magic inside you.

“When Oma disappeared… I swear, I didn’t know the magic would take her when she went to sleep. I didn’t know how bad it’d get. It was a mistake. I wish I could undo all of it.”

I’m rambling. Of course I’m rambling. After what I did… even though I didn’t mean to do it. I messed up everything and…

“What? What is it? Why are you looking at me like that?”

 34 

You let me drink it?” Jem mutters, the paper in his hand crumpling up in his fist. My heart sinks as his face works through several emotions.

“Yes, Francesca,” the magic interjects from the shadows of the enclosure. “That wasn’t very nice.”

Jem throws a sharp look at the magic, whose face gives the illusion of an innocent expression I want nothing more than to toe-boot to the stratosphere. Then Jem turns back to me.

“I’m sorry, Jem. Please…” I don’t know what I’m begging for exactly—forgiveness or cooperation or that he’ll believe me—only that I’m pretty sure begging is the right thing to do.

I see the tension in Jem’s jaw, the thoughts racing through his head. Birdsong echoes around us.

I huff. “You, more than anyone, know how dangerous this place—this magic—is. You knew it and you were going to stop it.” I cut a glance to the magic, then back to Jem. “Surely you can still see that.”

Jem nods slowly.

The magic groans, “Are you really that easily persuaded by a pretty face?”

But Jem throws up a silencing hand. “I’ve said nothing.”

My breath is shallow, my heart bludgeoning my sternum. From fear. From the proximity of Jem as he closes the distance between us. “Please,” I say again. My voice is so small. “We need to end this.”

He curls his hand and glides his knuckles down my jawline. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miss Francesca.”

Shit.

“Jem,” I say, voice in tatters. “It… it…” Breath coughs out of my chest, stuck on the thought of her. “It killed her, Jem.”

He cradles my face, his thumb brushing over my cheek, eyes locked on to mine. My pulse vibrates the atmosphere as my fingertips trace the outline of him. Down his neck, his shoulder, continuing until my palm rests in the crook of his elbow.

“Don’t do this,” I mutter.

He leans in, his voice thick and low. “Do you trust me?”

The words jar me. I am flushed and fevered and—

Behind me, the magic sighs, clearly bored.

Jem takes my hand in his, kissing my knuckles. “I need you to know I’m sorry.” His voice is too loud, too stiff.

“Sorry?” I mutter, but then he steps away, and I realize he’s slipped something into my hand. A crumpled-up piece of paper. I’m too shocked, too confused, too distracted by the phantom echo of his touch on my cheek and his lips on my hand, to understand what happens next until it’s already done: Jem backing away quickly, out of the enclosure, and shutting the door behind him. The click of the lock.

The magic laughs at the same time I shout, “What the hell?”

“Well? Is that proof enough for you?” Jem asks the magic as the shadowy figure steps past me and through the bars, joining Jem on the other side.

“I suppose it’s a start,” the magic grumbles.

I’m at the door, my free hand shaking on the bars, the other clenching the paper wad into my sweaty palm. “You can’t just leave me in here!”

“You followed me all the way here,” he says. The intensity in his eyes layers unspoken meaning beneath his words.

“Jem!” I exclaim. “Don’t do this.”

Jem gives me one last look before he and the magic turn away from my makeshift prison and waltz out of the Nest, disappearing from view. Once they’re gone, I open my fist and stretch out the wrinkled page he slipped into my hand.

Dear Jem,

It’s Oma’s letter. My hands frantically press out the wrinkles. I read on.

I hope we’ve had a moment to discuss this, but if not I’m sorry to have to put this all on you out of the blue. As you know, the magic must be undone. However, I do not have the strength to do it. I had every intention of giving this to Francesca, but it has become abundantly clear that she is not cut out for the task. I know your opinion of the magic, and that you once tried to unravel it yourself, and now I must ask you to finish what you started.

The letter goes on to explain directions to the Vault where Jem could learn more about who he was and where the fablemaker runes were kept. Then it directs him to a cave Oma says is hidden within the well of Flight to Forgetting, the place where he’s to perform some sort of blood ritual to become fablemaker.

That’s where he’s gone: the cave at the bottom of the well.

He asked me if I trusted him, but how can I when he’s going to write the end of “Der Stiller Mann” and could kill himself? How can I trust him when he wants to become fablemaker again, for the magic to carry on, and I now know—I know—just how devastating that would be.

God. Why can’t anything be straightforward?

Do you trust me?

You know, Jem, I’m not so sure. But I want to. I want to believe in him and hope there’s a way out of this.

But to get out of this, I first need to get out of here.

I haven’t even moved when terror flashes through my veins. Not because of Jem, but because of the birds. They’ve gone quiet.

My heaving breath echoes in my ears, casting the quiet around it in sharp relief.

Then, cutting through the stillness, comes a sound: like groaning metal and snapping bear traps. I strain, listening for the hoofed clip-clop of the Leicheziege’s steps, but instead what I get are footfalls that rattle the earth, sending shock waves through my body. I shrink back into the wall. Something I can’t see moves around in the aviary, but I don’t need to see it to know I’m dealing with something monstrous.

Then comes a groaning sound like an old garage door. I sink to the ground, my head tucked between my knees, my insides turning stiff, as the metallic sound is drowned out by a surge of birdcalls, hundreds of them, their song as sharp as a Leicheziege’s tongue.

 35 

There’s nowhere I can go to escape the death cries. Each bird song crescendos to its finale, only to have another replace it as it falls away. One by one, like waves relentlessly crashing against the shore. I wade through slurred melodies that shred through skin and sinew, until I’m scraped back to the bone. Shivering, I shut my eyes, stomach churning as the barbed wails drag on. I am skeletal and raw, fearing it will never end, that I’ll forever be stuck in this soundtrack of strangled nightmares.

Until finally it’s quiet again. I can only hope that it is also safe.

Okay, maybe not safe. But at least not imminently and fatally dangerous.

I open my eyes. My fingers dig into my pocket and retrieve Oma’s master key.

Do you trust me? he’d asked. Because he knew I’d follow him. Like I already had, into the Vault. A thing I could only have accomplished if I’d had one of these. I inch toward the door, keeping my back close to the cool concrete wall of the now silent aviary. I bend forward, craning to see.

Broken bird corpses lay scattered across the floor, crisscrossed with blood-smeared tracks. Dirt and excreted matter, stray feathers, mottled forms. Bodies torn back to the bone. Bodies dismembered. Bodies twitching with the last gasps of life.

I thread my arms between the bars, panic wringing my lungs. It takes several moments of measured breaths and awkward angles to unlock the door. The hinges groan as they swing open.

I tread cautiously through the slaughter. Over a butchered, half-plucked wing. Around a beheaded body lying belly-up. Twig legs pointing stiffly to the sky. Chests torn open. A trail of innards in a dark puddle. The quiet is so thick it feels like I could reach out and squeeze it.

When I reach the entrance, I glance quickly down Die Straße. The path seems to stretch endlessly, captured in a sleepy hush. A breeze kicks by, flicking the bright green of new growth on the hedges flanking the path. Boarded-up buildings lie silent on either side. Inside my chest, my heart seems determined to fracture my ribs. Overhead, the sky tram creaks back and forth.

I step out into the middle of the cobbled path. Then I hear a noise that makes my stomach melt.

Slowly, I turn around.

Then I look up.

Perched atop the entrance is a creature. It’s shadowed and backlit in a way that robs me of specifics. But I can see enough to know its head is slunk low, haunches raised, ready for attack.

A bitter taste floods my mouth. I retreat slowly, biting off a sob as the creature mirrors me, inching forward as I inch away. Its body moves with a sound that is both a groan and a high-pitched screech, setting my every nerve on edge.

A wall of silvery teeth snarls at me.

I don’t think. I run. Tearing down Die Straße, my feet nimble over the cobbles. The creature leaps off the entrance, hitting the ground with a dense scrape. It is on my heels, its breathy huffs just steps behind me; I can feel its footfalls shake the ground.

I cut hard, ducking into the narrow graveled space between the Weißwurst Hütte and the Tortenladen, just barely wide enough for me to run through, sight set on the woods beyond. Maybe I can lose it in there, or hide in one of the Zauberwald story scenes?

I’m still in the shadows between the buildings—overlooked by a faded anthropomorphic sausage on one side and a painting of raspberries on the other—when the creature lands in front of me, blocking my exit. My palm scrapes against sharp stones as I skid to a stop. The creature stares at me, eyes narrowed. It is easily six foot on all fours, body constructed of too-sharp angles, with driveling canines as big as butcher knives. The hair on its back bristles on end. Dark smears cover its ginger muzzle and cotton-white chest ruff. It shakes, flinging dirt loose from its coat.

I bolt in the opposite direction.

The beast’s body is technically too wide for the space, but that doesn’t stop it from lunging after me. I scream as its mouth clamps around the heel of my shoe. Gravel scatters. I hit the ground, loose stones digging into my throbbing hands. When I kick it in the face with my other foot, it releases my shoe and I scutter back. My body aches as I brace myself on the clapboard side of the structure and rise to my feet.

The slick scent of metal shoots through me. The creature lunges after me again, teeth cracking together over and over. I’m out of reach, but it’s still too close. Then it tries to back up, but it’s stuck, wedged between the buildings.

I turn and race back toward the Nest. I don’t want to lock myself inside with a bunch of dead birds, but it feels like the best option I have. I’m only halfway there when I hear a splintering sound.

My feet pound the earth, shattering up my body, breath incinerating my lungs. Dear god, I’m really out of shape.

