Two

Before

Fin hadn’t always lived in Aldermere.

Bakersfield, San Diego, Barstow. The details were all tangled up in her memories—rough old carpets, the smell of neighbors smoking, and the sound of her mom sliding the chain lock home. Her mother worked in shops or restaurants, and they never stayed too long in one place. Sometimes Fin wondered if her mother was an ex-spy. It would explain why they were always moving, why her mother kept glancing over her shoulder. Before Aldermere, a year and a half was the longest they’d remained in one location—renting a place in Modesto.

For a while, there hadn’t been the chaotic jumble of boxes in the car’s back seat, nor the paperwork of getting Fin into yet another school, nor Mom coming into her bedroom at three in the morning, telling her to put on shoes. They had left their last apartment when the moon was half full; Fin remembered dragging her small suitcase behind her, hefting it into the car’s trunk, her mind still fogged with sleep. Her memories were a jumble of trees in the headlights, the taste of orange juice they’d bought from a gas station, and the soft fuzz of the radio as they left all the stations behind.

Fin had known almost nothing about Aldermere, only that it was a tiny town just east of the Redwood Highway. It was shrouded by an old-growth redwood forest, far from any cities. Northern California was a different world: all narrow, twisting roads and red-barked trees that smelled of spice. They drove for so long that it seemed as if they might simply drive off the edge of the earth.

Mom, who had grown up in Aldermere, had only ever mentioned it in whispers at bedtime, when Fin begged her for stories. They always sounded like wild fairy tales: Mom and her older sister, Myrtle, traipsing through forests, crossing rivers on abandoned train tracks, finding keys and strange teeth in creeks. Fin’s grandparents had lived and died in Aldermere, leaving Aunt Myrtle their home, but Mom and Fin had never visited. Not for holidays or birthdays or summers.

But now . . . now they were. They were going to Aldermere.

“Fin, darling,” Mom had said. “Where we’re going—there are a few things you should know. A few rules.”

Fin was used to rules. Most of the places they stayed didn’t allow pets or loud music.

But these rules were different.

Doors must be labeled or they can lead anywhere.

Pay the ravens or keep your garbage bins inside.

Never keep a knife that’s tasted your blood.

Always drop a bread crust into Bower’s Creek before going into the water.

Don’t use the old toll bridge north of town—there is a price, but no one knows what it is.

Burn nothing within the town borders.

The rules had the wicked, lulling cadence of a fairy tale—the kind her mother used to spin out when Fin couldn’t sleep.

“And most important,” said Mom, “don’t look for the tea shop.”

“What tea shop?” asked Fin, confused.

“Aldermere can be dangerous, Fin,” was all Mom would say. “Don’t ever let your guard down.”

Fin fell into silence and watched as the car’s headlights shone upon a green road sign.

ALDERMERE

POP: 239

As the car took a right turn, the headlights illuminated a deer standing on the grassy highway shoulder. It was a small, graceful doe. Fin had never seen one in the wild, and she pressed herself closer to the window to get a better look. But as her eyes focused on the deer, Fin’s heartbeat quickened.

The deer’s shadow looked wrong. It was the shadow of a much larger creature, one that stood on two legs and had thick, curved antlers like those of a moose. Its arms ended in long, jagged points.

Fin blinked. It had to be the headlights distorting the deer’s form, she told herself. But before she could look again, the lights slid away. The deer vanished into the dark.

The car jounced, the pavement rough and uneven. Fin found herself clutching at her seatbelt as they pulled up to a driveway. Despite the late hour, Myrtle Elloway had greeted them at the front door. Fin had never met her aunt Myrtle, but there had been a trail of birthday cards, flecked with glitter, usually with a twenty-dollar bill tucked inside. Aunt Myrtle wore a fuzzy robe belted at her waist, and she held a steaming mug. To Fin’s surprise, the older woman handed the mug to her. It smelled of warm milk, vanilla, and nutmeg.

The mug also had a chip in its handle, and that made Fin feel more comfortable. People didn’t give chipped cups to guests—only to family.

“You’re late,” Aunt Myrtle said to Mom.

“I didn’t even know we were coming until yesterday,” replied Mom. “How did you . . . ?”

