On the third night, the dream returned.

The panther with its gleaming black coat and sinewy limbs did not make an appearance, but the vision was scorched with fire. It lit something beneath my skin until even my nostrils were drenched with the rotten-egg smell of sulfur. Its words seemed to stroke down my spine like its soft, silky tail.

Do you hear the singing bone? Do you hear the singing bone?

Heading to school that morning, just before the bus turned into the drop-off lane, I finally built up the nerve to ask Nell about it. Ever since the tour groups had enthusiastically agreed to work with the House of Seven Terrors on a regular basis, she’d lost that pinched look on her face whenever she spoke to me.

As I said, to win favor from others, you must grant them a favor.

I brushed Al’s words aside, waiting as Nell thought it over.

“A singing bone…that’s something from folklore—fairy tales,” she said. “My mom told me about it once, and I think there are a couple of variations of it. It usually goes something like, a jealous brother or sister will kill one of their siblings and hide their bones. But when the bones of the victim are found, they sing the truth of what happened.”

“Ugh,” I said. What did that have to do with anything in that dream, though? What was my brain trying to get me to figure out?

“Why do you ask?” Nell said as the door swung open and we made our way down the aisle. I caught her glancing around as we passed some of the other kids, but they hadn’t said a word about her or to her since we got on the bus.

“Just something I read when I was doing research on…well, you know,” I said, lowering my voice. “By the way, I think we should look into the whole name-of-fiends thing….”

Nell stopped so suddenly I accidentally walked into her back. “You think we haven’t? Trust me, the spell is the only way.”

“I know, but—”

“Uncle Barnabas checked on his source for the…” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “For the toes. He thinks he’ll be able to get them by the end of next week. He has some way of shipping them to us without customs freaking out, apparently.”

Somewhere inside me, it sounded like Alastor let out a tiny gasp of alarm.

I knew it was an option—the only real plan that we had—but something still made me wonder about the name thing, if only because of Al’s reaction to it. If Nell and Uncle Barnabas had given up on that line of thinking, I’d pursue it myself. Just in case we needed a backup plan.

“Hey…one more thing,” I said quietly. “Is there anything, you know, amiss Downstairs? Have you heard anything about something going on there?”

You remembered. Al sounded genuinely surprised.

Nell stared at me. “Why would I have heard anything at all? It’s not like I have a pen pal down there.”

I tried, I told him. I could maybe ask Missy…

You would?

I was still thinking about those words, and the malefactor’s surprise, as we arrived at school and left the bus behind. I didn’t shake them off until it was time to put my plan into play.

“Aren’t you coming?” Nell asked when I started to turn down the wrong corridor.

I glanced at the clock in the hallway. I had less than ten minutes to do this.

“Just—bathroom,” I said, giving her a small wave. “Be there in a few.”

Once she headed toward homeroom for announcements, disappearing around the corner, I took off at a run, bursting back outside into a drizzle of rain cold enough that it probably should have been snow. The clouds were enormous, twisting around the sky, making me feel like I was standing at the center of a whirl of mist.

What are you doing, Maggot? Alastor asked, curious.

I’d never been in the theater building, but Nell had pointed it out to me in passing. It was attached to the art studios. Inside, the hallways were covered with cast and crew photos, more than half of them The Crucible. Spaced between them were large theater posters, all featuring the same woman in different roles and big seventies hair: Anna Drummer. Otherwise known as Madam Drummer, the theater teacher.

I found her in her office, her head of frizzy purple-red hair bent over a costume that looked older than her, carefully stitching the frayed ends back together. To her right, a big backdrop was partially unrolled, exposing some of the artwork.

I’m not one to criticize another artist’s work, but…yikes. Making the sad depiction of the forest even worse was the odd ripple at the base of it, where it had clearly been damaged by water.

“Madam Drummer?”

The woman jumped about two miles in the air, clutching at her chest.

“Sorry! I didn’t mean to startle you,” I said. “I just wanted to ask you something, if you have a second?”