“Frankie!”

I hear my name just before I hear the loud crack of the monster breaking free.

 36 

Ella’s face peers out of the entry to the Mirage Halls. She calls again, waving. “In here!”

I dive in.

Being inside the mirror-riddled halls feels like I’m perpetually falling over. Arms stretched out to either side of me for balance, I follow Ella as she leads the way. We turn once, then again, and again, and then suddenly I’m met by an infinite number of Bertrams and Rhodeses sitting in a dark, dead-end corner, lit only by the cold wash of backup lights. It takes longer than it should for me to figure out which are the real, three-dimensional versions of them. Rhodes shoves the last bite of a granola bar in his mouth.

I lean against the wall and slide down. Through fresh cuts in my shirt, the mirror-slick chill drags over my bare skin.

“Do you think it saw?” I ask breathlessly, turning to Ella.

She shakes her head. “Don’t think so. It was still stuck when you came in.”

Rhodes rakes his fingers aggressively through his sandy-blond hair. “What is that thing?”

I shake my head. “I don’t know. The magic… it’s gone wrong.” I narrow my eyes on them, one by one, doing my best to ignore the unending reflections. “What are you guys doing out here?”

“Looking for you,” Bertram says, crossing his arms. “And Zara. Y’all just took off. Like… what the hell?”

The sound of her name brings the sting of fresh tears to my eyes. I grimace, wiping them away with my sleeve.

“Frankie?” Rhodes scrambles over to me on all fours. “Where is she?”

I shake my head and swallow back a sob.

“Was it that thing?” Rhodes’s eyes cut toward the way out. “Did it—”

“No, it was—” I shake my head, not entirely sure how to describe what it is that happened to her. “She’s gone.”

“Gone?” Bertram asks. “Like—?”

I press my lips together tightly and nod.

Bertram huffs. “Shit.”

“I’m sorry, Frankie,” Rhodes says, hand landing on my knee.

“But you found him.” Ella steps closer, eyes honed. “Jem. You found him, didn’t you?”

I pull in a tense breath through my nose.

“I knew it,” Ella says.

“Okay, you found him.” Bertram folds his arms over his chest. “But where is he now?”

“He’s—” I start, then pause. I don’t want them going after him. I want them to leave the park. I want them to be safe. “He’s in trouble, but… you need to get out of here.”

“Trouble?” Ella echoes as if I hadn’t said the second bit, a brushstroke of confusion painted over her brow.

“What kind of trouble?” Rhodes asks, scooting closer.

I open my mouth to speak—what I’ll say, I don’t know—but in the next breath my words evaporate.

Ella raises a quiet finger to her lips as a noise from outside echoes down the mirrored hall. That burnished groan coupled with the sound of breaking bones.

Groan. Snick.

Gro—an. Snick. Click.

Then: silence.

“Frankie?” a voice chimes from outside. I trade wide-eyed looks with my cousins as Bertram mouths, What the fuck? Because it’s not just any voice.

It’s her voice.

“Frankie?” Zara calls and my body starts to shiver. “Where did you go?”

Ella leans in. “I thought you said she was dead?”

“Not dead. I thought—”

“Well,” Rhodes says, leaping to his feet. “We can’t just leave her out there. Not with that thing—”

I take off down the hall before he’s finished his thought, but Rhodes keeps stride as we race toward where we came in—one turn, two turns—

I collide with my cousin’s shoulder and knock into the mirrored wall, my entire body going weak.

“Frankie,” says Zara’s voice.

But it is not Zara.

Over Rhodes’s shoulder I see it—the thing, the creature that was chasing me—standing in the entry.

Rhodes backs into me as the creature skulks forward a step and curls its bloodied lips. My pulse reverberates in my stomach. Wedged between the creature’s oversized teeth is a black feather still attached to a chunk of grizzled bird flesh. I turn away from it, glancing back into the maze where Bertram and Ella stand. I give them a hard look, and they retreat farther into the shadows and then out of sight as the creature steps closer again. The mirrored halls shudder. Infinite backscattered monsters, mouths stretching open. It’s near enough I can smell its breath, reeking of raw meat and alloy steel gears. It lets out a long, jagged sound like an industrial car crusher. I pinch the hem of Rhodes’s shirt and tug twice. His hand closes around mine and squeezes.

Then it comes to me. Fox. Fuchs. Fuchsnetz.

The creature opens its mouth again, a long, slow yawning. But this time, it speaks. “Frankie.” It steps again, joints groaning like cog work. “Frankie, you’re here.”

Time hangs specter-still between one moment and the next. It’s Zara. Or what’s become of her. Then Rhodes whispers, “Run.”

He’s off down the hallway, dragging me along with him. We move on instinct, having been down these halls hundreds of times. The creature charges after us, skidding across the dust-slick floor, crashing into mirrors.

We turn left and then right and then right again, breaking into a sprint on a straight shot. At the end, another left and—

“Ah!” Bertram yelps as we crash into him and Ella. We stumble across the floor, panting heavily as we regain our balance and stare back down the dark hallway.

Somewhere within the depths of the maze, the creature thrashes around and screams my name.

“Frankie! Frankie! Frankie!”

“You said Jem was in trouble?” Rhodes asks.

I nod.

Ella’s face is one of intense concentration. “Right, then,” she says, nodding once, curtly. “Let’s get out of here.”

Bertram dusts himself off. “Don’t have to ask—”

A million tiny glass shards shatter through the air as the wall explodes in front of us. I throw my arms over my face. Paper-thin lacerations slice across my forearms. Fragments tinkle like miniature wind chimes as they skitter across the floor. I look up as the gigantic shadowy mass hauls itself to its feet.

Then it turns around and creates a sound that makes me think it’s enjoying this.

I run. Breath hot and heaving in my chest. The fox-monster trailing. We turn, but the creature’s feet lack grip, and it crashes into the wall with a loud, dull crack. It screams, a sound that starts as Zara’s, but then twists into a high-pitched keening that splits the air as it finds its feet once again.

I lead the way. Left and straight and right. Only a few more turns until we reach the end, where we’ll drop down a narrow chute to get out of this place.

I’m about to turn again when I’m knocked forward. Bertram flies into me, throwing us both several paces past the path we need and onto the ground. I groan. Rhodes and Ella help us to our feet, but it’s already too late.

We can see the monster’s giant shadow as it closes in on the previous corner. To go back to the turn that leads to the exit would be a death wish.

Ella shoves us onto an adjacent path. We follow it as it curls like a conch shell into a dead end where Ella presses herself flat against the mirror. Rhodes digs the heels of his hand into his eyes as Bertram fans himself through several practiced breaths. I try to visualize where we are in the maze. It doesn’t look good. We need the monster to take the exit path. If it continues down this way, either it’ll hit the dead end about thirty feet past where we are, only a small detour before inevitably finding us as it retraces its steps, or—

I creep back through the spiral, just enough to catch the reflection of the creature as it sniffs the air and moves past the exit route.

Shit.

I retreat silently, keeping low and to the shadows. The monster’s body groans. Its footfalls snick with every step. Past our spiral hiding spot. I let out a breath, but the relief is only temporary. It’ll come back. I return to my cousins, shaking my head. We spent our childhoods roaming this park together. They know what I mean. They know this maze, too. They know we are trapped.

Bertram leans close to my ear. “Just how important is it that you get to Jem?” he asks.

I try to imagine what would happen if Jem follows through. Either he’ll die or someone else will die down the line. The magic will only get more powerful, more dangerous. I bite down on my bottom lip and pinch my eyes shut, wishing that there was another answer. “I’m not overstating when I say it’s a matter of life and death.”

Rhodes motions us all to come close, foreheads pressed together in a huddle. “All right, team,” he whispers, expression steeled. “I can do this.”

“Do what?” Ella asks.

“Be the distraction.”

I gasp. “You can’t.”

“I can. I’m very fast.”

“Yeah, but—”

Rhodes throws his hands around as if he’s directing traffic. “I can run back past the exit route, freeing your path.”

“This is such a bad idea,” Ella says.

“It’s suicide,” I hiss.

“Not if I lose that thing. I’ll turn right, then take it through the whole misdirection in that upper quadrant. I can loop back to the branch-off and hop onto the exit route.”

“Rhodes—” Bertram cuts in.

“Or I could just go back to the entrance,” Rhodes finishes with a shrug. “It made a shortcut back there, right?”

“I don’t like this,” I say.

Rhodes grips my shoulders and smirks over his fear. “Don’t let my sacrifice be for nothing.” And he’s gone, disappeared around the corner before anyone can stop him.

My entire body contracts as a series of horrific noises ricochets endlessly off the mirrored walls. I exchange a look with Ella, who has turned her face into a weapon. I hear a deep, guttural groan. An inhuman squall. Rapid-fire clanking. And then: a scream.

Bertram lunges after his brother, but Ella has her arms around him. “You heard him,” she grunts through his attempts to wrestle free, and I know we’re all hearing Rhodes’s words echoing in our heads. Don’t let my sacrifice be for nothing.

The air then falls quiet.

“Come on,” I say, squeezing Bertram’s shoulder, my heart disintegrating inside my chest.

“We need to go,” Ella says, urgency in her voice now.

Bertram’s face is twisted up, tense. He nods and we start down the corridor. My head is floating. We’re about to turn down the exit path when the thick silence hanging in the halls is broken by a short burst of sound. A shuffle, a shout, and a crash.

“This is my heroic moment,” Bertram says. “Main character or bust!”

