Wink Poppy Midnight(26)

“Lie down on it.” I’d never ordered Poppy to do anything before. Not once. Not ever. But she obeyed.

Her body slid across the silk, stretched out, hands and feet to the corners, blond hair spreading out beneath her head, like a girl about to be sacrificed, like the girl in one of Wink’s hayloft stories, like Norah in Sea and Burn, stripped and chained to the rock, blond hair blowing in the wind, feet bare in the cold, waiting for dawn, waiting for the scaly beast to come out of the cave, and burn her alive. . .

Wink was having an effect on me.

I never used to think like this.

And I wasn’t sure if I liked it or not.

I went over to Poppy.

I kissed the soft, translucent skin on the inside of her wrists.

My lips followed the blue veins as they ran toward her elbows.

Poppy sucked in her breath . . . held it . . .

And then burst out of my arms. She ran toward the door, and stood there, shivering, shoulders shaking and her chin trembling.

Her body slid down the doorframe until she was crouching, her bare knees popping out of her black skirt, her hands on her cheeks.

A knock on the door.

We both jerked.

She looked up at me.

“Go to the music room and hide,” I whispered. “At least until I’m done tying her up. All right?”

Poppy nodded and left, though she didn’t look happy about it.

It had been her idea to do this, to come here at night, to a place of ghosts and unforgivables. And so I wasn’t going to feel bad for her.

I wasn’t.

I waited ten seconds and then went down the stairs and opened the front door. Wink, pale face shining in the dark. She gave me a look, and I gave her a look. She nodded. I nodded back.

“Wink,” I said, loudly, so Poppy could hear.

I led her into the music room, my arm around her little waist, my lips by her ear, playing the part.

Past the sagging wallpaper, past the green sofa.

Up to the grand piano.

I leaned Wink against it, and the Rachmaninoff pages fluttered. The piano made a deep, guttural sound, like pedals shifting and wires stretching. But it didn’t budge.

I kissed her. I kissed her to keep up the ruse. I kissed her so Poppy would see. I wanted her to see. I slid my hands up Wink’s back to the base of her neck. She leaned her head into my palms.

I took my time.

“Here we go,” I whispered in Wink’s ear. And felt her head nod against my cheek.

“Wink, I want you to close your eyes,” I said, out loud. “And keep them closed. I have a present for you.”

“Okay,” she said, softly, softly.

I pulled my arms away, and Wink stayed where she was, head back, tips of her red hair touching the top of the piano.

I glanced toward the corner by the bay window, quick. I couldn’t see Poppy, not even a faint outline. But I knew she was there.

I thought about the scurrying sounds I’d heard earlier, and hoped the rats were crawling over her feet and licking her ankles.

And then I felt bad for thinking that.

I kneeled down and got the rope out of the backpack.

I looped it around Wink’s wrists, quick, and snapped it tight.

Her eyes flew open.

“What are you doing, Midnight?” And her voice was perfect. Small and apprehensive and starting to get scared. “What is this? What are you doing?”

“I’m tying you to the grand piano,” I answered, nice and easy. “I’m going to leave you here by yourself, all night long.” I looped the other end of the rope around the piano leg and pulled. Wink’s arms flew out and she fell to her knees.

She started to cry, quiet, then louder.

“Why, Midnight, why? Why? Why?”

The Bells never cried. That was the thing about them. If Poppy had ever paid any attention, she would have guessed. She would have known.

But, instead, she laughed. She laughed, and then came running out of the corner. She laughed and pointed and practically danced with glee. She was supposed to stay hidden, but she just couldn’t help herself.

And I’d counted on this.

“Feral Bell, tied to a piano, spending the night with the ghosts. Serves you right. Do you think the spirits will like your unicorn underwear? Do you? I can’t wait to tell the Yellows about this. They are going to die.” Laugh, laugh, laugh.

I gave it a second. Wink’s performance was flawless. I wanted to keep watching. I couldn’t help but keep watching.

Wink shrunk back, away from Poppy, pulling at the rope and scuttling along the floor like she’d been kicked. She curled herself into a ball, her knees under her chin, arms above her head, tangled red hair. Her green eyes glowed in the flashlight’s beam, and they were wild. Wild, wild. Her lips drew tight, sucked in between her teeth.

“You’ll regret it, you’ll regret it.” Her voice was high and clear, and I could barely recognize Wink in it at all. “They’ll come for you. They’ll find you. They’ll slice you open and lap up all your blood, lap lap it up like a cat with milk . . .”

Poppy wasn’t laughing anymore.

Wink coughed and coughed, and her whole body shook, legs and head and hands.

Then she went still again.

“The unforgivables are so hungry, so hungry . . .” Her eyes darted to the corner of the room, then shot back, and something in them was . . . wrong . . . so wrong . . .