“Well—my goodness, let me catch my breath,” she said. “Are you here about the auditions for John Proctor?”

The one thing Madam Drummer, wearer of three scarves at once, had in common with my grandmother was that they both tried really hard to make normal words like auditions sound French, even with her New Jersey accent.

“Not for me,” I said. “For my cousin Nell Bishop.”

Madam Drummer stared at me. “I’m not sure I follow…?”

“She wants the part,” I said. “She has everything memorized—and she’s good. I don’t get why you won’t even let her audition.”

“Because she is a girl,” she said, speaking slowly and clearly, like I was a child.

Preposterous. Al sounded surprisingly indignant on Nell’s behalf. As if your poor excuse for a bard, Shakespeare, did not have men play women all the time.

Good point.

“Didn’t Shakespeare have men playing the female characters?” I asked. “I know it was a different time, you don’t have to explain that, but…it just seems unfair.”

Many humans do not care about what is “unfair,” for it varies so much between them. They are, however, highly motivated by the promise of wealth.

“The script, you see, it’s very specific on the matter—”

It took me a second to understand what Al was trying to say. “But think about how much publicity and exposure you’ll be able to get for this—I mean, come on, aside from the fact it’s just the right thing to do to give everyone a fair shot, haven’t you done the exact same version of this play every year? With the same backdrop, and the same costumes?”

Her expression narrowed unpleasantly. “What are you suggesting?”

“What if—I don’t know, isn’t the whole play about unfair persecution and how easy gossip and lies can spread?” I said, mind racing. “Isn’t that just like…isn’t that just like middle school? What if you used the script but changed the setting and characters, just a little bit?”

“Young man,” she began, drawing in a deep breath. “The play debuts next Wednesday. Today is Friday. Even if we worked through the weekend, do you think I have the funds to simply purchase new costumes and backdrops? It’s not like I can ask the parrot-brained art teacher for her help.”

“No, no—but—if it’s set in modern times, the cast can just wear their own clothes. You can use desks and props from classrooms. I can paint the backdrops for you for free. Please just consider it. She’s such a good actress. She can’t prove you wrong if you don’t even give her a chance.”

The warning bell rang, interrupting the long silence that followed.

“I’d need to see your artwork,” she said slowly. “Your ideas.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll sketch some at lunch. They’ll be great, I promise. But does this mean you’ll let her audition?”

Madam Drummer flicked her hand at me. “Yes, yes, now get to class.”

I didn’t bother to hide my grin as I took off at a run, bursting outside and pounding through the mud to get back into the main building.

Why did you do this? Alastor asked. What are you hoping to trade the witchling for?

Nothing. Not everything is a transaction, I told him.

Did you engage this plan because you wished to feel better about yourself? The malefactor was clearly flabbergasted by the concept of friendship, never mind kindness.

I want to help my family. I thought you’d get that, since I’m guessing what you really want me to ask Nell is what’s going on with your family, not your realm.

Such presumption, he sputtered, such impertinence—

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Parker coming up the ramp next to the staircase on his crutches, trying to keep up with his friends. I shoved through the door, flinging rain and mud everywhere, including on the ground the janitor was trying to mop up.

“Hey!” he barked after me, slamming his HALLWAY CLOSED sign down. “Freaking kid!”

I glanced back, just as Parker and his goons tried to approach the janitor.

“Go around—I don’t care if you’re late, the floor is too wet to be safe—”

I all but slid into first period, shoes still squealing as I hit the carpet and ran to my seat next to Nell. The tardy bell rang just as I collapsed into it. She looked at me, alarmed. Mrs. Anderson gave me a raised-brow look from where she was writing out the day’s earth science lesson on the whiteboard.

It wasn’t until after the announcements had finished that Parker finally limped his way in, looking rain-soaked and irritated.

“You’re late, Parker,” Mrs. Anderson said, pointing to a stool at the front of the class. “You know the drill.”