Before I can process Bertram’s words, he is down the hall and around the corner screaming, “That’s my brother!”

My body tenses, ready to run, when Ella’s hand grips mine and squeezes it. “Come on,” she says. “You said life and death. It’s up to us now.”

I know she’s right, even though nothing feels right at the moment.

I let myself get caught in the drag of Ella’s forward motion, turn after turn. When we reach the chute—a narrow slide that goes down several stories, but somehow manages to spit you out at ground level—she leaps in first. I glance once back down the dark hall from where we came, my heart leaden, then hop into the chute. I’m barely aware of the drop or the turns, every part of me lying captive to the memory of my cousin’s scream.

I tumble out the other end of the slide a bit disorientated because I can’t see Ella.

“Frankie!” Ella shouts from the open door to the security station a couple of buildings down. She glances up and down the path and waves me over.

I trot over to her, and she closes the door behind me as I step inside.

The security station is a fifteen-by-fifteen-foot single-room brick structure. The wall opposite the door is primarily occupied by a gigantic map of the Whisperwood Park grounds. To the left, behind the door, are an old refrigerator, a filing cabinet, and a long bench. A desk runs the length of the wall immediately to the right of the door, a beat-up rolling office chair tucked underneath, a busy bank of security feed screens above. And in the middle of the room—

“Rhodes!” I wrap my arms around him and squeeze. When I release him, his face is awash with concern.

“Where’s Bertram?” he asks.

“He—” Ella starts, but her mouth is unable to speak further.

“He went after you in the maze,” I say.

“Why would he do that?” Rhodes groans, turning to the screen bank. He leans on the desktop, shoulders notched, hands splayed over the white laminate top. “Where are you, you idiot?” His narrowed gaze flits from one feed to the next on the wall.

“Oh my god,” Ella says, and I twist my head to see what she’s looking at. On one screen the lanky, long-nosed creature Ende chases a ghost-white pony with four-foot-long cutting shears. In another, the little girl from “Der Sonne Zu Nah,” with her pigtails tied up with blue ribbons, is cartwheeling down Die Straße, head to toe covered in a raging fire.

I’m on my feet. “The magic,” I breathe out, disbelieving. “It’s reviving the stories.”

This is bad.

“He’s not—” Rhodes’s voice is tattered with grief. It’s more plea than declaration. His eyes leap from one screen to the next, not giving a single shit about the mayhem the magic is unleashing, only caring about what he’s unable to find. “He can’t be—”

But reality is unyielding. It doesn’t bend to our proclamations of what can and can’t be. It’s not a fairy tale a fablemaker can control. It can only stand for what is.

Bertram is gone.

 37 

I blink once and Rhodes becomes unrecognizable.

He lifts the desk chair from the floor as if it weighs nothing and launches it into the screen bank. I duck as glass shatters everywhere. Next to me, Ella squeaks. We both retreat. The backs of our knees knock into the bench, forcing us to sit, and when we sit, the backs of our heads knock into the wall. The desk chair thunks against the desk and then clatters onto the floor. Rhodes reaches out and fists a chunk of wires, yanking them out with a feral howl.

Ella meets my eye. “Should we stop him?” I ask, but she gives a small, sharp shake of her head, lips pressed tight, eyes glistening as she tries to hold back tears.

I glance up to the ceiling as a strangled whimper escapes from Rhodes. The back of my eyes spark with grief.

One of Rhodes’s hands closes around another bundle of wires, while the other cracks into a screen. Once. Twice. Because the pain inside needs someplace to go. Pain over what happened. Pain over what will never happen again. His brother is gone. I know no matter how much my heart aches for Bertram’s loss, Rhodes is feeling it a hundred times over.

Rhodes braces himself, breath ragged, palms smearing blood over the table.

“Rhodes?” I try.

He hunches over further and grunts.

The soles of my shoes crunch on the broken glass, and I cross the room to him, pressing my hand to his sweat-soaked shoulder. He spins around to face me. Tiny cuts etch his cheeks.

He gasps, his entire face pinched up. “Frankie,” he splutters, sadness catching in his throat. He shakes his head. And then his arms are around me. Sobs, sharp and ragged, shudder through him. I wrap my arms tightly around him. Hold him up as his knees give.

“I’m so sorry, Rhodes,” I say, knowing how insufficient those words are—knowing that every single word in existence will fall short. I blink away the tears welling in my eyes. I need to stay strong. For him.

Then Ella’s arms are around both of us. We become a tangle of limbs and hurt, burying sobs into one another’s shoulders until we are ragged; when the sobs become cries and cries become whimpers, we slowly release one another, our sniffles filling the silence.

“So,” Rhodes says, wiping his face off on his sleeve. “What do we do now?”

“Rhodes—” I start, but he shakes his head.

“I can’t just stop,” he says. “But I can’t see through this. Please, I need someone to tell me what’s next.”

Ella turns to me. “Well, first is there something you want to share with the class?”

I swallow hard and tell them everything. About Oma giving me lessons and how we got in a fight. That Jem thinks he can control the magic, but that he is magic and I fear becoming fablemaker might kill him.

“Holy heck,” Ella says. “So we need to destroy the park?”

“No,” I say. “There is no we—”

“Like hell there’s no we,” Ella says, firmly. “We’re in this together, whether you like it or not.”

I hesitate, glancing to Rhodes, but he’s looking at me expectantly, waiting for instruction.

“Look,” I begin, trying to gather my thoughts. “This is… it’s complicated. Dangerous. I don’t want to drag anyone else into it.”

Ella crosses her arms. “Bit late for that, Frankie. We’re already knee-deep in this mess.”

“Just tell us the plan,” Rhodes says, before asking, “You do have a plan?”

I nod. “I do,” I say. It’s at least partly true. “I need to find Jem.”

“And you know where he is?”

I nod again. “Flight to Forgetting. There’s a cave in there. That’s where he’s gone.” I’m about to say let’s go, when a noise knocks us out of conversation.

Our eyes swing to the door. The air hangs thick and heavy as I crane for the sound again.

“Bertram,” Rhodes whispers. A soft and small thing that evolves. He’s across the room, his hand on the doorknob, opening it. “I swear to god, I’m going to—”

“Wait,” Ella orders.

Rhodes freezes, carefully releasing the door, which is slightly ajar.

Then a voice from somewhere beyond the door. “You don’t think that boy could have done something to them, do you?”

It’s my mom.

“Why the fuck would he do that?” Uncle Preston replies.

“Insanity?” my mom speculates. “I swear once I find Frankie I am never letting her out of my sight again.”

Panic is a meaty, sweat-slicked fist crushing me in its grip. If she’s never going to let me out of her sight again, I really can’t be seen, can I?

“There,” Ella whispers, pointing to the decimated screen bank. Several feeds still function, flickering or partially broken. On one that is cracked down the middle and missing a large triangular chunk from the bottom, I see my mom standing with Uncle Preston. There’s no audio on the feeds, but we can hear their voices because they’re standing right outside the security station. I don’t know which stories they’ve encountered already, but I can’t imagine it was anything docile because they’re glancing around like deer in a forest clearing.

“Not really a fan of this whole thing,” my mom says.

“No shit. Mom’s missing. The kids have all fucked off to god knows where. And where the fuck is Geoffrey? I haven’t seen him since he took off into the goddamn trees. And—” He snaps his fingers together as if he can’t remember something. “There’s something else. Oh, right, the fucking park has animated and is trying to murder everyone.”

My mom turns her head. “Isn’t that the security station?” she asks. “Maybe we’ll find them on one of the feeds.”

“Oh shit,” Rhodes, Ella, and I all say in unison.

“We can’t let them find you,” Ella says, looking right at me.

My limbs feel like they belong to someone else. “You need to get them out of here. Out of the park.”

Rhodes nods to me. “You’ll find him,” he says. There’s certainty in his voice. Then he turns to Ella. “Let’s go.” He takes her by the hand and they’re out the door before I get in another word. The door closes with a click, and I turn to the screens as they appear on the security feed.

“Oh my god. Where have you two been?” my mom says.

“The fuck happened to you, Rhodes?” Uncle Preston asks, because between the lingering calamine and fresh blood he looks a mess.

“You should see the other guy.” Rhodes laughs nervously.

“Have you seen Frankie?” my mom asks, and my heart becomes an airplane in a nosedive.

“No,” Ella lies.

“But the park’s a big place,” Rhodes says, scratching the back of his head. “She could be anywhere.”

Uncle Preston shifts his weight between his feet, clearing his throat. “And your dad?” he asks. “Have you seen him? Or Bertram?”

I swallow hard, hoping that Rhodes can keep his poker face.

“Maybe they found Frankie?” Ella suggests.

“Maybe they went back to the house?” Rhodes says. “We should head that way.”

I turn toward the door as they shrink away on the video feed. My hand is on the knob when I hear a noise from outside the door that makes my body go rigid. When I look back to the video feed, Uncle Preston, my mom, Ella, and Rhodes are running for their lives as the Fuchsnetz monster chases after them.

And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

Copyright 1925

WILHELM STRAUSS

Printed in the United States of America

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without permission of the Schmerz Publishing Group.

Das Mädchen und der Brunnen

(The Girl and the Well)

Die Märchen der Flüsterwald

embellished Everyone knew of the well that lay deep in the forest. The one that whispered to restless souls and promised to erase all troubles for those who drank from its depths. Though many believed in its existence, few dared venture into the woods to find it.

