The fading reds and pinks of the sunset were disappearing, edged by gray and the blackness of falling night.
Sofia switched on their lantern-style flashlight. She set it to the side of the tent, giving them just enough light to see by and still allowing their eyes to grow somewhat accustomed to the dark.
“Good girl,” Sofia said in such an approving tone that Plum felt a rush of pride in whatever she’d just done or said to gain such an affirming remark.
Sofia was looking in the tent behind them, at Henrietta.
The chicken had settled on a bed of grasses, her feet covered by her feathers, head tilted toward the underside of one wing, as if seeking permission.
“Go ahead and sleep,” Sofia murmured to the bird. “I’ll wake you up if anything happens, I promise.”
Henrietta gave a murmuring cluck and tucked her beak under her wing.
“Awwww,” Marlowe breathed.
“She’s growing on you, huh?” Sofia said with no small amount of smug self-satisfaction.
“No,” Marlowe retorted, but with a loving smile. “I was saying ‘aw’ at you, you dope.”
Sofia snorted and jostled into Marlowe’s shoulder. “Aw right back, chickenhearted one.”
Watching her friends, Plum felt a surge of love for them, an actual surge in her veins like a superpower. She loved them so much. She would do anything to protect them.
“That bird’s lucky you took her under your wing,” Marlowe said. She turned merry eyes to Plum. “Get it? Under her wing? See what I did there?”
Sofia groaned.
Plum laughed.
Marlowe looked pleased.
Plum felt a different surge of emotion, a sparking kind of love, the kind that wanted to catch fire, wanted so desperately to catch fire.
Fire.
“Something doesn’t make sense,” Plum murmured.
Marlowe sighed. “None of this makes sense.” She sounded sad to be dragged back to the present moment.
“No, I mean, something’s not right.” Plum shook her head. “I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something. Something obvious.”
Sofia shrugged. “Well, if you missed it, we all missed it.”
Plum turned to her two friends. She leaned across Marlowe so she could see Sofia as easily. She tried not to get distracted by the soft skin of Marlowe’s arm touching hers. Plum couldn’t help it—she turned, helplessly, and looked in Marlowe’s blue-green eyes.
Marlowe looked back. It was almost as if Marlowe was holding her breath, too.
“What?” Sofia asked.
Plum gave herself a tiny mental shake and made herself look away from Marlowe. “The killer,” Plum said. “I feel like I’m missing a clue. Or something. If I could just make it make sense.”
Marlowe sat up straighter. “Let’s talk about what we know.”
Sofia nodded eagerly. “We don’t have a whiteboard or anything, but if we were on one of those detective shows my dad likes, we’d have all this on some kind of big display in front of us. With, like, red yarn and stuff.”
“Good!” Plum nodded.
So they began mapping it out. Everything that had happened. The times they’d arrived, the buffet, no water, the reveal that there was no real festival. The name of the festival itself a dire warning—a pyre to burn a corpse.
Sofia shuddered at that. “Ugh,” she said. “I feel so stupid we didn’t have more pause at that.”
“It sounded edgy. Cool.” Marlowe smiled with self-deprecating humor. “I fell for it, too. Like Burning Man. That sounds bad, too, and it’s a cool thing, right?”
“Pyre Festival.” Plum shook her head. “Set the night on fire.”
She hoped the motto wasn’t literal.