She hadn’t called ahead, Fin realized. A swell of shame rose up in her belly; she didn’t want to be somewhere they weren’t wanted. She wouldn’t learn the word “imposition” until a year later, but even then she knew what it meant.

“Never mind that,” said Aunt Myrtle. “Come inside.”

Fin saw little of the house in the dark; all she glimpsed were wooden floors and the gleam of sea glass dangling from the ceiling. They bustled out of the house and across an overgrown lawn. And all the while, Aunt Myrtle talked. “What are you now, eight?” she was saying. Fin nodded. “Good—my son’s nine. He’ll be glad to have someone new around. Do you like to draw? Paint?”

A small cottage sat within the fringes of the forest. It was wide at the base and came to a point at the roof. The wood was dark, trimmed with white paint, and there was a porch without a railing. The whole thing looked rustic and strangely inviting. It looked like someone’s home.

Aunt Myrtle unlocked the front door, then handed the key to Mom. “Thank you,” Mom whispered. “I won’t—it’ll only be a few weeks. . . .”

Aunt Myrtle raised a hand, as if to wave away Mom’s words. “It’s fine. If you decide to stay, the neighbor’s a metalsmith. I can ask her to make a new sign for the door.”

“I’m sorry,” Mom said quietly. “I know you didn’t want me to come back.”

Aunt Myrtle made a disgusted sound. “It wasn’t you I didn’t want here.”

Again, a flutter of fear rose up in Fin’s belly. Me, she thought. She must be the one Aunt Myrtle hadn’t wanted—that’s why they’d never visited.

To distract herself, Fin looked at the metal nameplate beside the front door.

GUEST HOUSE, it read.

Beneath the plate, someone had stapled a small sheet of paper. The drawing looked as though it had been done by someone Fin’s age. There was a house and two stick-figure people beside it, smiling widely. And beneath the drawing were the words Angelina and Finley’s Home.

Fin wanted to believe it.

The truth was, Fin didn’t know when she had started being afraid.

It had crept in slowly. Maybe all fear was like that—like rot in old wood, working its way into the foundations of a house. All Fin knew was that by the time she was five or six, she had a list of things that were to be avoided at all costs. She wrote it down in crayon, and added to it as she got older. The list became a strange little talisman that went with her from apartment to apartment, school to school, tucked between the pages of an old paperback mystery she kept in her backpack.

1. Ringing phones
2. Knocks at the front door when takeout hadn’t been called for
3. Knocks at the front door when takeout was called for
4. Report cards
5. Asking for things
6. Adults who look angry
7. Goldfish—at least the kind with the bulging eyes
8. TALKING ALOUD IN CLASS
9. Being unwanted

Fin knew where the last one came from: a conversation she hadn’t been supposed to hear. She’d always had a knack for listening at doors. She couldn’t remember when she’d started, but she knew why she still did it—if there was trouble, then Fin could prepare. Grown-ups tended to hide things until they boiled over, spilling secrets and troubles like a pot left on the stove too long.

Fin had overheard Mom and Aunt Myrtle only a week after they had come to Aldermere. The sisters were inside the cottage, murmuring while Fin was supposed to be playing in the yard. Instead, she’d crept beneath an open window and listened.

“—much in savings,” Mom had said. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve been talking to the Butlers,” said Aunt Myrtle. “There’s an opening at the inn. It’d be cleaning rooms and working at the front desk, but it’s something.”

There had been a silence, a hesitation. “I wasn’t planning on staying here,” said Mom quietly.

“Oh, hush,” said Aunt Myrtle. “Of course you’ll stay. You’re family.” There was a pause. “Why you left—was it because of Finley?” Myrtle’s voice was soft, kind, but Fin’s heartbeat tore into a gallop.

“I got a call from her school,” said Mom. Her voice was sharp, like she was angry, and Fin cringed. “One of the parents at pick-up saw—” A harsh exhalation. “I suppose it was only a matter of time until we had to leave again.”

Fin stepped back from the window feeling sick and shaky, like she had the flu. She looked at the cottage, at the place she hoped would be hers. Her mom said they’d left because of her. There was something wrong with her—one of the parents had seen it at school, and she didn’t even know what it was. Maybe it was because Fin was afraid. She’d read enough books, seen enough movies to know that courage was important. Monsters had to be slain, fears had to be faced. And Fin couldn’t muster up the courage to even answer the phone.