Not far away, in a village cradled in a lush valley, there lived a girl named Greta and her younger brother, Emil. Greta was a beautiful girl with a heart as pure as the gold strands of hair that framed her freckled face. She spent her days tending to a flock of geese that she had inherited from her grandmother. Every day she would wake up at dawn, tie a beautiful indigo ribbon around her boots, and care for the birds, guiding them to the fields to graze and keeping them safe from harm. She would often talk to her geese, and they would listen to her as if they understood her every word.

Her brother, Emil, was small and loved nothing more than to listen to his sister tell stories about the fabled well and chase the geese around the yard before supper, as she sang to him the old song of their valley—

Listen closely, don’t you hear?

Within the trees, it whispers near

Hush now, child, you well know

The promise made to dreaming souls

Find the well, drink and heal

All the pain that you may feel

Hush now, child, don’t you cry

Just listen to my lullaby

Drink and troubles shall depart

So peace may fill your weary heart

Hush now, child, go to sleep

The night is long, the well is deep

Despite the fact that she had everything she needed to live a contented life, unhappiness weighed heavily on Greta’s heart. She felt trapped and dreamed of escaping the mundanity of the day-to-day. For something—anything—to happen.

Her answer came in the form of a voice, faint and distant, calling out from within the forest. Though she couldn’t make out the words, she knew the tune. It was the song of their valley.

She followed without hesitation—as if pulled by an invisible thread, through dense trees and thick undergrowth. Until she happened upon a small clearing. Suddenly, the song went silent. In the middle sat an old stone well bathed in sunlight that broke through the tree canopy. The voice was coming from inside the well. Only, when she looked over the well wall, there was no one inside. All she could see was water.

“Drink,” came a voice from within the water, clear as a crystalline melody. “Drink, and troubles shall depart.”

Without hesitation, she dipped the bucket into the well. As she lifted it to her lips, she imagined a life without the troubles that plagued her day in and day out. As she drank the water, she imagined years of carefree adventure.

No sooner had the cool water hit her throat than Greta felt a strange sensation coursing through her body. She dropped the bucket, its contents spilling onto the ground, and let out a gasp, only it didn’t come out as a gasp at all.

It was a honk.

What had once been her arms were now feathery wings, and where her legs had been were now rubbery stalks and webbed feet, striped in vibrant blue. Greta was no longer human. She was something other, something wild and free. She was a goose, and what troubles do geese have? She had no need for memory and she had no need for dreams.

She needed a nest, though. So she made one right then and there beside the well.

Greta’s years passed by in a blur, as they do for all geese. Flying and pecking at the bugs that scurry along the ground. She was truly without troubles.

Back home, Emil grew into a young man who cared for his dear mother and father. He thought about his sister often. How she ran away from home and how he longed for her return.

Then, one day, Emil’s father grew ill.

Emil was sitting on the porch, considering his troubles. “Greta,” he said. “She would have known what to do.” Then he heard a voice singing in the woods. He followed the familiar melody through the tangled trees, venturing deep into the forest. Yet no matter how hard he searched, he couldn’t find the voice. He was about to give up and head home when he came across a goose. It had golden feathers and legs striped in a most familiar shade of indigo. Then it trumpeted out a tune that made his heart ache.

“Greta!” he shouted, wrapping the goose in an embrace. “What happened to you?”

But Greta did not answer. She did not recognize him at all, for she was a goose. And even though geese are considered to be rather intelligent creatures, they are still birds.

“Don’t worry, sister,” he said, staring deep into the goose’s glassy eyes as the beginnings of an idea formed in his head. He needed to find the well from the old song of their valley. He didn’t know if it would work, in part because he was quite sure he knew how his sister became a goose in the first place, but he had to try.

Just then Greta hissed, flashing her razor-sharp teeth, and Emil dropped her to the ground. She waddled off through the trees, and he followed as she led him back to her nest. Back to—

“The well!” Emil exclaimed.

He wasted no time, drawing up a bucket and giving it to the goose. When she refused to take it, Emil tackled the goose and dumped the entire bucket on her head. Surely something will get in her mouth, he thought. A moment later, Emil stumbled back and watched in amazement as her feathers slowly fell away and her body unfolded, becoming his sister once more.

Greta looked up at him with terror in her eyes. “Who are you?” she screamed, snatching up a rock from the ground, ready to fight.

“Greta,” he said. “It’s me, Emil. Your brother.”

She blinked hard, confused. “Emil is just a child.”

“Look at yourself,” he said. She turned to the well and stared down at its reflective surface, touching her cheeks, older now, gasping as the memory of what she’d done came back to her.

“The water,” she said, sobbing.

Emil wrapped his arms around his sister. “Let me take you home.” He led her out of the forest, back to their parents. When they returned, their mother was weeping on the front step, for their father had passed while Emil was gone. But when she saw Greta, her tears of sadness turned to tears of joy.

From that day forward, they knew that true happiness came not from forgetting one’s troubles, but from embracing them and helping others carry theirs.

 38 

Flight to Forgetting stands before me. A towering mountain, capped in snow.

I climb the metal steps two at a time, legs burning, up to the loading platform. The guardrail groans as I lean over it to catch my breath, lungs on the verge of combustion. Below, the park stands stock-still—looping tracks of motionless roller coasters, overgrown greenery swallowing anything that dares to exist at or near ground level, faded paintwork chipping away—but I know it is anything but still. Somewhere below, story magic is wreaking havoc. A breeze sighs cool air over my cheeks. I push myself up and approach the ride’s entrance, relieved to see that the gate leading into the ride has been left wide open.

Someone’s been here.

Dizziness washes over me. Some people relish that dreamy, dazed-like feeling you get at the end. Blinking back the sudden sunlight as the car emerges from the ride’s dark bowels, covered in mist, and the lap bar lifts with a click. I am not some people. I prefer being able to remember things.

Several whisperlings glide overhead, wings stretched, then tilt back as they land in a tree. It’s like I’m being watched.

I debate taking a car through the ride, but that would mean forfeiting the whole stealth factor. So instead, I tie my hair back and walk to the far end of the platform. At the entry, I hop onto the track, using the open gate for balance. I shuffle sideways into the dark tunnel, and once I’m inside I leap back to the edge where a walkway skirts the track.

The ride, though motionless, is familiar as I pass through it. Not familiar in a remembering sort of way—I know the story, but I have zero memories from inside this ride despite having been on it a handful of times at Zara’s insistence—but rather, the familiarity is very déjà vu. The ghostly illusion of knowing, where some deep-seated instinct pulls me from A to B, my steps ghosting from room to room without any conscious awareness. And I know that’s because of the forgetting qualities it has. The magic. The water.

I reach the room where the young goose girl finds the Well for Forgetting and peers inside. She whispers her sorrows into its depths as she hauls up the water bucket. I approach the stone well, surrounded by artificial greenery—trees and vines and knee-high oat grass—and as I do, I hear something. Jem’s voice rattles up the well shaft, like tennis shoes in a tumble dryer, words rendered entirely indecipherable.

I rush over to it and look down, but I can’t see a thing. It’s all shadows upon shadows. Clear, cold air drifts up into my face. It is light in my chest as I breathe in the fresh smell of water and earth. I sling one leg over the edge so I’m straddling the stone well wall. With one hand, I brace myself on one of the wooden pillars supporting the tiny roof; with the other, I take hold of the rope, which dangles fully extended down the well shaft.

I am overcome with this very intense disbelieving feeling. It swishes around inside me as I lift my second foot over the well’s edge, feet hanging above an endless darkness. I give myself a second. A moment to change my mind. Maybe Jem’s right; maybe with him at the helm of Whisperwood, things won’t be so—

A deep whirring sound that would fracture bones tears up the well, cutting off my thought.

That can’t be good.

In a moment my back is pressed against one side of the stone shaft, my feet against the other. I grip the rope and maneuver my way into a rappelling position.

The movies make this whole Mission: Impossible wall-scaling nonsense look a whole lot easier than it actually is. My body is tense. The rope burns as it slips through my palms, the stone wall drags my shirt up and scrapes along my lower back, my feet can’t operate properly. After a few minutes, though, I seem to get the hang of it. Still, it’s not easy by any measure. My body finds a rhythm of feeding the rope through my hands as I trot farther and farther down. Step by step by step. It feels like I’ve been going down for ages. I step down again, and then I step on nothing at all.

The air rushes out of me. My body rocks, slipping, head pitching backward. My fists squeeze even tighter around the rope, palms positively searing as my heart sledgehammers in my chest. Below me, the darkness peels away and I realize that my legs are dangling in a space below that is wider than the shaft, hence why I lost my footing: There was nothing there. I see the rope trailing all the way to a packed-dirt floor, where it lies in a loose tangle, the end knotted tightly around a bucket handle. I inch down, past the lip of the shaft. My eyes are so used to the darkness that even the dim, sickly glow of after-hours lighting illuminates the space. I’m at the edge of a cavern about the size of a football field, but the stalactites and stalagmites make the space look more like the inside of a Leicheziege’s mouth than an underground gallery. The raw stone walls scale in uneven brushstrokes some thirty feet high and on the other end of the space: Jem and the magic.

They’re fighting.

Why are they fighting?

They circle each other, predatorily. The magic’s iridescent shadow stands tall opposite Jem’s exhausted stance, caught in a dance of who’s going to make the next move. I hold my breath. Jem lunges, his arms wide. But instead of tackling the magic, he himself hits the ground with a thud, as the magic disperses into a murmuration. I cling to the rope, recalling the way the magic seemed to walk right through the bars of the cage at the Nest. Only it didn’t walk through it. It’s able to deconstruct into a murmuration and reassemble back into a man as it pleases.

