Girls of Brackenhill(91)
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Nina
Spring 2020
Nina loved the sounds of the forest. There was a bird in the distance that called every afternoon. It sounded like a bike horn that Mom had gotten her for her tenth birthday. Hannah said it was a crane.
Nina sat on the forest floor in a clearing she’d found last weekend. Everything felt different. New and fresh and alive and magical. Like anything was possible here. She could forget about school, about Quinn Palumbo and her band of mean girls that stole the key chains off her backpack when she wasn’t looking. She could forget about her best friend, Abigail, who was sometimes nice and fun and happy and sometimes not. Dad said her parents were divorcing, so Nina should have patience with her.
Nina understood divorce. But now Dad lived here, with Hannah, who was her third-favorite person, and then on weekends, she sometimes got to live here, at Brackenhill, which had quickly become her absolute favorite place. Her bedroom had a princess bed with a canopy and everything.
At Brackenhill, she just got to be alone. She got to be herself.
Sometimes the girl would find her. She lived “down the hill,” the girl told her.
Today the girl found Nina lying in the middle of the clearing. Her eyes were closed, and she was waiting for the crane. Hannah had told her cranes were creatures of habit—they lived in the same places every year. Fed in the same streams and rivers. This crane felt like hers. She hadn’t seen it yet; she’d only heard it.
The girl lay next to Nina in the grass. They both listened for the crane, and when they finally heard its call, ehrrrrret-a-ret-ret, they gasped and laughed. Nina stood, brushing the dirt from her legs. She had to get back. Hannah would be making dinner. Hannah worried about her roaming the forest by herself.
She couldn’t explain how much she loved it. How alive she felt, for the first time, in the woods. How her skin prickled and the hair on the back of her neck stood up and the woods seemed to come alive along with her, breathing and laughing and whispering secrets that only Nina could hear. Secrets about other lives and magic and love, the air sparkling with mysteries.
She loved the girl too. The girl was older, at least sixteen. Nina didn’t dare ask her. She was thoughtful and listened to Nina blather on about school and Quinn or Abigail.
Nina was a little afraid of the girl too. She rarely spoke, just smiled. She followed Nina around the forest as they chased butterflies, shadows, and glints of light. As they ran along the riverbank watching a trout twist out of the winding water, a fly trapped in its mouth. As they hunted for morels (You’ll find them when the oak leaves are the size of a mouse’s ear, said Hannah) among the hickory and ash trees.
The girl had long, delicate fingers, and her voice was whispery. She painted Nina’s nails with polish Nina borrowed from her mother. The girl told her about the forest, the stories of the castle, the missing girls. It was supposed to be scary, but Nina never felt scared. She just felt welcomed. Happy. Home.
Sometimes Nina would brush the girl’s hair, braid it elaborately in a way her mother had taught her, winding it around her head like a princess crown.
She had the most beautiful red hair Nina had ever seen.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First and foremost, thanks to Jessica Tribble for seeing the potential in my story and taking me under her wing at Thomas & Mercer. In its infancy, Brackenhill was a much shallower version of a “ghost book” (although a soft ghost, ha), and she never stopped reminding me to focus on the relationships and the real characters on the page. A particular thanks to Tiffany Yates-Martin, who had an inordinate amount of confidence in my capabilities and said, “What if we did the craziest thing ever?” and then we actually did it. I would not have had the courage for this book on my own. Thanks to the whole T&M team, including (but not limited to) Sarah Shaw, Laura Barrett, Jessica Tribble. As always, thank you to Mark Gottlieb, who works tirelessly on my behalf.
I’m forever indebted to readers, bloggers, Instagrammers, book clubs, Facebook reading groups, Goodreads reading groups, friends, sorority sisters near and far, who continue to read my books, support my work, invite me in, invite me back, tell their friends, show up at my events. I couldn’t begin to name all of you for fear of forgetting someone, but I wouldn’t still be doing this crazy gig if it weren’t for you. Your messages and emails and social media comments and beautiful faces in the crowd lift me up and keep me going.
A particular debt of gratitude to those authors who’ve talked me off a ledge and/or helped me celebrate with champagne (there is no in-between) this year: Kimberly Belle, Emily Carpenter, Ann Garvin, Sonja Yoerg, Kim Giarratano, Heather Webb, Elizabeth Diskin, Amy Impellizzeri, Kelly Simmons, and the whole Tall Poppy crew. The ever-expanding lady squad of Bouchercon and Thrillerfest, I love you all to death. I have a true tribe of amazing, kick-ass women behind me, and I’m so incredibly grateful to all of you. Thanks to a few authors who offered timely advice and gave me the courage to tackle my first-ever ghost story simply because it wouldn’t leave me alone: Cate Holahan, Jennifer McMahon, Todd Ritter, Wendy Walker. I mean, what’s the point if we’re not having fun?
And finally, my family. Mom, Dad, Meg, your support and enthusiasm is as great with book seven as it was with book one. Part of my crew of first readers: Becky, Aunt Mary Jo, Molly, and of course, the world’s loudest publicist, Unk. It amazes me that you’re all not sick to death of me. To Chip, the whole reason I can do any of this is because of you. I only hope I can give you a fraction of the love and support you’ve shown me. To my girls: the day is soon coming when you’ll read my books. The idea of it terrifies me to my very soul. Your mother is fine, I promise. Although, I am very sorry about that time I almost got us killed in the name of researching this book. The trespassing, in retrospect, was probably a bad idea. But if you learned nothing else from me, remember: every terrible adventure is worth having if you end up with a good story to tell later.