“I’ve done stuff I regret too.” Skylar hugged herself. “I—don’t think I’m a good person.”
Em looked up, sniffling. “We all do things we regret, Skylar,” she said quietly. “That doesn’t make us bad.”
Skylar nodded and led Em to the front door of the big Victorian house. “We have to be kind of quiet,” she said apologetically. “My aunt’s probably asleep by now. She goes to bed at, like, eight.”
Em didn’t blame her. She would have slept through the darkness, if she could have.
The door was heavy, old, and squeaky, and the foyer was dim. Em didn’t know how Skylar could stand living here—not after what she’d been through and seen. The very first thing Em saw when she entered was a long ivory-colored robe. It was just hanging there on a coat tree in the foyer. Gossamer and gauzy, billowing in the gust of wind they’d created just by coming in the door.
What had Crow said? A robe—long and white and flowing.
She pointed at it shakily, letting the door close behind her. “What’s that?”
“That?” Skylar asked as she shrugged off her coat and hung it on a hook. “That’s my costume for the play.” She walked over and took it off its hanger. “I have to remember to bring it to dress rehearsal tomorrow.” When she held it up to her body, it practically engulfed her. Its creases and shimmering ripples had the odd effect of mimicking Skylar’s still-healing face. It probably looked incredible under the stage lights. Em wondered if Gabby was planning to put makeup on Skylar’s scars. . . .
No. It couldn’t be. Em stood there dumbstruck. The robe . . . the striped scars . . . This was her—the tiger-faced woman.
“Skylar,” she said nervously, trying to recall the rest of Crow’s vision, “have you ever heard the phrase, ‘Someone is plotting vengeance’?”
“Of course,” Skylar replied. Her voice got slightly deeper. “?‘For this I declare—someone is plotting vengeance.’ It’s one of Cassandra’s lines in the play.”
“The play . . . ” Em could barely speak. “When does the play start?” Em asked.
Skylar nodded. “Tuesday night—one night only. Just a reading. Do you want some water or tea or something?”
Tuesday. Three days away. Crow had seen Em consumed by fire just after hearing those words. Was it possible that Crow’s vision did mean something? That it meant a when, a final date when Em’s transformation would be complete? If so, Em would die in three days. She would be swallowed into the Fury world after Skylar’s play on Tuesday night.
A pounding drumbeat began to thunder through her body. She hadn’t taken one step since they’d been in Skylar’s house; she knew Skylar had asked her a question but she couldn’t remember what it was.
“Are—are you okay?” Skylar reached out tentatively to touch her arm.
Em’s head felt uncomfortably light, and there were flashbulbs popping in her peripheral vision. She thought she might faint. And then, a momentary distraction—Em heard a faint, tuneless humming coming from another part of the house. She looked at Skylar, whose mouth was set in a grim line.
“What’s that?” Em asked. “I thought you said your aunt was asleep.”
Skylar opened and closed her mouth twice without saying anything. Then she said flatly, “It’s . . . my sister.”
“Your sister? I thought you were an only child.” Back when Skylar was following Gabby everywhere like a lost puppy, she’d never once mentioned a sister. The humming started again, and Em sensed it was coming from upstairs. ?All of a sudden this place seemed more like a haunted house than ever before. She took a step or two away from the staircase, toward the hallway that led to the kitchen.
“Well, I’m not,” Skylar snapped. “And she’s none of your business.”
Em caught the thread of a few words. She wasn’t just humming. The girl was saying something that Em could hear only faintly. If she listened closely, she could even pick out a word here and there.
They’ll never stop, she heard. She’s here.
“I’m sorry,” Em said. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It’s fine. She’s just . . . She’s visiting, and she’s sick, and I’m not used to talking about her.” Skylar looked anxiously toward the stairs. The barely intelligible monologue continued from somewhere on the second floor.
“She’s sick?” Em felt the strangest sensation that the girl was talking to her. The words she could hear stayed stuck in her head like wisps of cotton candy on a child’s fingers. It was sticky-sweet and unsettling. Hypnotic even.
“It’s brain damage. From a fall . . . ” Skylar’s fragile voice broke through the spell and pulled Em back.
“Oh.”
“And it was my fault,” Skylar’s continued. She was shaking. “Her name is Lucy, and it’s my fault she’s like this.”