Jem struggles to his knees as the murmuration lifts into the air. It circles overhead before condensing back into the shape of a man as it lands on top of the stalagmite Jem is using to hoist himself up. The magic’s skin ripples, innumerable ruffling wings, and it tosses its head back, then leaps down to Jem below. I gasp. Its outstretched hand catches Jem’s arm and Jem responds with a yelp, clamping his palm over the spot as ink-black blood wells through his once-white linen shirt.

Quiet as possible, I lower myself down the remaining rope. Coarse fibers tear my sweaty palms as the rope swings and spins and sways. My muscles tremor, begging for rest, but there is none to be had.

I’m still about six feet from the ground when I’m unable to bear the burn of the rope any longer. I drop through the air, landing in a crouch. My breath hisses through my teeth. I unfold my red-raw hands in front of me, fingers splayed wide as the cool underground air wraps around them. I sigh, thankful for the relief.

That’s when I hear my name, soft and pained.

I look up, and the magic is barreling toward me at a run.

 39 

I stumble backward, and the magic splits into a murmuration. Wings drum through the air like rainfall on a metal roof. Its black mass expands across my vision until it’s all that I can see. I duck, escaping a collision, but at the cost of my balance. All the air gasps out in a forceful punch as I hit the ground. Grit from the packed-dirt floor digs into the cuts on my palms. I brace for the sharp impact of beaks and talons, a scream ready in my throat, but instead all I feel are silky whisperling feathers rushing past me. I blink back my confusion, watching the magic. It cuts up sharply along the outside wall before circling back for another attack.

It’s almost as if the magic can’t harm me when it’s dispersed. But also, I can’t harm it either.

I look around me—for something, anything that might be useful. I know I need to attack it without it knowing, but I don’t know how. Whisperling calls rattle throughout the space, a sound composed of shattering glass and fire alarms that fistfights my eardrums. The murmuration dives again, but this time the whisperlings pack together, landing on the ground several paces away, re-formed as a man, eyes ablaze and fixed on me.

I gulp down several breaths in rapid succession. My elbow buckles and I slip backward. My hand hits an object behind me, something wooden that rolls away and then back again. The bucket. I reach out, my aching palm once again wrapping around the rope just as the magic hurtles toward me.

Time stretches out like strudel dough. I have a single shot at this. The element of surprise is a one-off event.

I flinch, letting it believe it’ll strike unopposed.

Then I swing, aiming for the fences. I hit the magic square in the side with a stomach-churning crunch.

The magic staggers a few steps, its feathered skin shifting like the surface of the sea, before it collapses into a heap on the floor.

My heartbeat throbs through every corner of my body. I try to draw a breath, but all the oxygen is buried, under the pain and the fear and the—

“Miss Francesca.” My name. Jem’s voice.

I look up. He’s halfway to me, hobbling. Hand holding the back of his head, feet dragging along the ground. His labored breath echoes through the cavern.

His name is in my mouth, but it comes out all sticky and choked. I clench my teeth tight against the hurt. In the quiet I can hear it. The sound of water, the source of the forgetting magic. It would be a nice thing, I think, to pretend none of this ever happened.

“Miss Francesca!” Jem lands on the ground, and his arms wrap around me.

“What happened?” I ask, pulling away slightly. “I thought—”

Jem sighs heavily, eyes flicking toward the bird’s motionless form. “You know, I don’t think that thing ever intended to let me become fablemaker.” His hand finds mine.

I shiver. “It was going to kill you.”

“Likely its plan all along.” He presses his lips together, then smacks them out. “But I had to try.”

“You locked me up,” I say, sitting up. Staring him down.

His palm cups my neck, turning me to look at him. He is so pretty. “I did,” he says. “I had thought I could convince the magic that I was on its side. I knew you had the master key. I knew you could get out.” He lets out a sharp huff. “You’re so cold.” His warm thumb brushes just above my brow.

I hear a soft injured sound, and still. Jem’s heard it, too. His eyes widen and flick over to the magic, and before I know it, he’s crawled over to the mass and reached his hand deep inside it. “There,” he says, pulling something free in his fist. He looks pleased as he turns to me.

“What is that?”

He unfolds his hand. In his palm lies something small and round. “It’s called the heart of magic.” It looks like an inkwell of sorts. “And just like I did the first time, I’ll have to pour my blood into it at the magic’s birthplace to become fablemaker.”

Something about it feels strangely right. Like we’re coming full circle.

He stuffs it into his pocket. “Come on. Let’s go.” He helps me to my feet as another noise comes from the dark feathered mass.

Pain slows us down as we make our way across the cavern. As we near the wall, an old wooden door appears that I didn’t see before. Behind us, the magic keens.

“In here,” Jem says, opening the door. Inside is nothing but more darkness. I step in, and he shuts the door behind him just as the magic unfolds himself from the ground.

There’s a scratch and then the flare of a match. Jem guards the flame with his hand and steps away from me to light several ragged candles pinned to the walls, slowly chasing away the dark.

The space is much smaller than the one we just left. There are no soaring ceilings, no vast cavern. Jem digs into his pocket and approaches something that looks like an altar. He drops several stones on top with a clatter. I immediately know what they are: runes, etched with the same markings as the box they came from in the Collections room. A lightning bolt for inspiration, a compass for exploration, a quill for expression, and a spiral for legacy. The elements of story.

He arranges them over the altar’s brownish-purple surface. It’s only when he shifts his attention and nudges the hilt of an old knife near the edge of the tabletop that I realize the color is from blood.

“Wait!” I stumble across the room to him. He turns, and I am standing so close that I have to tip my head back to see his face. “I thought you said you needed to end the Der Stiller Mann story first?”

My heart capsizes as his palm cups my face, thumb tracing down my cheekbone. “This is it. This is Der Stiller Mann’s ending. By becoming fablemaker, I am writing the end.”

My mouth makes an O shape but doesn’t make a sound.

“If this—” He swallows hard around a humorless laugh, eyes dropping to the floor. “If this doesn’t work—”

“You mean if it kills you. God, I can’t believe we’re still debating this.”

“No one’s debating.”

The distance between us is wafer-thin, negligible. It would be so easy to tear through it. “Just let me do it, Jem.”

His gaze snaps back on me, face twisting into a grimace. “I created this mess. At least let me try to fix it.” He bites down on his lip, as if he’s uncertain he wants to go through with it because it might hurt a bit. “If this doesn’t work,” he says again, “I need you to fill the heart with your blood. Pour yourself into it. Become fablemaker. Do what I could not.”

I groan. “You know, if this doesn’t kill you, I just might do it myself with my own bare hands.”

His brows curve up, and a smile plays across his face. “I cannot imagine a more tempting way to go.” His dark eyes lay into me, endless pages of a yet-written story igniting within him. The world begins to tilt as he dissolves that little space between us.

His mouth is on mine. Slow and experimental as everything inside me seems to untangle and sprout wings.

I gasp. I want to say this is a stupid idea—that making out during a crisis is a really, really stupid idea—but instead I say, “I don’t like this, Jem.” I speak the words into his mouth, my voice nearly inaudible, singed by a burning within my chest. My fingers tighten around the hem of his shirt. “I don’t like this at all.”

He lifts away, his mouth softly brushing against my ear as his hands run up my arms. “If you don’t like this…” He trails off, his lips finding a soft part of my neck that makes me shiver.

Maybe we can have this—this last nice thing before everything goes to hell. Maybe we can pretend for a moment that stories can have happy endings, that the good doesn’t always have to be followed by something bad.

“N-no,” I stutter, my voice tripping on a nervous laugh. “Not this.”

I tip my head back, and his lips plead with me; the taste of urgency and want flood my mouth, like honey cake, like burnt sugar almonds. The decadence makes me weak.

A satisfied noise rumbles in his throat.

Then a thud comes from the door. I gasp as the wood cracks.

“To be continued,” Jem says, picking up the knife and slicing it across his hand, black ink pooling in his palm. “Please,” he says, because I flinch toward him.

I nod, swallowing hard.

He slaps the magic inkwell heart onto the altar, sliding it into a perfectly shaped divot in the middle of the runes. There’s zero hesitation as he tips his hand, filling it to the brim.

The air shudders. For a moment everything is still. Then a surprised look crosses Jem’s face as a black tear tracks down his cheek. He wipes the tear away. Then stares at his hand.

“Oh dear,” Jem mutters, just as his body begins to lose its shape.

I shuffle back until my shoulder blades thump against the room’s side wall, watching as night-dark ink spills out of his every orifice, thickly coating his skin as his body unfolds like a nightmarish transformer.

I blink once. Twice.

He is no longer Jem. He is three times his normal size, a lusterless silhouette, but his eyes, those do not change. Those I’d know anywhere. Fear has stolen my voice. I cower, grappling with what he’s become: a story trapped within a story.

This is bad.

He moves, and wings flick out with a snap, just as the magic cracks the door on the other side of the room.

I chase after Jem as he crosses the space in two steps, knocking the door off its hinges and slamming it right on top of the magic. It splits into a murmuration that disperses up toward the cave ceiling.

At the other end of the cavern Jem—or whatever Jem has become—bounds up the well, the stone shaft, too small for him, crumbling as he breaks his way out and up into the park.

 40 

Well, shit. That didn’t work at all.

I can’t see, the air made impenetrable by a dense cloud of dust that drifts and churns and refuses to settle. Several expletives collide inside my chest, only to materialize as one big tight-fisted scream.

