Unhooked(8)

I lock the door of the flat behind me, a second barrier against the night, but that isn’t enough to help me relax, either. There was something about that sound—something that scraped at my nerves, leaving them feeling raw and exposed.

I’m almost all the way to our attic room when it hits me. It wasn’t just that the sound felt unnatural or imaginary. It was that it felt familiar.





Dawn broke a familiar gray when his brother, the soldier, put the boy back on a train pointed toward home. With deep regret, the boy thought that his small adventure had come to an end. But as he waited for the train to depart, a soft voice startled him. He turned to find an old woman in a dark cloak looming over him, like a crone from the fairy stories of old. Her eyes were sharp, her expression damning. “A gift for a brave soldier,” she said, her scorn twisting her voice as she held out the challenge of a single white plume. . . .





Chapter 4


OLIVIA DOESN’T SAY MUCH TO me for the rest of the night. She’s giving me space and waiting for me to be ready to talk, but I know she’s also irritated because I haven’t told her what’s bothering me. I can tell by the way she spends the rest of the night with the fancy new international phone her parents bought her, checking in with people back home. Back in Westport, I mean.

I don’t know how to make things right between us without explaining more than I want to though. I can only hope it’ll be easier to fix in the morning.

She turns in before me and is dead to the world in a matter of minutes. But even though we’ve been traveling for more than a whole day, I have trouble getting to sleep. The notion that the sound I heard in the streets could somehow be familiar has taken ahold of me. Try as I might, I can’t place where I could have possibly heard something like that. And if I did actually hear it somewhere, I doubt I could have forgotten it. Still, it feels like the memory is there, waiting.

I force myself to let go of the idea, because I know I’m obsessing, and there is nothing healthy about that.

After changing into my pajamas, I check on my mom and find her asleep on the couch in the living room downstairs. Despite the lines that have started to etch themselves into her face, she’s still beautiful. I’ve always wished I had her fiery hair and fine porcelain skin instead of the wheat-colored hair and dull complexion my absent father must have given me.

When I was little, I thought she was the most magical and courageous person I knew. All I wanted was to be as strong as she was. I’m not sure exactly when the way I thought about her changed. Maybe about the time I realized the monsters she was protecting me from couldn’t be real. Maybe when I started to grow up, and she wasn’t enough to be my whole world anymore.

I let out a sigh. There are days when I almost wish I could go back. It was easier then, before I realized I wanted more. Before I understood there was something more to want. I pull a throw up over her shoulders, and she murmurs in her sleep but doesn’t wake.

Back upstairs, Olivia’s snoring softly, her arms and legs all splayed out with a kind of awkward clumsiness she never lets the rest of the world see. I have to admit, I’m still a little surprised she didn’t run when she had the chance. Part of me wishes she would have, though. It’s not like it’s going to be any easier to say good-bye to her in two weeks, and now that she’s here, I’m always going to think of what London was like with her in it.

The fairies in the mural seem to agree. The whites of their eyes glint as the gaslight’s glow flickers across them, like they’re mocking my regret with a ruthless glee.

Which is, of course, an insane thing to think. I can’t—won’t—let my thoughts go down that path. I have to focus on what’s real—the rain that has started up again, drumming softly against the windows. The wind whistling past the house.

Even if it does sound like something is trying to get in every time the wind rattles the ancient windowpanes.

I climb into the bed, grateful that Olivia insisted on bringing her own linens. The sheets smell like the lavender detergent the Peels’ maid used back in Westport. If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine I’m back there. If I let myself forget. I can almost feel like I’m home. But the feeling doesn’t last long, and sleep does not come as quickly as I hoped.

After a while, the room feels too close and too warm, so I get up and try to pry open one of the windows. It takes some effort, but finally I manage to jar it loose. Outside, London is quiet. Faintly I can hear the sound of the traffic in the distance over the soft patter of the rain that has started up again, but the neighborhood we’re in sleeps peacefully. The night doesn’t seem as threatening now.

With a regretful sigh, I go back to the bed, but even with the cool night air drifting into the room, I can’t sleep. The glow of the stupid lamp isn’t helping any either.

I try to tell myself that the strange shadows thrown across the walls by its ornate bowl aren’t anything to worry about, but when I turn over, my eyes find the fairy wall. The shadows there look deeper, more menacing as they mask the fairies laughing faces.

My mom was right about one thing—that mural has to go.

The longer I toss and turn, the more frustrated I become. The angrier my thoughts turn. Because I wouldn’t be dealing with any of this if my mom didn’t believe we’re being chased by monsters no one else can see.