The crowd breaks into groups later that day, and Mr. Spencer takes more pictures, pulling from the plates I’ve marked with the wax signal. He cuts the session short when he’s used up all of the ones I’ve worked on and collapses into a chair.
“That’s it for now,” he says, looking at me with a flash of disgust for not finishing more last night. “My energy is spent.”
The group returns upstairs, joining others in the parlor or out in the yard around the tree.
I sit on the porch and watch them, noticing a broken piece of wood from Madam Crimson’s cabinet on the cobblestones, and the memory of her being chased from the Society plays over and over in my mind, horrible chants still echoing in the air.
Mr. Spencer stumbles out of the front door and covers his hand with his mouth. He whispers, “Why didn’t you finish them all?”
I consider telling him what I saw last night and what Ms. Eldridge told me, but decide against it. He wouldn’t believe me. And with each passing hour, I’m not sure I believe it myself.
It was just a storm, an easy fact instead of superstition.
“Do it tonight,” he hisses, and I nod, looking away from him to the trees at the top of the valley.
“And get rid of any evidence. We can’t be sloppy.”
He’s right of course. I know it.
That night, when all the guests have settled in, the rest of the plates are waiting for me in my room. I should do what Mr. Spencer says and finish them, but I can’t bring myself to. I’m exhausted. I curl up in bed and I feel like I’m treading water in the middle of the ocean, bobbing up and down, dipping beneath the surface into uneasy sleep before bursting up for air. My heart races. My dreams are full of bright light and moving shadows. I feel like I’m losing my mind, my sense of what’s real.
It’s all pretend. Everything’s a lie. You didn’t see anything last night. The shadows were in your mind.
A light flashes across my wall. Am I still dreaming? It flashes again. And again.
Flash. Flash.
Peering out the window, I see a small pinprick of light from the trees. On and off. On and off.
Wait . . . flashlight, I remember George telling me in the barn. Has he come to see me?
I pull on my dress and shoes and head outside. The ground is cold, and the air stings my lungs. Still, the light flashes off and on, and I climb the wall and follow the field up a hill and to a row of trees that leads to the woods.
When I get close to the source of the light, I whisper, “George?” but there’s no answer. “Is that you, George?”
Only the wind replies, rustling the leaves on the ground.
“Where are—”
Suddenly he appears, jumping from his spot and making a sound like a ghost.
I cover my mouth, trying not to scream.
“So, you are real,” he says, flicking the flashlight’s button again.
“Course I am.”
“You told me you were a ghost, and I started to think I dreamed you up.”
“Was I a good dream or a bad dream?”
“Not either of the two, just a dream,” he says, shining the light toward the Society. “It’s bigger than I expected.”
I push his hand away.
“Careful with that light. Someone might see it.”
“It’s a creepy-looking house,” he says warily.
“You don’t know the half of it.”
Should I tell him about the shadows, how they grabbed John’s arms and pulled him down the aisle of the assembly hall? No. I told George my brother was dead, and I need to keep my stories straight. He doesn’t seem like the kind of boy that can keep his mouth shut.
“What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”
He laughs.
“It ain’t nighttime for a farmer. It’s early morning for me. Sun’ll be up soon. Pa’s gone into town and I always get up early for the cows. Thought I’d slip over here first.”
“How’d you know I’d see your light?”
“Didn’t know for sure. Was just hoping to see the place. What’s it like there?”
I stare at him.
“Come on. Tell me, Liza. Or was it Violet?”
A shiver runs through my body at the mention of my mother’s name, but then I remember that’s what I told him at our first meeting.
“It’s Liza, actually. I lied to you. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right. I figured as much, you being a runaway and all.”
“I’m not a runaway, either,” I say. “I’m sorry, George, I lie a lot.”
“Well, gosh, I reckon we all do. But if you’re not a runaway, where are your parents?”
“They’re gone,” I whisper. “I live with my uncle now. He’s down at the Society.”
Why am I telling him the truth? I shouldn’t have said that. I consider telling him that that was a lie, too, but he interrupts my thoughts.
“So, what’s it like there?”
“Spooky,” I say, trying to sound dead serious. “There’s ghosts everywhere. I’ve seen demons in the halls, angels in the outhouses. We eat squirrels for breakfast and—”
“Very funny,” George says. “Have you talked to your parents on the other side?”
He asks it so earnestly that it makes me stop joking.
“No,” I say. “Not yet.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“You need to leave, George. It’s not—”
“Do you see that?” he asks. He blinks the flashlight once more at the Silver Star Society, and in the darkness, I see the shapes moving down the hill and around the yard, those smokelike shadows made of the darkest black, rising from the ground and circling the house.
There are things only children can see, Ms. Eldridge said.
“Do you see them too?” I ask.
“Them?” he asks, and the moon moves from behind the clouds and the shadows seem to retreat. I see now he wasn’t looking at the same thing.
He points to the front door. A person staggers into the yard.
“Who’d be out this early?” he asks.
“We are, George.”
George places his thumb on the flashlight button, and I swat it away.
“Hey, I want to see who it is.”
“You can’t use the light.”
I can tell it’s Mr. Spencer by the way he walks. He hobbles out the front gate and creeps along the wall, looking left and right and then back at the house. He’s holding a shovel and clutching something to his chest, but I can’t see what it is from this far away. Suddenly, he starts to run, looking back at the house as he scales the hill that leads to the woods.
Get rid of any evidence, he told me earlier. We can’t be sloppy.
Is that what he’s doing? But what does he have to hide? I’m the one with secrets, all of them stashed in my Hidden Place or buried deep in my mind.
What would he do if he saw me out here, let alone with someone else?
“I have to go,” I say. “Come back again and I’ll tell you a secret.”
“What is it?”
I don’t know what I’ll tell him. I have too many to choose from, but it’s the only way I can get him to leave.
“It wouldn’t be a secret if I told you.”
George nods, intrigued by my offer.
“All right. I’ll sneak away next time my dad’s in town. I promise,” he says. He turns around and heads into the trees, vanishing into the branches.
I check the hill for Mr. Spencer and then creep back toward the house. When I arrive at the stone wall, I wrap my fingers around the edge and peek over. The smoky shadows are gone, if they were ever there at all. It was probably just the moon reflecting off the fog. Fox walks from the cemetery and sits, staring at me.
Don’t bark, girl. Please don’t bark.
She wags her tail, and I kick off from the ground, wrapping my legs over the top of the wall and sliding down. A chill passes through my body as I land on the frosted grass. The air feels thin. It’s quiet in the yard, but I hear the soft scrape of metal against dirt as Mr. Spencer shovels.
I squint over the wall. His outline moves beside a large rock, ten feet into the woods, pushing the shovel down with his foot and pulling up a heap of dirt.
I can’t let him see me. I run back into the basement door and crash into my bed.
The rest of the plates can wait. I count my breaths, hoping to fall asleep, praying the shadows don’t break into the house and grab John in his sleep.
Are you still there? I think, wishing he could answer me with his mind, but of course he doesn’t reply.