“It’s a poem by Walter de la Mare,” I tell him, still taking in the vast scenery as I recite part of it. “‘Thick draws the dark, And spark by spark, The frost-fires kindle, and soon, Over that sea of frozen foam, Floats the white moon.’”
I have the whole thing memorized, but he’s probably not interested in hearing it. Any of my classmates who ask aren’t interested, either.
“It describes winter,” I explain. “My mom said the poem made a cold and bitter season seem pretty. She said the beauty in life is what we live for, and it’s everywhere. You just have to look closer.”
He just stares out beyond the railing, looking thoughtful.
“I’m not sure why she named me that, but I like it,” I add.
He sits down, dangling his legs over the sides, and props his arms up over the wooden board nailed across to keep people from falling, and I hesitate for about three seconds before I join. I plant myself down next to him, hang my legs over the side and laugh at the butterflies taking off in my stomach.
I peer over the side, my head feeling a little dizzy, so I draw back.
We sit there, quiet, and observing the view, but I notice my head ache and start to rub at my hair.
“It hurts,” I say out loud, shifting my bun. “My scalp…”
It always happens when my hair is in a tight style all day. It feels so good to let it out.
I pull out a barrette—the only other one in my hair that I didn’t leave in the fountain—and start pulling out the pins in my bun.
“Can you help me?” I ask. “Make sure they’re all out?”
He reaches behind and feels my hair, pulling out a few more pins, and then he helps me unwrap the twist, my hair coming down. I slide my hands underneath it, rubbing my scalp and sighing, because it feels so good.
I look over at him, and he’s just looking at me, his eyes moving over my face.
My skin under my costume starts to get too warm.
He turns away and lets out a breath as he stares ahead. “I might kiss you again when we’re older,” he says. “Just so you know.”
My mouth falls open a little, and I want to make some sound in disgust, just in case he’s kidding or teasing me, but…
Is he telling the truth?
I fold my lips between my teeth to keep from smiling. I don’t know why I want to smile, but I can’t help it.
He puts his hand down next to mine on the floor of the treehouse, and my heart beats so loud.
Is he gonna hold it?
“Winter!”
A shout pierces the air, and I jump.
Searching the ground, I see my father and mother storm up toward the treehouse, their gazes fixed on us.
“Why would you run off without telling your mom where you were going?” he barks.
“Dad,” I breathe out, suddenly scared I did something wrong.
Why is he here? He wasn’t here earlier. He looks upset.
“Come down, honey,” my mom calls, smoothing her clothes. “It’s time to leave.”
“You shut up,” Dad says. “She and Arion are not to come here again. You’ll be lucky if I don’t sue you for custody.”
Custody? Why is he mad at her?
“What’s going on?” I look up at Damon.
Did we do something wrong?
He shakes his head, scooting back and pulling me with him. “I don’t know.”
We move out of sight and stand up, feeling the floor vibrate under us like someone is coming up the ladder.
He’s rigid next to me, but he looks just as confused. I should’ve told my mom where I was going, but she was with Mr. Torrance, and it just happened.
Is that why he’s mad?
My father comes up through the door in the floor, his lips tight, and his suit wrinkled.
He stands up, scowling at us both.
“Get away from her,” he orders Damon.
Damon and I exchange looks, both of us scared.
My father charges over, and Damon steps in front of me.
“Did he hurt you?” my dad asks.
But Damon just shakes his head. “I didn’t.”
It sounds like a plea. Why is my father so worried?
“Move.” He pushes Damon out of the way.
My dad grabs my hand and pulls me. I stumble, letting out a cry.
“You don’t speak to him, and you are never allowed back at this house,” he growls. “If Mom brings you, you tell me. Do you understand?”
“But I want her to come back,” Damon says. “Please.”
“What did we do?” I ask my dad.
He just ignores me, flexing his jaw and squeezing my hand as he yanks me toward the door.
I look back at Damon but stumble when Dad nudges me toward the hole in the floor. I spin back around, looking down to the ground far below and shake my head. My knees shake, and I feel like I’m going to pee my pants.
“I’m scared,” I start to cry.
I can’t see the steps going down like I could coming up.
“Now!” he snaps.
I jump.
Shaking and tears streaming, I crouch down by the hole, knowing I’m going to slip. My foot will slip. I know it. I won’t be able to see the steps underneath me.
But Damon rushes over and takes my hand, pulling me away from the hole and putting himself in front of me again.
“Leave her alone!” he fights. “I’ll help her! I’ll do it!”
My father charges for him, Damon steps back, digging into my foot, and I cry out.
“Just get out of here!” Damon yells. “I’ll bring her down!”
He backs up more, scared, and I’m stumbling, step after step, and we’re falling back, and I can’t catch myself.
“You little shit…” my dad growls.
“Just leave her alone!” Damon cries out.
I look back, see us heading straight for the railing, and he’s not paying attention.
“Damon!” I beg.
He falls into me, our weight snapping the small wooden beam, and I fall backward, crying out and grappling for anything.
“Ah, oh, my God!” I hear my mother scream from below.
I catch the edge of the floor, losing my grip and spilling over, but a hand catches me, and I suck in air, bile rising up my throat as my legs dangle.
I look up, tears filling my eyes as Damon lies on his stomach, struggling to keep hold of me, but I feel so heavy, like I’m being pulled down. My father comes down and grabs for me, but Damon and I can’t hold, and I flail, slipping out of his fingers. His eyes meet mine, time freezes for a split second as we stare at each other, knowing I’m gone.
I slip, scream, and fall, his face the last thing I see before I see nothing at all.
I blinked my eyes awake, sweat coating my brow as warmth spilled through my bedroom window. The memory—the panic—still raced through my body as if I went over that treehouse edge yesterday.
That was the first time I recalled so many details my eight-year-old mind had buried away. He was so different. Rika was right.
I sat up in bed, wiping my eyes but still tired.
Tired of worry and hate and anger.
But also tired of feeling like I always lost.
That was my dilemma with Damon. That accident wasn’t his fault. I knew now that my father wasn’t upset with me or Damon that day. He’d discovered my mother and Mr. Torrance together and lost his temper.
Everything got out of hand, and Damon got scared. We were just kids. He didn’t mean to push me over. I knew that now.
But still…
I just never seemed to come out of anything with him unscathed, did I? In body or in mind.
Rising from the bed, I left my room, the house still silent as I walked down the stairs and into the ballroom. I fell asleep so early I missed dinner last night, and I needed some coffee, but I needed to stretch. I started my playlist and walked over to the wall, moving the curtain aside and lifting the first window to breathe in some fresh air.
But as I did, I stopped, hearing the rush of water outside.
A lot of water, and not like rain.
I thought he got rid of the fountain.
I couldn’t hear the workers anymore—no trucks or machinery. Did they bust a pipe or something? What was that sound?
Leaving the ballroom, I walked toward the front door, punching in the code Crane had given me and disarming the house.
I opened the door, the sound of water filling the air as I stepped outside.