“But I had to go around the long way,” Parker said, leaning against his crutches. “And it’s hard to get around in these things—”

The science teacher put her hands on her hips as the rest of the class squirmed uncomfortably, trying not to laugh at the faint squeak in his voice. I cringed on his behalf.

He does not deserve your pity, Maggot.

“Unfortunately for you,” Mrs. Anderson said, “I saw you chatting with your friends in the yard this morning. You had plenty of time to get here before the warning bell, never mind the tardy bell.”

Man, Mrs. Anderson was stone cold.

“What’s happening?” I whispered to Nell as Parker assumed his seat on the stool, balancing against his crutches.

“Pop quiz,” she said. “If he gets the question wrong, he gets detention.”

“Now,” Mrs. Anderson said, facing him. “Your question is: How many interior layers does Earth have?”

Parker flinched, his face falling, and I knew he didn’t have the answer. I made four fingers and started to lift them just above the edge of the raised table that served as our desk, but Alastor seized the arm and drew it back down.

“Um…five?” Parker guessed. I sighed.

Mrs. Anderson shook her head. “Four. Looks like we’ll be eating lunch together, then, Parker.”

His crutches clicked against the tile floor as he sat down heavily in his seat, burying his head in his hands.

Do not pity him, Alastor said as Mrs. Anderson instructed us to open our textbooks. He received what he deserved, and a soft heart only makes it easier for a knife to slip in.

During humanities, Mr. Gupta pulled me aside and told me that he had spoken to the art teacher—weirdly enough, another Ms. Drummer—and that I was welcome to join her last period to see if I wanted to sit in going forward.

There wasn’t a big enough word to describe my excitement, so I ended up accidentally screaming a Yes! directly into Mr. Gupta’s face. I hadn’t felt like I could take any of the art classes as Redhood Academy, not without people judging me or mocking whatever I was working on. But here I was Ethan—and, awesomely, no one cared.

I’d made it two steps inside the classroom when I was met at the door by another purple-red-haired woman with curly hair exploding from the fabric she’d wrapped it in. All I needed was one look at her familiar face to know why there were two Drummers in this school.

They were twins, like me and Prue.

I blew out a sigh from my nose, trying to push the thought away.

Ahhh, Alastor cooed. More sadness, more loneliness, Maggot, please. Delicious.

“You must be Ethan,” Ms. Drummer said, smoothing her hands down her paint-splattered apron. “It’s nice to meet you. I loved the sketches Mr. Gupta showed me—you have a real talent for playing with light and shadow. Have you taken an art class before?”

I shook my head.

“That’s not a bad thing, but even innate talent needs some guidance to reach its full potential. Hopefully we’ll be able to share some useful skills and ideas that will help you push yourself to grow and develop your vision and style.”

I couldn’t form a word. A high, happy noise escaped my throat like a squealing balloon.

“These are my eighth graders, but that doesn’t really matter,” she said, guiding me out of the doorway so the kids waiting behind me could come in out of the rain. “The only real difference is the techniques I teach, but you clearly have a handle on the ones I’d teach to my seventh graders.”

She walked me around the cavernous space. It looked almost industrial: wide-open, with metal shelves of paint and supplies. At the center of the room were big tables with wood tops, tattooed with carvings and stains and drawings. The class was small, only two dozen kids or so. While they were retrieving their canvases from where they’d been stored in large, flat lockers, Ms. Drummer introduced me.

“There’s an open seat here,” a girl said, raising her hand. She moved her bag as I sat down. “Hi, I’m Lizzy. That’s Cody and Brayton on the other side of the table.”

“Pros—um, Ethan,” I said. “Thanks for letting me sit with you.”

She gave me a strange look. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

Because in Redhood, kids I didn’t even know would get up and move to a different table or desk if I tried to sit down next to them.

The huge windows behind Ms. Drummer let in a ton of light, even with the rain sheeting down on the school.