Which is a mistake.

I choke on the debris hanging thick in the air. Dirt clogs my lungs, cakes the back of my mouth. I can’t breathe. My throat is raw. Every cough only serves to gag down more particulate-choked air. I pull the collar of my shirt over my face, flinching at the sound of more rocks and bricks tumbling down the well shaft.

I stumble, wheezing, coughing, falling. My mouth slipping out from my shirt. Face-planting into the ground. Only it’s not just the ground. There’s something silky scattered beneath me. I push myself up, my hand slipping on something wet.

I roll away, my stomach threatening to evacuate its contents because it’s a whisperling. Several of them lay split on the ground. I cough and drag my already chafed palms over the dirt floor, trying to scrub off the whisperling’s sticky blood, only to make a thick batter of earth and gore that wedges between my fingers and under my nails.

Part of me could kill Jem, because suddenly the idea of having to destroy the park by myself is very real, and I’m a lot less confident than I was when it was just a plan. The other part of me is afraid that, considering the task before me, killing Jem is exactly what I’ll end up doing.

Maybe someday I’ll get to make a decision where at least one option isn’t awful.

Today, however, is very much not that day.

I tuck my face back into the collar of my shirt, before crawling over the unhinged wooden door lying on the floor and making my way back into the room. The air isn’t so bad in here, but there’s an eerie silence that almost echoes with its emptiness. It feels a lot like the infinite reflections of the Mirage Halls’ mirrored walls; the kind of dizzying endlessness that could swallow you whole. Every footfall, every drip of water, every breath. It all emphasizes one singular thing: I am alone.

I pick up the magic inkwell heart that tipped onto the floor and place it back into the groove on the table. It’s empty. I pick up the knife from the floor and pause in front of the stone table, a heavy breath wedged up into my sternum. I have to do this, and I have to do it quick.

“Here goes everything,” I mutter.

The pain across my palm is sharp, but nothing new—just another layer on top of the pain that’s already there. The room is thick with dust motes drifting in the sickly light. I let my blood, bright red, puddle in my hand, then tip it into the heart.

Everything is so, so still.

I’m not sure what I am waiting for, but absolutely nothing is not it. Breath pours out of my chest, my stomach hollows out.

It didn’t work. I think I’m going to be sick.

Because as much as I didn’t want to do this, this not working is so much worse than if it had.

Then: a jolt like electricity, a paralyzing twinge as the taste of metal and grapefruit floods my mouth.

I can feel the power. A power that is so much more than electricity. Because it’s magic. Which sounds really dramatic, but—holy shit—I feel like my body is going to explode, my bones combust, my skin rip away like a tablecloth-pull trick.

It pokes at my soul.

It wants me to create, to tell a story.

I scramble to the doorway and whisper into the cavern still rife with dust. “She was made of speed and strength. Though not a soul could see her, everything she touched knew her presence. She moved the clouds and snuffed fires out. Her name was Wind.” With a flick of my wrist, a rush of air pushes the dust out of the cavern.

I whimper. “What the—” In all of this, I never would have imagined that the scariest thing would ultimately be myself.

That felt—amazing. I can see why Wilhelm wouldn’t want to give this up. It feels good and powerful and… like trying to lasso a tornado, only the tornado exists inside me in a way that is inseparable from who I am. I fist my shaking hand.

If I can’t learn to tame it—

I push the thought from my mind and race across the cavern. Jem’s exit from the cave, because he was significantly larger than the well shaft, was less than delicate. I shouldn’t be able to see the sky from down here, but daylight pours down a massive opening, pushing the shadows to the corners. I scale the steep, fractured earth. With every movement I both feel and fear the power of potential in my body.

When I near the top, I reach out, clawing for the ragged lip. My fingers, slick with sweat and blood, bite into broken stone. My arms burn, muscles trembling as my legs scramble for footing, finding nothing.

I can’t hold on. I’m slipping. A heavy feeling winds up in my chest at the inevitability of the drop to come and then—

I fall, but I don’t even have time to summon the magic.

My arm jerks. My shoulder wrenches loose. I squeeze my eyes shut as I crash into the side of the hole, knocking every last gasp of breath out of me. Sawlike rocks sink into my ribs; debris rains down over my head. When I squint up, all I see is someone’s hand wrapped tight around one of my wrists.

Teeth clenched, I launch myself up, rolling over the edge. I lie, splayed wide on the ground, surrounded by crumbled wood and bent-up steel. The mountain of Flight to Forgetting, reduced to something unrecognizable.

There’s a cough at my ear. I twist my head. When I see who it is my heart launches to the stars.

“Oh my god! I thought—” I say, emotion snagging my voice.

Bertram looks like he’s been mud wrestling with a meat grinder and somehow come out victorious. He pushes himself up, covered in sweat and scrapes and an award-winning smile. One leg of his black trousers is torn off mid-thigh and his shirt is half-missing. I didn’t know that hearts could ache from happiness. He helps me to my feet, and I wrap my arms around him, squeezing him tight even though pain shoots through my limbs. Tears track down my cheeks as I choke out, “I thought you were dead.”

“I did too for a second there.” He pulls me back, leveling his gaze on me. “But how else was I going to make my dramatic reentry?”

A laugh rushes out of me, knocking against my battered body. Pain shoots through me, but it’s the kind of pain that you know will be much worse tomorrow. “But how?”

He opens his mouth to speak but is cut off by a scream.

Our eyes meet. Then: another scream. We scramble over the wreckage of the ride: barely standing walls at unlikely angles, coaster cars derailed and contorted, half-crushed tracks twisted up and leading to nowhere. Below us Die Straße teems with feral stories.

A creature with hollow eyes and moth-eaten wings swats away a turkey buzzard as it hovers over the limp body of a small, ram-horned girl in a pale yellow dress. A screaming nymph with wild bristle-fern hair yanks a wooden multidirectional sign from the ground and gnaws on one of the arrowed destinations. A sasquatch-like creature skips through the carnage playing on a flute carved from what looks like a femur.

Bertram clears his throat. “So, I’m assuming you have a plan?”

I nod. “I do.” I neglect to clarify that it’s not a great one. I stretch out my arms and tell Bertram, “Stand back.”

His shoulders drop. “But I can be useful.”

“Not now, Bertie,” I say, teeth gritted. “Just get behind me.”

He scowls and inches backward. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

“Of course,” I lie.

Even without Oma’s lessons, I’ve read enough stories to know the unexplainable act of creation. The digging into emotions. The harvesting of imagination. The diving into an ocean of doubt and unknowing.

I draw on everything that has brought me to this point. All the pain and grief, hope and want. The warm nostalgia of fireside stories from childhood and the thrill of the ones not yet complete. It is weightlessness, an inescapable current, a vicious cycle. I am lost in a labyrinth of my own fabrication. It cannot exist without me and yet I am nothing without it. It is something I am certain of and something I am making up as I go along. This creating. This magic.

My hold on time slips.

My grip on reality dissolves.

I am in the story, but I’m not the story. The story, however, is me. And it is one that will undo every shred of magic. For so long, I was afraid I wasn’t enough for others. When all along, the problem was that I had allowed others to make me feel that way. My whole life I hid behind the words of the Whisperwood, but now it’s time to command my own narrative. It is my heart, and it wants to annihilate all my hiding places and free me from the lies I’ve told myself.

In front of me, a creature unfolds out of thin air. Stretching to a towering height, strong-limbed and knees skinned back to bare bone. The edges of its body strive for sharp but perpetually round off. Its skin is a color that is not quite purple, patched in bright red splotches and edged with the off-white color of soft tissue. It is spongy and pulsing, lattice-veined with a viscous sheen that catches in the sunlight. Its beetle-black eyes lock with mine in a staring match of nerves. Measuring, daring. This thing, this story of a heart laid bare.

Its barbed teeth snap through the air, reminding me that a wounded heart is the strongest, most dangerous kind there is.

I glance over my shoulder and give Bertram a timid smile. Only, he’s not there.

Halfway down the rubble heap, Bertram wields a snapped-off coaster track crosstie like it’s a sword, swinging wildly at a troll-faced creature easily twice his size, its hunched back covered in sharp quills.

A thump rattles up through my feet, the earth beneath me jolting.

Cold terror avalanches over me as my creature descends the debris, straight toward Bertram. “Stop!” The word is a tattered, arm-flailing shout, but my broken heart creation doesn’t even glance back at me. “No!”

I don’t think. I run after it, leaping off a contorted steel beam and sailing through the air. Breath punches out of me as I land on my creation’s shoulder, arms closing around its thick neck, which is slick with a gooey fluid that is impossible to hold. I am slipping, and the creature’s pulse beats against the undersides of my arms. I hit the wreckage, teeth clenched as my head slams against stone. My vision blurs, but I reach inside me, telling it to stop.

Then comes a voice inside my head.

Let me.

I shouldn’t listen, but the voice is mine—startling me, softening me—and my story slips right from my fingers.

I scramble to retake command of the magic, but how can I when it’s behaving like a thrashing moonfish? A sound shrill as audio feedback alters the atmosphere as my creation, my story, reaches Bertram and swats him aside. Because, of course, it was never after Bertram. The story my cousin was sparring with cowers in my creation’s shadow. Then black liquid oozes from the quilled creature’s eyes. It floods its mouth, garbling its scream as it pours out over its lips. Like ribbon in a breeze, it drifts up, and my creation devours it sup by sup.

Doing what it was made to do. I was never meant to control it.

A groan draws my attention away.

