THE CHEVALIER FARMHOUSE WAS LARGE and painted grayish green. Rosa climbed onto the front porch. She whispered a courteous hello to whatever may or may not lurk underneath it. First impressions were always important to household spirits.
Nothing rustled under her feet. Rosa wondered if this household had any spirits. Maybe they kept low and silent, because this was Ingot. Maybe they had been driven out. Maybe they had never been here at all. Maybe this house, and this farm, and this whole town had always stood empty of all but the living.
She knocked. A blonde woman opened the door and stood in the doorway. The woman held a coffee mug shaped like a knight’s helmet.
“Good morning. My name’s Rosa. Is Jasper home?”
“Hello there,” the woman said. “I’m Mrs. Chevalier. Jasper’s mom.”
“Oh,” said Rosa. “But you’re white.”
“True,” said Mrs. Chevalier.
“Well noticed!” Jasper’s dad called out from somewhere inside the house. “She’s observant, that one.”
“Good morrow to you, Sir Morien,” Rosa called after him.
“And to you, Lady Librarian,” he answered back.
“Jasper does look a little more like his father,” Mrs. Chevalier said smoothly. “And I think he might be back in the stables. You can look for him there. But try not to shout, or do anything sudden and loud.”
“Thanks!” Rosa said, and hurried off the porch. She didn’t think she had made the best impression on the Chevalier household.
The stable doors were open. The inside was dimly lit and full of thick, musty smells. Horses shuffled and stamped in their stalls. Rosa didn’t know much about horses, or how to listen to horse behaviors. She moved cautiously. These beasts were very much bigger than she was, and she didn’t speak their language or understand their rules. A chalk circle would be poor defense against a charging, kicking horse.
Jasper stood in the entrance to one stall. The beige horse beside him suddenly stuck its head in the air and bared its teeth. Jasper looked around. He spotted Rosa, and waved. Then he offered the horse an apple. It reached out carefully with its face, took the apple, and left behind a whole handful of drool in Jasper’s open palm. He wiped the drool on the leg of his pants.
“This is Agrippa,” Jasper said. “He’s been grazing on clover lately. Makes him spit more.”
“Hi Agrippa,” Rosa said.
The horse looked her over with one large, pale eyeball. Its—his—iris ran sideways, like a tipped-over cat’s eye. Rosa found that deeply unsettling. Then Agrippa exhaled a burst of warm air at her face. She flinched.
“That means hi,” Jasper explained. “You don’t need to worry about Agrippa. He’s old, wise, cold-blooded, and doesn’t lash out or spook easily.”
“Okay,” Rosa said. “I thought horses were mammals, though.”
“Cold-blooded temperament, not biology. He isn’t reptilian.”
“Okay,” Rosa said again. She still regarded the horse as though he might be some sort of dinosaur. “Do your parents spook easily? They’re both pretty relaxed after yesterday. Not braced for a whole stampede of haunted trees.”
“Yeah,” Jasper said. “I noticed that, too. So I dropped some pennies in their shoes and talked my mom into wearing copper jewelry. But I can’t really tell if it helped. They remember the tree. But they don’t want to. And it’s like they’re trying to ignore the memory until it goes away.”
“Have they always lived here?” Rosa asked. “Both of them?”
“Mostly. They’re both from here, anyway. Went away to college and then moved right back. Why?”
“I think this kind of amnesia is habit-forming. They’ve been forgetting for a long while. Longer than you have. Maybe it’s easier for you to remember.” Rosa didn’t want to dwell too much on parents and their missing pieces. “I hope it’s easier for you, anyway. Let’s test that out. Want to come hiking?”
Of course he wanted to come. Jasper grabbed his quarterstaff and set off, ready to face whatever haunted beasts might prowl around the borders of Ingot. But he balked when Rosa turned left at the end of the driveway and hiked south, up into the foothills.
She kept right on going. He took a breath, pushed himself after her, and hurried to catch up. The coin on his staff clinked against the road. Then pavement gave way to packed dirt and small weeds and the tip made a muffled thunking sound instead.
“Cars don’t come through here, I guess,” Rosa said. “But something does. It isn’t completely overgrown. The dirt in the middle is packed down and plant-free. Maybe people still use it on foot. Or bike. Or horseback.”
“We don’t ride horses up this way,” Jasper said quickly.
Rosa looked around. “But it’s a nice path through the woods. Good view of the valley behind us. No cars. Seems perfect for riding.”
