The bedroom that Aunt Marianne showed me to did not belong to Silver. When I realized I was not going to have to share a room with her, I almost sank to the floor in relief. Now I could get undressed, and do my pencil-spinning and squirrel-checking every morning in private. Plus, what if Russell needed to come in during the middle of the night the way he sometimes did with Momma and Dad at home? I would die if Silver saw Russell climb into bed with me.

I sat down on the bed next to the window and looked around. It was a nice enough room. The bed had a wrought-iron headboard with swirls and curls that met in the middle. It was covered with a blue-and-yellow quilt, and had a matching pillowcase with lace on one end. The floor was hardwood, and except for a little throw rug next to the bed, the rest of it was bare. There was also a dresser with a mirror on top, a closet, and a straight-backed chair next to the window. Aunt Marianne had put my brown-and-red suitcase on the chair.

I lay down on the bed and rolled over so that I was facing the window. Momma’s bird necklace caught against the buttons of my shirt and I reached up, fingering the smooth edges with my thumb. Beyond my curtains, the strange landscape stared out at me. Old Betsy was parked sideways a few feet from the pear tree. At this angle, I could see a bumper sticker on the back, which read FLORIDA GIRLS ROCK!

Past the truck was a small stable with a riding ring behind it. The soft earth in the middle was tamped down with fresh hoofprints. Behind the ring was an enormous pasture filled with tall yellow grass, and beyond that was the base of Creeper Mountain. We were much too close to see any trails of smoke that might have been weaving their way up through the middle of it, but that just meant we were too close, period. Leave it to Aunt Marianne and Silver to buy the only place in Sudbury that afforded them a front-row seat to Witch Weatherly’s personal place of residence. I wouldn’t make a huge fuss right now, of course, what with Momma in the hospital and everything, but as soon as I was able to talk to Dad again, I’d tell him about it—and why we had to go stay with someone else immediately. Until then, I’d spend every waking moment staying as far away from that mountain as I possibly could.

I rolled away from the window and tried to think things all the way through again. When exactly had Dad called Aunt Marianne? Before Russell and I left for school? Or after? Was the answer he had given me this morning about getting Momma back into bed just a lie, or had she really gone in for a check-up? I squeezed my eyes, thinking about what Russell had said in Mr. Pringle’s office about Momma dying. It had sounded ridiculous, but the truth was that I had thought the same thing.

Even before Grandpa William died, I knew that Momma carried a heaviness inside her, something that was always there, like an invisible stone in the middle of her stomach. I could see it when she was doing the dishes after dinner, when she would stop suddenly, and lean her whole weight over the kitchen sink, as if something was pressing down on her shoulders. I could see it when I glanced over at her while the four of us were watching TV, and caught her staring at something else across the room—the bookcase, maybe, or the family portrait on the wall, a million miles away from the rest of us. And a few times I caught her crying while she was sitting in Dad’s big easy chair, or folding laundry on top of her big bed. There was no reason for it; nothing had actually happened. It was just as if the sad heaviness inside had leaked out a little, as if she could not bear to keep it in for one more moment.

But there were plenty of times when the heavy part of her seemed to lessen, like when she told us stories, when Dad or I made her laugh, or when Russell crawled into her lap while she was knitting and fell asleep against her chest. Those moments were the best, when her eyes lost that glossy look and it felt as if all of her was really there—right there—with us.

They just didn’t come around that often.

And now that I thought back, I couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been like that at all.

I reached inside my pocket for my pencil. My heart began to slow down a little as I started spinning it across the top of my hand. Some of the tightness inside my chest eased up as I moved it around my thumb and started over again. That’s the thing about pencil spinning. It was more than just a cool trick. It also helped me to stop thinking so much. At least for a little while.

The slam of a door downstairs startled me. I blinked as the edges of the pencil came back into focus, and then shoved it back inside my pocket. I could hear Silver’s voice downstairs.

“So she’s here? Right now?”

“Shhh!” Aunt Marianne said. “Yes. She’s upstairs. I think she’s sleeping.”

“Why didn’t you tell me they were coming?” Silver sounded annoyed. “Geez, Mom.”

“I didn’t have time,” Aunt Marianne answered. “And please keep your voice down.”

“But …” Silver’s exasperation was rising. “Did you even stop to think how awkward this might be? I mean, we barely even know them. Why can’t—”

“You’re being rude, Silver.” Aunt Marianne’s voice was solemn. “Stop it.”

“I’m just saying,” Silver said.

“Well, don’t.” Aunt Marianne sighed. “We’re still family, whether we know them well or not. Besides, it’s not like anyone planned for this to happen, honey. Uncle Bill called me this morning. You were already in school. Russell and Wren didn’t even know anything until a few hours ago, the poor things.”

Silence. And then:

“Is Aunt Greta going to be okay?” Silver sounded less aggravated.

Uncle Bill. Aunt Greta. That was what Silver called Dad and Momma. I stared at the ceiling as Aunt Marianne lowered her voice, and then I sat up, straining to hear her answer. But it was no use. She was speaking too quietly.

I got up off the bed then, walked over to the door, and slammed it as hard as I could.

They could talk about me all they wanted.

But when it came to Momma, well, that was a different story.