Eyes wide as the moon, breath trembling, Bertram sits limply in a heap, a broken-off stretch of metal rail track sticking out of his abdomen.

I run to him, but just as I reach him, I lose my footing. Splinters sink into my knees; rust flakes dig into the heels of my hands. I continue at a crawl. My brittle lips burn as I shout.

“Bertram!”

By the time I reach him, the monster has finished with its first story and moved on to find and consume more.

Shallow breaths gasp over my cousin’s lips. He’s barely moving, face white as hotel bedsheets. His eyes slowly meet mine, terrified. I’m afraid to touch him, that I’ll somehow make things worse, so I scoot up as close to him as possible, tucking my feet underneath me.

There’s nothing I can do.

“That wasn’t very heroic of me,” he coughs out.

“No,” I say, a sob cracking in my chest. A tightness clenches around my windpipe. “That was the most heroic, most main character thing I have ever seen.”

The hint of a smile traces his lips, then his eyes lose focus. “Bertram?” I reach for him, my fingertips on his face as his body goes still with his final breath. My heart is wrung out, tears burn in my eyes. I curl my fingers into his hair, which is still crunchy with styling gel. He’s really gone this time.

Around me the park is filled with the sound of magic unraveling, my monster turning every inch of this park to nothing. Still, I hold tight to Bertram’s body. I can’t seem to let him go.

Then a shadow crosses over me, and I hear a sound that makes me freeze. Creaking gears and groaning metal.

I turn away from Bertram. The Fuchsnetz looms before me.

Something inside me seizes up. Guilt wraps around my heart; I’ve hurt so many people. But it is a guilt without roots. Zara Morales was a force of nature, a weather pattern outside my geography. A thing to wonder and behold. But this isn’t her. It’s a distorted edition of her, the magic puppeting what it made of her story. A story I so badly wish could have been different, but it wasn’t mine to tell. It can’t be undone, but I know there is so much I can still do. I call my creation and tell my own tale.

The Fuchsnetz stumbles back as my creation leaps between us. It clearly wants to run, but my creation’s bone-bare hand snatches it up by the throat. I grip tight the twisted metal beneath me, grounding myself. I see the moment of panic in the Fuchsnetz’s eyes as my creation’s mouth clamps down on its own. My creation drinks in the magic, swallows it, devours it, and the Fuchsnetz deflates like a slow-leak balloon. Finally, my creation’s mouth opens on unhinged jaws, and it swallows whole what’s left of the Fuchsnetz’s limp shell.

I feel weak, collapsing on my hands and knees, unsure how I can keep going. But then my creation pivots, its attention landing on a monster with dark, familiar eyes.

Eyes that I’d know anywhere.

Jem.

This is no time for weakness.

I’m on my feet, rushing, slipping, tumbling down to Die Straße. I am covered in cuts and scrapes, moving as fast as my feet can take me, but Jem just stares up at my creation as it nears him. Those eyes wide in terror.

I tell the creature to stop. Tell it: not him.

Let me. Again, my own voice inside my head.

“No.” The word comes out infinitely more brave than I feel. “No,” I repeat. I don’t know if I can pull it off, but I am the fablemaker. I must write the story.

I guide my creation, loosen away the magic from the boy I can’t stand to lose. It’s a struggle, and I know it’s not just me fighting. Jem knows what he has to do. He’s somewhere in there, tearing himself free from Der Stiller Mann’s tale.

I watch, heart pounding, as he begins to emerge. The story magic, dark and twisted, slowly unravels from him. It’s a tricky three-way balancing act, where I have to let my creature do what it was made for yet keep it from acting on its own impulses, and also give Jem the space he needs to do his own thing. My hands are slick with sweat, the effort straining every muscle in my body as the story magic is snipped away from Jem stitch by stitch.

Jem slowly breaks free from the winged beast he became.

Then, without warning, a guttural roar erupts from my creation. It is hungry. My heart hammers against my ribs as I watch Jem, halfway free, twist in a silent scream, my creation consuming the magic too quickly. My vision swims—it’s my dark night of the soul—but then I steady myself, remembering that I am allowed to tell my own story, and that story deserves a happy ending.

Inch by inch, word by word, Jem unfolds from his story.

Until it is just him. Standing there.

I am sobbing, my entire body shaking from exertion as my monster moves on to the next story. And I let it. Jem catches me just before I hit the ground. He holds me as I feel my magic move through the park. He whispers into my hair, tells me I’ve done well. Even though all I can feel is the emptiness of losing Bertram all over again.

Did anyone even know he survived in the first place? Is it something I’ll need to share with the others? The idea alone is shrapnel lodged deep inside me.

The more the magic gnaws at my consciousness, the more time loses its structure. I am exhausted and yet I have never felt so alive, my body buzzing, electric. I sit myself up and lean into Jem, my head resting on his shoulder as my monster snuffs out the last of the Flüsterwald creations. Well, second to last.

The last of the Flüsterwald creations returns to me, my monster made of heartache and hurt. Its knuckles drag across the ground, chest heaving as it approaches us. Jem’s grip around my shoulder tightens.

“It’ll be okay,” he tells me.

“I know,” I say.

Then I hesitate before issuing my last command. I stare up into the eyes of this beating-heart creature, knowing what I have to do to make this all go away. My creation needs to unmake itself. But the thrill of creating hums through me, and in an instant I see the scope of all I could do and it is infinite.

I wonder if Jem can sense what I’m thinking as he combs back my sweat-slicked hair. “Do what’s best,” he says.

What’s best?

I shut my eyes and do exactly that.

 41 

The back door to the house looks like it’s been flogged. Deep gashes cut up and down the wood. The doorknob’s been ripped right off and tossed aside onto the path, pebbles chaotically scattered around paw prints sunk deep into the ground.

It hadn’t taken long to return to the cavern. Jem knew exactly where to find the subterranean stream that fed the storied Well for Forgetting. He dipped the bucket in, and we hauled it back to the house where what’s left of my family—Mom, Uncle Preston, Ella, and Rhodes—is waiting.

The kettle hisses and I steep the tea for several minutes. As I fill the cups to the brim, I’m unable to keep my mind from wandering to Oma. How she did the same thing to me when she made me forget what happened that night eighteen months ago. This is different, though. No matter how impressive it was that Oma kept the magic in line as she did, what she did to me was wrong. She was covering her mistakes—what I’m doing is covering their wounds. I try to convince myself that I’m lucky I learned enough to save those I did.

I shuffle from the kitchen to the dining table carrying a fully loaded tea tray. Mom’s so in shock she’s not even cleaning.

“We thought we lost it in Zauberwald,” Ella says. “But it found us again when we made a break for the front gate.”

“Barely made it to the house in time,” Rhodes adds.

Mom’s gaze shifts from the window behind her to me as I set the tray on the table. “Tea?” she asks.

“Sometimes, the answer is tea,” I say, shrugging. “Especially when you’re not sure what the question is exactly.”

I retreat to where Jem hovers at the edge of the room.

Uncle Preston unfolds his arms and daintily picks up his cup. “This is worse than that time in college.” He sips. “My roommate put a third of a cup of weed into some brownies instead of a third of an ounce, resulting in me nearly chopping off my pinkie because I was convinced I’d grown an extra one.”

Rhodes scoffs. “You’re comparing the monster apocalypse to getting high?”

They don’t know I’ve already neutralized the situation out there.

Jem and I had considered briefly what would happen if we didn’t do it, if we let them remember, but every outcome seemed worse than the one we hypothesized before it. This isn’t like “The Girl and the Well.” These aren’t their mistakes to remember. So the ache I feel in my chest is less guilt and more sorrow over what has happened. Over what was lost.

I lean toward Jem. “Won’t they be confused?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. “But they’ll move on. They’ll have to. Life doesn’t just stop because it doesn’t make sense.”

My mom pulls the phone away from her ear and smacks it down on the table. “The service is finally back up, but of course they aren’t answering.” Her hands tremble as she lifts her cup and sips her tea, her expression slipping from frustration to worry. “You don’t think… ?”

It’s a thought that won’t be around for long. The tea will soon soften the hard edges of reality, smudge them away until they’re nothing at all.

Rhodes and Ella exchange an anxious look that makes my heart plunge. They know the specifics of what happened to Uncle Geoffrey. What they don’t know is that Bertram didn’t die back in the mirror maze. They don’t know we had a chance for him to be here right now. Maybe if I’d known more about being a fablemaker, things could have been different.

Ella moves her cup to her lips. “They’ll show up,” she says, her eyes swinging from me to Rhodes, and then she too drinks.

I look to Jem, speaking just to him. “And Rhodes? Won’t he think his brother and dad just left?”

He blinks back the sadness pooling in his dark eyes. “Your cousin won’t be the first to lose someone without knowing where they’ve gone.”

I nod, watching as Rhodes swallows a mouthful of tea. “It’ll be better for Rhodes to forget,” I say. “No one should have to live with that memory.”

Jem’s hand is on my shoulder. “And what about you?”

I don’t answer him. Instead, I watch. The scene feels faraway and hazy, like watching an old film reel. Time passes. Cups drain. Faces become not so shrouded in grief and fear. When the laughter starts, that’s when I glance at the clock. It only took twenty minutes for everything to erase, to rewind far enough so that none of the trauma remains.

“It’s getting late,” my uncle says after a while, glancing at his watch, then to Ella. “If we leave now, we can be back home before dark.”

I retreat to the kitchen and Jem follows me. Two carefully measured glasses of water sit on the marble island countertop waiting for us.