She turned and walked away from the cottage. She didn’t want to hear any more.

Aunt Myrtle had told Fin it was safe to walk around Aldermere—even at eight years old. People looked out for kids around here. But Mom had always drilled into her that she needed to stay close to home. So Fin compromised by lingering in Aunt Myrtle’s front yard, watching a couple of ravens chase a piece of garbage fluttering down the street.

Aldermere was like no other place they had lived: the redwoods were thick and their needles carpeted the ground; tiny mushrooms sprang up along fallen branches and in between blades of grass; the cottage was cozy with its old appliances, tall windows, and lofted bedroom. Most of the things in the cottage had been there before Fin and Mom moved in. It had been a vacation rental, a place for tourists to spend a weekend. Fin wondered if Aunt Myrtle would be mad if they stayed too long and she couldn’t rent out the cottage. Maybe they’d have to leave soon, find another apartment in some crowded city and—

“What are you doing?”

Eddie’s voice made her flinch. She looked up, flushed. “What?”

Eddie stood a few feet away. He wore jeans that were tattered at the edges, rolled up around his ankles, and a T-shirt with a band name that she didn’t recognize. “You want to go for a walk?” said Eddie.

Fin shrugged. For all that he was her cousin, they hadn’t ever known each other. He was a school picture that came in cards—all freckles, sharp chin, sandy hair, and dark eyes. He looked like the kind of person who wouldn’t be afraid to slay a monster.

“We could go to the coffee shop,” said Eddie. “You been there yet?”

Fin shook her head.

“Is that a ‘No, I haven’t been there’ or a ‘No, I don’t want to go’?” said Eddie, grinning.

She hadn’t known what to make of him, but he had been smiling like either answer was fine.

“No, I haven’t been there,” she said. She hesitated a few heartbeats longer, then said, “And yes, I’d like to go.”

Part of her had been scared to go to the coffee shop, because if she went—it might be wonderful. And by the sounds of things, Mom didn’t intend for them to stay. Maybe whatever flaw Fin had, whatever was wrong with her—it was what drove them from place to place. From home to home.

The thought was so gut-churningly scary that Fin had tried to shove it out of sight, to cram it beneath Eddie’s chatter. He’d started talking about a snake he’d caught behind their house, and she was grateful for it.

“Big thing,” he was saying. “But they’re not aggressive. They sun themselves on the cobblestones that Mom put out back. She doesn’t like them—once, I brought one in the house, when I was, like, five, and she ended up standing on the table for an hour when I accidentally let it loose.” He sighed happily. “Good memories.”

“You let a snake go in your house,” Fin said, disbelieving.

“It sort of slipped free. I got it eventually.” As they walked through town, Eddie studied her. “You like animals?”

“Yes,” she said. “Well, some of them. Not, like, spiders and big dogs. But birds and stuff—yeah.”

The coffee shop was on Main Street—it looked like an old house that someone had converted into a business. There was a porch with wicker chairs and a hand-chalked sign that read BREWED AWAKENING.

Eddie checked the door before they entered—sure enough, there was a metal nameplate that read COFFEE SHOP. Fin shook her head; back then, she had been confused as to why every door had a label. Her mom had said something about doors leading places they weren’t supposed to, but it hadn’t sunk in.

The coffee shop smelled of sharp espresso and old wood. The walls were lined with chalkboards listing different blends of coffee and tea. There was a glass-paneled display of baked goods—pink and yellow conchas, empanadas, bagels, and a scattering of cookies. A girl with dark hair sat at the counter. She looked Eddie’s age—nine years old. She was doodling on her wrist with a blue ink pen, and drawings went all up her arm. When she looked up, she smiled. “Hey, Eddie. Who’s the new girl?”

“My cousin,” Eddie said. “She and her mom just moved here. Finley, this is Cedar.”

Fin forgot the girl’s name within five seconds of hearing it. She’d never been great with names or directions—it was like trying to hold on to sand. And then she’d hate herself when she had to ask again, because it seemed to make people sad that they weren’t more memorable. Mostly Fin pretended she knew people’s names and nodded along when they spoke. It was easier for everyone that way.

