Whichwood(4)

And so it was there—cold and curled up on the toilet floor, clutching silvered fingers and pressing her lips together to keep from crying—that Laylee heard the unmistakable sound of glass shattering.




Laylee flew out the bathroom door and into the hall. Her eyes darted around in search of damage, and for the first time in a long while, she felt the tiniest prickle of fear. It wasn’t an unpleasant feeling.

Curiously, Maman’s ghost was nowhere to be found. Laylee peered over the banister to the floor below, squinting to see where Maman might’ve gone, but the house was still. Alarmingly so.

And then: whispers.

Laylee snapped to attention and sharpened her ears, listening closely for any signs of danger. The whispers were rushed and rough—angry?—and it was only a moment longer before she realized the sounds were coming from her own bedroom. Her heart was beating faster now; fear and anticipation had collided within her and she was heady with an unusual kind of excitement. Nothing so mysterious had ever happened to her before, and she was surprised to find how much she liked it.

Laylee tiptoed toward her bedroom with graceful stealth, but when she pushed open the door to her room, eager to apprehend the intruder, Laylee was so startled by what she saw that she screamed, scrambled backward, and stubbed her toe so badly she screamed twice more.





“Please—don’t be frightened—”

But Laylee was horrified. She fell back against the banister and tried to steady the rise and fall of her chest, but she was so untethered by the rush of these many rusty emotions that she couldn’t gather the words to respond. Laylee had been expecting a renegade corpse, a rampaging ghost, perhaps a disturbed flock of geese—but no—most unexpected—

There was a boy in her room.

He was a pathetic-looking creature, half frozen, quickly melting, and generally drenched from head to toe. Worse: He was dripping dirty water all over her floor. Laylee was still too stunned to speak. He’d followed her into the hall, hands up, pleading with his eyes, and yet—he also appeared to be studying her. It was only when Laylee realized he was looking curiously at her hair that she reunited with her senses and ran downstairs.

Laylee snatched a poker from the fireplace before grabbing for her fringed scarf, throwing it over her head and securing it tightly around her neck. Her hands were shaking—shaking! so strange!—and she’d only just begun to brace herself for a fight when she heard the voice of someone new.

She spun around, breathing hard.

This time, it was a girl who stood facing her—also sopping wet—and it was the most peculiar-looking girl Laylee had ever seen. More confounding: The girl was not only shivering and clutching at her wet arms, she also appeared to be on the verge of tears.

“I’m so desperately sorry Oliver is an idiot,” said the girl all at once, “but please don’t be frightened. We’re not here to harm you, I swear it.”

Of this harmlessness, Laylee was beginning to feel certain.

The girl who stood before her was pocket-sized; she looked too delicate to be real. In fact, if Laylee hadn’t already been acquainted with so many ghosts, she might’ve confused this stranger for a spirit. Her skin was a shocking shade of white, the same white as her hair, her eyebrows, and the flutter of thick, snow-bright lashes that framed her light brown irises—these, her only feature that held any color. She was an odd-looking person for the land of Whichwood, where the people were renowned for their golden-brown skin and rich, jewel-toned eyes. Laylee couldn’t help but be curious about this unusual girl.

Her panic slowly subsiding, Laylee slackened her grip around the poker. More than curious—there was something kind about this stranger, and though Laylee did not think of herself as a kind person, she was still rather fond of kindness itself. In any case, she was intrigued; it had been a very long time since she’d met another girl her own age.

“Who are you?” Laylee finally said, her voice rough from a lack of use.

“My name is Alice,” said the girl, and smiled.

Laylee felt a tug at her heart; old habits encouraged her to smile back, but Laylee refused, choosing to frown instead. She cleared the cobwebs from her throat and said, “And why have you broken into my home?”

Alice looked away, embarrassed. “Oliver was the one who broke the window. I’m so sorry about that. I told him we should knock—that we should come inside the normal way—but we were so desperately cold that he insisted we go a more direct route and—”

“Oliver is the boy?”

Alice nodded.

“Where has he gone?” Laylee looked over Alice’s head, searching for a glimpse of him.

“He’s hiding,” said Alice. “I think he’s afraid you’re going to kill him.”

Laylee stopped searching and instead raised an eyebrow. She felt her lips twitch and again quashed the urge to smile.

“Might we please stay awhile?” said Alice timidly. “It’s been a very long journey and we’re dreadfully tired. It took forever to find you, you know.”

Laylee clenched her fist around the poker again. “Find me?” she said. “Why did you want to find me?”

Alice blinked. “Well, we came to help you, of course.”





“I don’t understand,” said Laylee. “How do you intend to help me?”