“We don’t ride up this way,” he said again.
Rosa said nothing, but she said it loudly.
The road narrowed further until only the footpath remained, worn smooth but surrounded by forest. The trees and brush leaned close on either side and scratched at their arms and sleeves.
“You know a fair bit about history, right?” Rosa asked as they hiked on.
“Can’t help it,” said Jasper. “Both parents walk around wearing history. Medieval Europe is their favorite flavor, but they’re also members of the local Historical Society. They read up on all kinds.”
“When was Ingot founded?” Rosa asked, her voice casually innocent.
“Why?” Jasper asked, suspicious.
“Do you know?”
“Of course I know: 1899. Founded by Bartholomew Theosophras Barron and his wife, Isabelle.”
“Okay,” Rosa said. “Now why was it founded?”
“That’s . . . kind of a dumb question.”
“No it isn’t,” Rosa argued. “Something must have brought people out here. Did they throw darts at a map? Or shoot an arrow into the sky and say, ‘Let’s go that way and build a town!’ This place is pretty inconvenient. Hard to get to. Takes effort. The only way in is a highway punched through mountains. Why did settling people spend all that effort?”
“You don’t like it here,” Jasper said.
“No. I don’t. But that’s not why I’m asking.”
“Well, feel free to ask my parents about local history when we get back. I’m sure they know.”
“I’m sure they don’t,” Rosa said.
Jasper hit the ground harder with his staff as they hiked.
The trail veered around the banks of a small lake. It looked pretty. But someone had nailed several signs to the trees around it. DO NOT SWIM. DO NOT DRINK. WATER UNSAFE. NO FISHING. NO HUNTING. NO TRESPASSING.
Rosa picked up a pebble and tossed it in.
Jasper flinched when it plunked into the water.
“What happened here?” she wondered aloud.
Jasper shook his head. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. He felt the opposite of curious—an intense and flinching distaste for ever knowing.
Rosa gave him a long look. He looked away first, and felt himself growing angry. He couldn’t figure out why he would be. He expected to feel excellent and adventurous about accompanying an appeasement specialist on her ghostly errand. But he didn’t.
“You’re pissed,” she said.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“You’ve been getting grouchier as we go.”
“You’ve been getting more and more rude as we go.”
She turned to face him. “What’s at the end of this road?”
The question felt like a sharp stick poking at his face. “What?”
“This road,” Rosa pressed. “You live on it. The center of town is that way. What’s this way?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Nothing is.”
“Then the trail wouldn’t be here. The road would just stop at the farm and fairgrounds. Why is it here? Where is it going?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why not? You should.”
“I didn’t think this hike included a quiz.”
Rosa crossed her arms and cocked her head sideways. “You’re getting seriously angry.”
“You’re always angry!” His own voice surprised him. Jasper didn’t shout much.
“True,” she said. “I like to feel angry about things that need fixing. Helps me try to fix them. I like to burn that feeling as fuel. But this seems to be burning you instead. And I’m pretty sure that your mom, your dad, old Mrs. Squillypip, and the full membership of the Ingot Historical Society have no idea where this road goes, either.”
Jasper stood and seethed.
She dropped her voice. “I also think this anger isn’t entirely yours. Some of it might be. But some of it’s borrowed.”
The seething lessened, just a little, as soon as she said that.
“I can feel it,” she went on. “Not as strong as you do, I’m guessing, since I’m not local. But I can still feel it. And it definitely isn’t mine. I’ve got plenty. I know what it tastes like. I can tell the difference. This is coming from somewhere else. And it’s making your bracelet send off little wisps of smoke.”
Jasper considered his smoky bracelet. It felt cold around his wrist. So did the two pennies stuck to his shoulders with Band-Aids.
He tried to figure out whether any of the anger he felt was his own, and decided that some of it was. “Quit being such a snob about my hometown.”
“Okay,” she said cheerfully, and started hiking again. “Teach me that sea chantey. The one on the Zippo. If it’s good for hoisting sail, it should be good for hiking.”
Jasper taught her the chorus.
Away, haul away, we’ll heave and hang together,
Away, haul away, we’ll haul away soon.
Away, haul away, we’re bound for bitter weather.
Away, haul away, we’ll haul away soon.
“Is the whole song like that?” Rosa asked. “ ‘Something bad’s about to happen and we probably deserve it?’ ”
“That’s every sea chantey,” Jasper said. “Something bad is always about to happen to sailors. Might as well sing through it.”