“All right, a few announcements before you dive into your projects,” she said, making her way over to a freestanding bulletin board. “I’ll give you the bad news first: the school is officially out of walls they’re willing to allow us to cover with a mural. We’ll have to think of a different graduation gift.”

The class booed in disappointment.

“So it’s back to the drawing board!” she said with a wink. “Good thing that we’re all creative types and we’re good at reworking ideas. Take the weekend to think about it. Remember, it has to be something we can work on together, and it has to be of use. Now, on to good—and I mean great—news.” Ms. Drummer brandished a sheet of paper. “Our very own Lizzy has won second place in the statewide art contest for junior high for her piece At Home in the Harbor!”

Next to me, Lizzy froze, turning bright red as the class cheered.

“Well done, you,” Ms. Drummer said. “They’re sending me your plaque and the information about the award ceremony.”

“Wow, thank you,” Lizzy managed to get out, looking overwhelmed. She stared down at her oil painting of a nighttime sky until the attention of the room shifted onto their own projects.

As Ms. Drummer went around to critique everyone’s work, I opened my notebook and tried to plan a few ideas to present to the other Drummer.

“I forgot to explain; I’m sorry, Ethan,” she said when she finally reached me. “Our project for the week is depicting our favorite aspect of nature through oil painting. I’d love to see what you come up with—just let me show you where to pick out a canvas.”

“Actually,” I said, looking at the supplies around me. “I was wondering if I could maybe join your class for the full week and a half and work on a project for Madam Drummer?”

Ms. Drummer’s face went carefully blank at the mention of her twin. “Oh?”

“She needs new backdrops for The Crucible,” I explained. “I don’t have a space big enough to try to paint them anywhere else.”

“Oh yeah,” Cody said from across the table. “Didn’t one of the water heaters in their storage closet explode? All of the backdrops are probably a wreck.”

“Really?” Ms. Drummer said. Then, muttering to herself, she added, “Why didn’t she say anything about it?”

I didn’t want to tell her it might have had something to do with her sister calling her “parrot-brained,” which now seemed totally uncalled for.

“Could that be our class project?” Lizzy asked. “Creating new backdrops of different scenes for them to use in upcoming plays and sketch shows?”

“Not a bad idea,” Ms. Drummer said, putting a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll ask my sister about it and have her come up with a list of scene possibilities for us to create. Thanks for bringing it to our attention. In the meantime, I’ll show you where the canvases are….”

I shrugged and followed her over to another rack, listening to her explanation about which sizes and materials to use for different projects. By the time I made it back to my worktable, Lizzy had retrieved the notice about the art contest off the bulletin board.

“Who won, though?” Cody asked as I sat back down and laid out my paint.

Lizzy looked down at the sheet of paper, and then laughed. “I should have known. It’s a Redding.”

My whole body went rigid.

“Figures,” Brayton said. “That family is unreal. Can I see the piece?”

She slid the paper over to him. My heart was beating so hard in my chest it felt bruised.

“A View of the Cottage by Prosperity Redding,” he read.

“What?” The word was out of my mouth and echoing around the art room before I could catch it.

Cody blinked, sliding it back over to me. “Yeah, check it out. It’s not bad at all—at least we know the win came from talent, not from someone buying off the judges.”

“There are so many of them, though,” Brayton said with a laugh. “The judges were probably all related to them in one way or another.”

My hands shook as I looked down at the announcement. But there it was. My name. A photo of the small painting I had done of the Cottage to give to Prue for our birthday. Instead, I’d been too embarrassed to actually gift it to her and had hidden it under my bed.

Prue. It had to have been her. She had to have found it and sent it in on my behalf.

Oh no. My eyes were itching, burning, and I felt like I wanted go hide outside for a few minutes to get a grip. But…I’d won. Not Ethan White. Prosperity Redding.

“Do you know the Reddings, Ethan?” Lizzy asked. “You seem surprised.”

“No,” I said truthfully, setting the paper aside and picking up a brush.

If the past week had shown me anything, it was that I didn’t know my family, never mind my twin, at all.