“Welcome to Aldermere,” the coffee shop girl said. “My parents are out for five minutes, but if you want I can get you some tea! I’m allowed to pour tea.” She gestured at the blackboard and the drinks scribbled in chalk. Fin didn’t know the language of coffee—of shots and lattes and cappuccinos—and she wasn’t allowed to drink them, even if she had known how to order. There were other things: mattes, smoothies, blends of herbs and roasted nuts. Fin found herself glancing at the jars of loose tea with a certain amount of confusion.

The coffee shop girl laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s just tea,” she said, patting one of the mason jars. “Nothing extra. If you’re looking for something more, check the tea shop.”

“I thought it vanished again,” said Eddie. “Some kid broke a window or something with a baseball.”

The coffee shop girl heaved a sigh. “Has anyone found it yet?”

Fin felt as though she was listening to half a conversation—and her half wasn’t making a lot of sense. “The tea shop vanished?”

Coffee Shop Girl looked at Eddie, a wordless question on her face.

“She’s good,” said Eddie, nudging Fin with his elbow. “Not a tourist. Her mom’s a local.”

“Okay,” said Coffee Shop Girl. Fin wished she wore a name tag.

“The tea shop vanishes sometimes,” said Eddie.

“If anyone tries to force their way inside,” continued Coffee Shop Girl, “it goes poof.” She moved her fingers, as though to mime a small explosion. “Security measure.”

“The only people who can find the shop are those who already know where it is,” said Eddie. As if this made sense. “So every time it goes missing, there’s a few weeks when everyone panics.”

“Talia runs it,” said Coffee Shop Girl. “Older woman, silver hair, bright red lipstick.”

Fin listened, raptly attentive. “What do you mean, the tea here isn’t extra?” she asked.

Coffee Shop Girl leaned on the counter, tapping one plum-colored nail against the redwood. Fin had never been allowed to paint her nails, and she eyed the color with a bit of envy. Coffee Shop Girl said, “Our stuff is good tea. My mom blends it herself—she imports a lot of it from fair-trade farmers in South America and stuff. But it won’t change you.”

Fin blinked. “Change you?”

“Make you smarter, faster, stronger,” said Coffee Shop Girl. “More beautiful. If you want any of that, you go to Talia.”

It had to be a joke. People couldn’t change themselves, not in the ways this girl was saying. Not with tea.

“It’s temporary,” said Eddie, as if he needed to be the bearer of bad news. “Lasts . . . a few weeks? I don’t know.”

“Mrs. Liu goes there for her arthritis,” said Coffee Shop Girl. “When insurance stopped paying for her meds, she started paying Talia instead. She says the tea keeps her limber, and she doesn’t have to deal with insurance companies anymore.” She frowned. “I wonder if she’s found the tea shop yet. Someone has to find it soon.”

“Talia’ll invite someone over,” said Eddie. “Probably Mrs. Liu or even my mom—she doesn’t drink the tea, but they trade romance books. And then word’ll get out.” To Fin, he added, “That’s how it always works.”

Fin hadn’t believed it, not yet. It had all sounded like fairy tales, like magic.

Back then, Fin hadn’t yet glimpsed Aldermere’s true nature. She hadn’t walked through an unlabeled door and found herself in a broom closet across town; she hadn’t stood on the edge of the creek and watched a long-clawed hand drag a bread crust beneath the water; she hadn’t drunk tea that tasted of sunshine and Ceylon—tea that made her feel fearless for the first time in her life.

She hadn’t believed in magic—not yet.

As she walked out of the coffee shop, Fin mustered the small amount of courage she had. She looked over her shoulder at the girl and said, “It was nice meeting you.”

The girl beamed at her. “You too. Finley, right?”

“Just Fin,” said Fin. The other girl had made it sound so effortless, so she tried to ask the question herself. “And—your name was . . . ?”

“Cedar,” said the girl. “Cedar Carver, because my parents are terrible.” She flashed Fin a smile, as if to indicate that her parents weren’t actually terrible—which was why she could joke about it.

Fin had smiled back, tried to make it look natural. But somehow the joke had her stomach in knots, and she was so intent on looking nonchalant that by the time she was through the door, she realized she still didn’t remember the girl’s name.