“Well,” I say, leaning forward. My fingertips thrum against the side of the glass.

Jem presses his lips together. “Well?”

What a relief it would be to forget everything that’s happened, all that I’ve lost. Oma. Uncle Geoffrey. Zara. Bertram. To move forward and live without horror staining every memory I have.

For a fleeting moment I consider filling a second glass and erasing the last eighteen months altogether. I could restart from where it all went wrong, before Zara even came into the picture. But I know forgetting that much would prove disastrous in the long run. Memory is a flower. Trim a little and it will grow another season. Too much and it’ll perish altogether.

I meet Jem’s eyes. They are steady and sure. Also, if I went back that far, I’d lose him.

Even going back a day means I’ll lose knowing what his heart really feels, but at least I’ll still have him.

He picks up his glass and dumps it into the kitchen sink, and the liquid gurgles down the drain. “I need to remember,” he says, dissolving the space between us, hands tracing up the length of my arms. His lips press into my hair. Then he says, “You don’t have to. This is my burden to carry.”

I pull back, sniffling back tears. “I’ll come to you,” I say because, before this, when disaster struck, running to him is exactly what I would have done. I pick up the glass and tip the entire contents into my mouth.

 42 

I am driving one-handed down a winding, wooded mountain road. A late summer breeze roars through the rolled-down windows. The air is thick with the smell of autumn blooms, and afternoon sunshine flickers through a thick canopy of yellows and reds.

I park my car near Whisperwood’s chained-shut front gates, next to the only other cars in the lot: a pair of hybrids, one blue, one bronze.

Rhodes smirks. “We were starting to think you might not show.”

I shiver, but not because of the chill of the shadowed woods. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Shall we?” asks Ella, sixteen and freshly licensed, sipping from the to-go coffee cup in her hand. I tighten my sweater around my neck as we make a tight circle around Rhodes’s phone.

“How can you leave reviews for something that isn’t actually open?” he groans at his screen. “Adored Whisperwood Park as a kid. A crying shame it’s shut for no doggamn reason. Maybe if it opened up again I might be able to leave a proper review. Would give it zero stars if I could. But I can’t. One star.”

It’s been two years since Whisperwood Park initially shut.

I remember before. Zara and her leaving. Oma and my fablemaker lessons. Jem and how he became my safe place. Then there was the centennial celebration, and the thing with the lawyers and the not-will, and Jem getting everything… but after that things get a little fuzzy. It’s not the first span of time I can’t quite remember.

I’ve tried to get back before now, but it’s been cordoned off for the past six months. Between the disappearance of not only three of my relatives but Jem, too, the place was considered a crime scene. What was deemed a freak natural disaster (or, as Ella suspects, heavy-duty vandalism) certainly complicated investigations, but it was the Whisperwood fanatics that put the place under heavy surveillance. I couldn’t get close to the place, and now it’s so far beyond repair that even the fans’ drones can tell things look grim. Cursed. That’s what they’re calling it.

My mom and uncle, however, just call it impossibly expensive. None of the family has returned. It will never open again.

The disappearances remain a mystery.

Ella messaged the group chat as soon as she heard the yellow crime scene tape had been removed.

Whisperwood. Friday. 4pm.

As the wind stirs through the trees, Rhodes, Ella, and I fall quiet, each of us working through a singular shared thought. Then Rhodes’s screen times out and he speaks what we’re all thinking out loud.

“I wish he were here,” Rhodes says, his expression sinking. “Bertram should be here.”

“He’s with us in spirit,” Ella says, squeezing Rhodes’s arm.

I press a smile to my face. “I like to think that he’s lounging at some villa in the Mediterranean, shades on, staring out at crystal-blue waters as he sips on a Negroni.”

“You don’t imagine him in the circus?” Ella’s eyes glimmer with mischief.

Rhodes barks out laughter that quickly reshapes into a sigh.

“Well, if he were here,” Ella continues, “he would probably be like, No need for dramatic pauses, this isn’t the fucking Oscars.”

Rhodes sniffs and taps his screen back to life. “That was terrifyingly accurate.” When he pulls up the maps app, it’s already on Whisperwood Park.

“I will miss this place,” Ella says. “Even though it has become the creepiest place known to mankind. I’ll miss the memory of it. The stories we made here.”

Rhodes glances up with a tight-lipped smile and nods. It’s the smallest of things, changing the park’s status from Temporarily Closed to Permanently Closed. But it feels monumental, like burying a loved one. Something, I realize, we haven’t been able to do.

Ella pulls in a deep breath, and a tear skids down her face that she quickly wipes away.

“That’s it,” Rhodes says, then, “Let’s just get out of here before any Alpen-demons steal our bodies.”

“Waffle House on Champion Drive?” Ella suggests as she scampers off to her car.

“Last one there buys,” Rhodes says, turning on his heel.

“I’ll catch up with you guys in a minute,” I shout after them.

“That means you’re paying.” Rhodes laughs, diving into his car.

They leave the parking lot, but neither of them is stupid enough to race. When their taillights disappear, I turn back to the gate and stare down the Boulevard toward the house that was once my second home.

That’s when I see someone walking toward me. A figure coming a little more into focus with each measured step. I approach the gate; my heart feels like it’s going to explode.

He grabs the bars opposite me, close enough that I can smell him: mint tea leaves and lavender and turned earth. My voice is a whisper when I speak his name.

“Jem?”

He reaches through the bars, palm cradling my cheek. “Miss Francesca,” he says. Tears brim in my eyes, his voice alone enough to bring stories crashing through a memory barrier. The two holes in my timeline filling with both everything I tried to erase and everything Oma tried to erase from me, because memory is anchored. Sometimes all you need to do is find the rope and pull yourself ashore. And when I step onto solid ground, I know exactly who Jem is and what happened and the secret truth of what I am now.

He quickly pulls out a set of keys and unlocks the chain on the gate. It swings open with a groan. The sun hits his face and I am overwhelmed with feeling.

“Tell me the tale,” he says, his fingers running through my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “The one about the two storytellers who found their happily ever after.”

I glance over my shoulder. Out there, my cousins will be waiting for me. Sitting at the laminate table, ordering hash browns scattered, smothered, and covered. Their gazes flicking to the door, wondering where the hell I’ve gone to.

As I turn back to Jem, I flex my hand, feeling the power inside me. The magic. The sliver I held back for myself because I couldn’t just let it die. After all, a little danger is a small sacrifice in order to keep something that can never be replaced. Maybe someday I’ll regret not destroying the magic entirely, but for now there’s a voice inside my head saying, Let me. The voice is mine. I remember how everything went wrong when many years ago my great-great-great-grandfather used the magic to tell the stories because he wanted something from them. This story, however, it’s one that my heart wants to tell and doesn’t ask for anything in return.

I smile at him, knowing this is far from the end, and say, “Once upon a time…”

Acknowledgments

This book simply wouldn’t exist without the support, guidance, and unshakable belief of the people who surrounded me throughout the process. This list is by no means complete (I’m confident my troll brain has missed some important names), but I am completely sincere in my gratitude to everyone who helped me along the way.

To my agent, Claire: Thank you for championing this story from its unhinged, half-baked pitch and steering it through every twist and turn. To my editors, Alex and Crystal, whose sharp insights and dedication breathed life into this project: This book would not be what it is without the amazing notes I received from both of you. And thank you to the incredible team at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers: Jake Regier, JoAnna Kremer, Kelley Frodel, Dassi Zeidel, Lara Stelmaszyk, Karina Granda, Patricia Alvarado, Stefanie Hoffman, Alice Gelber, Savannah Kennelly, Christie Michel, and Kelly Moran. I get the warm fuzzies when I think about y’all and all you’ve done to bring this story into the world.

To my critique group—Josh, Chelsea, and Kristine: You’ve been with me since before the beginning, wading through my messiest drafts with unbreakable patience and sharp feedback. I owe you more baked goods than any human could feasibly produce in a lifetime.

To Vania, for your friendship and support: You’re family, and I honestly don’t have the words to describe how much you mean to me. To Lauren: Our writing lock-ins are magic, every time. To Jenna, whose endless support and spectacular advice are infinite gifts. To Serena, romance genius and dear friend: I can’t thank you enough. To the Spank Bank, who I will never acknowledge by any other name: We found each other at just the right time, and I’m holding on for dear life. Thank you to Beth, Cristin, and all my Wordsmithers: Y’all were my first writing community, and I don’t know where I’d be without you. To the Claire Hype House, Sub Slog, and ATL Writers, for being places of refuge, learning, and invaluable support.

To the generous and amazing authors who read early galleys and had such nice things to say about this book: I am so grateful that you came to Whisperwood with me.

To my parents, who gave me the freedom to pursue my own path: You managed to both keep it real and keep the horizon wide open. To my brothers: I love y’all more than words can say.

To my children, who inspire me every day, and to my husband, who looks at my wild ideas with equal parts pride and a rightfully placed horror. And to my dog, who is without a doubt the glue that holds us all together.

To God, for gifting me imagination and words and for giving me the time and strength and stubbornness to finish.

And to the readers who have found this book in their hands: Thank you for coming on this roller-coaster journey with me. I hope we can do it again soon!

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Vania Stoyanova

jo schulte

grew up chasing fireflies in Michigan, spent many years navigating London’s publishing industry, and now calls Atlanta home, y’all. When she’s not writing, Jo can be found walking her dog, getting distracted by renovation projects, or enjoying a well-earned brunch (the housecleaning can wait). She invites you to connect with her at joschulte.com.