This was particularly amusing because the DAR members, including Mrs. Lincoln, conducted these tours in period dress; they squeezed into girdles and layers of petticoats that made them look like sausages about to burst from their casings. And they weren’t the only ones; their daughters, including Savannah and Emily, the future generation of the DAR, had to putter around the historic plantation houses dressed like characters from Little House on the Prairie. The tour had always started at the DAR headquarters, since it was the second-oldest house in Gatlin. I wondered if the roof would be fixed in time. I couldn’t help imagining all those women wandering around the Gatlin Historical Society, pointing out starburst quilt patterns above the hundreds of Caster scrolls and documents awaiting the next bank holiday below.
But the DAR weren’t the only ones to get into the act. The War Between the States was often referred to as the “first modern war,” but if you took a walk around Gatlin the week before the Reenactment, there was nothing modern looking about it. Every Civil War relic in town was on display, from horsedrawn wagons to Howitzers, which any preschooler in town could tell you were artillery cannons resting on a set of old wagon wheels. The Sisters even dragged out their original Confederate flag and tacked it up on their front door, after I refused to hang it on the porch for them. Even though it was all for show, that’s where I drew the line.
There was a big parade the day before the Reenactment, which gave the reenactors an opportunity to march through town in full regalia in front of all the tourists, because the next day they’d be so covered in smoke and dirt that no one would notice the shiny brass buttons on their authentic shell jackets.
After the parade, there was a huge festival, with a pig pick, a kissing booth, and an old-fashioned pie sale. Amma spent days baking. Outside of the County Fair, this was her biggest pie show, and her biggest opportunity to claim victory over her enemies. Her pies were always bestsellers, which drove Mrs. Lincoln and Mrs. Snow crazy—Amma’s primary motivation for all that baking in the first place.
There was nothing she liked better than showing up the women of the DAR and rubbing their noses in their second-rate pies.
So every year when the second week of February rolled around, life as we knew it ceased to exist, and we all found ourselves back at the Battle of Honey Hill, circa 1864. This year was no exception, with one peculiar addition. This year, as pickups pulled into town towing double-barreled cannons and horse trailers—any self-respecting cavalry reenactor owned his own horse—different preparations were also under way, for a different battle.
Only this one didn’t begin at the second-oldest house in Gatlin, but the oldest. There were Howitzers, and then there were Howitzers. This battle wasn’t concerned with guns and horses, but that didn’t make it any less of a battle. To be honest, it was the only real battle in town.
As for the eight casualties of Honey Hill, I couldn’t really compare. I was only worried about one.
Because if I lost her, I would be lost, too.
So forget the Battle of Honey Hill. To me, this felt more like D-Day.
2.11
Sweet Sixteen
L eave me alone! I told all of you! There’s nothing you can do!
Lena’s voice woke me from a few hours of fitful sleep. I pulled on my jeans and a gray T-shirt without even stopping to think about it. About anything other than this: Day One. We could stop waiting for the end to come.
The end was here.
not with a bang but a whimper not with a bang but a whimper not with a bang but a whimper Lena was losing it, and it was barely daylight.
The Book. Damn, I’d forgotten it. I ran back up into my room, two stairs at a time. I reached up to the top shelf of my closet, where I’d hidden it, bracing myself for the scorching that went along with touching a Caster book.
Only it didn’t happen. Because it wasn’t there.
The Book of Moons, our book, was gone. We needed that book, today of all days. But Lena’s voice was pounding in my head.
this is the way the world ends not with a bang but a whimper Lena reciting T. S. Eliot was not a good sign. I grabbed the keys to the Volvo and ran.
The sun was rising as I drove down Dove Street. Greenbrier, or the only empty field in Gatlin to everyone else in town—making it the location of the Battle of Honey Hill—was beginning to come to life, too. The funny thing was, I couldn’t even hear the artillery outside my car window, because of the artillery going off in my head.
By the time I ran up the steps of Ravenwood’s veranda, Boo was waiting for me, barking. Larkin was on the steps, too, leaning against one of the pillars. He was in his leather jacket, playing with the snake that curled and uncurled its way around his arm. First it was his arm, then it was a snake. He Shifted idly between shapes, like a dealer shuffling a deck of cards. The sight of it caught me off guard for a second. That, and the way he made Boo bark. Come to think of it, I couldn’t tell if Boo was barking at me or Larkin. Boo belonged to Macon, and Macon and I hadn’t exactly left things on speaking terms.
“Hey, Larkin.” He nodded, disinterested. It was cold, and a puff of breath crept out of his mouth, as if from an imaginary cigarette. The puff stretched out into a circle that became a tiny white snake, which then bit into its own tail, devouring itself until it disappeared.
“I wouldn’t go in there if I was you. Your girlfriend is a little, how should I put it? Venomous?” The snake curved its length around his neck, then became the collar of his leather jacket.