“Winter?” Mom’s voice floats through the house.
Crap. The front door shuts, followed by the sound of Mom’s keys clattering onto the countertop next to mine. “Are you home?” Her voice has that tinge of worry in it, the one she gets when the sun’s about to go down and she has no idea where I am.
I hold up my hand. “Hold that thought.” I walk out into the hallway. “Be right there!”
The fridge opens and closes, followed by the static buzzing of the microwave. “Hurry up,” she calls back. “I’m starving. You’ll never believe the day I had.”
“Tell me about it,” I murmur as I glance back into my room, where a boy from the eighteenth century stands, touching the lightbulb in my fan before pulling his hand away. I take a deep breath and tiptoe back in, quietly closing the door behind me. “Look,” I whisper, “I need to get down there before she suspects anything. What did they find?”
He glances at the door. “Should you not venture downstairs before your mother comes searching for you?”
I wave his comment away. “Tell me quick.”
He sighs. “They overheard a conversation they were not meant to hear. They couldn’t be certain exactly who was speaking as they could not see their faces, but it became clear a plot to overthrow the council was brewing.”
I frown. “Overthrow them? What do you mean, ‘overthrow them’?” The council has always been and always will be. Who would want to overthrow it, and why? For what purpose?
“I do not know the specifics—my parents were very careful to keep this from me. I only found out about it by eavesdropping on them when they were discussing the matter in the library.”
“Okay, but what does this have to do with my dad?”
He lowers his voice, so that I have to lean closer to hear him. “After my parents disappeared, I found a name on the desk in their study. One name. One clue as to what could have possibly happened to them.” He pauses. “Jack Parish.”
My heart squeezes painfully. All this time, I’ve hoped for this—a reason to think Dad didn’t just walk off the paths, that there was something else going on, something more. I still don’t know if I can trust Brightonshire, but if there’s even a chance Dad’s connected to all this, then there’s only one question that matters.
“What do you need me to do?”
He scratches the back of his neck. “I’m not exactly sure where to begin, but I believe the Parish journals are a good place to start,” he says. “Your grandfather’s and your—”
The microwave beeps in the kitchen, and I take a step toward the door. “They’re all in the study. It’ll have to wait until tomorrow when Mom’s at work. Is … is that okay? I don’t know…” I can’t bring myself to say, I don’t know how much time your parents have left.
He bows his head. “I told you before. I will do whatever is asked of me.”
“Good. Then I need you to stay up here and not make any noise, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“As you wish.”
“Thanks.” I turn the handle and step into the hall, then look back over my shoulder. “I’m serious. Quiet as a church mouse.”
He smirks, and it makes a little dimple in his left cheek. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile, and I get that static-spark feeling all over again. I close the door and hurry downstairs, swearing I’ll never wear socks again.
XV
Mom has the leftovers heated up and sitting on the table.
“Sorry,” I say, plopping down in my chair. “I have this big presentation in English tomorrow. I was just going over my notes.”
“Anything I can help you with?” Mom asks. “I know I wasn’t much of an English buff, but I remember a few things. What’s it on?”
“Wuthering Heights.”
Mom scrunches up her face. “Nope, sorry. Can’t help you.”
“I figured.”
She laughs as she stabs a piece of chicken with her fork. “You could still read me your speech if you like. I’m an excellent listener.”
“Maybe,” I say. “If I get it done at a reasonable hour, but this may take an all-nighter.”
“Well, don’t stay up too late.”
I place my hand against my chest, all fake indignation. “Me? I would never.”
“Winter, I’m serious.”
My hand drops to my side. “I know, Mom.”
“You need your strength when you go out there—”
“Mom. I know.”
She sips her wine, watching me over the rim of her glass. “So, how was your day?”
“Fine.”
BANG. Something crashes to the floor above us.
Mom rises in her chair. “What the—”
I jump up, my napkin flying off my lap and landing on the butter dish. “Whoops. I, uh, I think I left my window open. The wind probably knocked something over.” I giggle, a telltale sign I’m lying. Crap. “I’ll just go close it.”
Mom freezes in a half-sitting, half-standing position. “Need any help?”
“No, no, no. You eat. I’ll just be a second.”
I feel her eyes on me as I do my best to walk calmly out of the dining room. If it weren’t for the creaky old floorboards, I’d be running as soon as I’m out of sight, but I can’t let Mom know something’s up. She has that spidey sense all Moms have when their kids are up to something, and for all the lessons he gave me, Dad never taught me exactly how he lied so well.
I climb the stairs and open the door to my room. Brightonshire stands on my faded yellow area rug, a textbook at his feet. He picks it up by the spine. The pages accordion out, loosening the folded-up pop quizzes that had been pushed into the cracks. The papers flutter down like snowflakes, scraping the floor.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, grabbing the textbook from him and placing it back on the desk. “What part of ‘don’t make any noise’ did you not understand?”
The rest of the room is just as messy. Books open everywhere, more notes piled on the desk and floor. The closet doors are open, half of my clothes dangling precariously from their hangers while the rest lie in a pile beneath them.
“Did you go through my clothes?”
“I did not mean to disturb them. I was only curious. It is an oddly designed wardrobe.”
“It’s called a closet.”
“Oh.”
“Winter?” Mom calls from the base of the stairs. “Everything all right?”
I skid out into the hallway. “Yeah, just the wind like I thought. It knocked over some of my notes. I’ll just clean it up and be right down, okay?”
“Well, hurry up,” she says. “Your dinner’s getting cold.”