But it never happened.
Gavin crossed from one side of the street to the other, and the iron gate began to move, creaking open without being touched. The doors swung apart just far enough for him to slip through before closing again with a clang. She never saw him turn, never even saw him touch the gate at all.
Delilah didn’t know what to make of this and stood stock-still, frozen in place behind the old tree. Why would anyone need an automatic gate that wasn’t for a driveway? Had there been some sort of remote in his pocket? But Gavin’s hands hadn’t been in his pockets. His thumbs had been causally tucked beneath the straps of his backpack. If there was a remote, he hadn’t used it.
She crossed the road and stood next to the imposing fence that surrounded the Patchwork House. Peeking through the thick vine there, she saw the same thing happen with the front door: It swung open long before Gavin reached it. And here, too, there wasn’t another person on the other side, just empty darkness to greet him.
She’d planned on going home, but now, walking away from what she’d seen felt impossible. Without giving herself time to think on it, she reached out with the toe of her shoe to check the footing, summoning every bit of courage she had before scrambling up the sturdy vines, lifting her body over the edge, and falling hard onto the lawn on the other side.
After she caught her breath, she took in the view. And what a view it was.
The house looming in front of her bore little resemblance to the house in her memories. In fact, it looked as if someone had taken that house and tacked on two or three others, all of varying styles and from different eras. It was all different colors—deep burgundy, goldenrod, forest green, and cornflower blue—and looked as if it had never borne the brunt of any windstorm, rain, or dust. Upstairs, two stained-glass windows gleamed in the late-afternoon sun, looking just like eyes watching over the street below. One half of the front lawn was emerald green, glistening and lush. Oddly, the other was just as dead as the first was alive, yellowed and brittle. Around the back, apples bloomed ruby red on the trees. In fact, every tree in the yard was plump with spring. . . in the middle of January.
Delilah blinked hard into the light, feeling as though she’d been ripped from her own ordinary existence and dropped into another world, one rich and ripe and bursting with color.
She looked back over her shoulder, convinced she must have fallen through some sort of rabbit hole and she would find herself fast asleep and dreaming on the other side. Did things like this house even exist in real life?
She turned to the sound of his voice from inside, yelling hello, and the thunk of his backpack as it hit the floor. Delilah crept to the nearest side window, peering in. A fire burned with gusto in a deep stone fireplace, and she felt a dizzying wave of relief that someone was there to welcome Gavin home. Maybe cook him some soup, bake him some bread for dinner.
But just as his long figure slipped into her view, the curtains in front of her closed with such violence that for a moment Delilah imagined the entire house had shaken.
Chapter Four
Him
Gavin heard a yelp, the sound of something scratching outside, and ran to the window, fighting with Curtain. “Just let me see!” he shouted, somehow knowing what had just happened.
He saw only the bottom of Delilah’s shoes as she hurled herself over the side fence. Thin coils of vine reached for her feet. He pounded at the window, and the tendrils shrank back, limp and contrite.