The table in Locust Hole’s dining room was composed of a closet door supported by two large pepper-curing barrels. The house, after all, was so devoid of contents that closets—never mind their doors—were scarcely necessary.

August and Hydrangea sat at either end of this makeshift table. From the ceiling hung a naked bulb concealed by a plastic bucket that served as a chandelier. The room was currently illuminated, however, by the jittery light of a single candle in a jelly jar.

“Our circumstances may be reduced,” Aunt Hydrangea would say, “but that does not mean we must dine like barbarians!”

And indeed, the forks may have been plastic, the dishes mismatched, and the napkins formed from ripped-up petticoats, but the table was always laid formally, as if the governor himself were expected for dinner.

“The catfish soup,” said August reassuringly, lifting his spoon to his mouth, “is delicious!”

“I’m sorry there’s no sausage, sugar,” sighed his aunt. “I’m afraid the loss of so much hot sauce diminished our weekly expenses.” She waggled a finger at her nephew. “But I’ll fix you a cream cheese cake for your birthday. I promise!”

“That’s all right, ma’am,” August insisted, smiling. “I’m not that hungry.”

“No doubt,” muttered Hydrangea bitterly. “It’s all well and good, I suppose, if you can afford to dine every day on towers of pralines and crustless sandwiches.”

August shot his aunt an admonishing look, though it had little effect; she was still simmering with resentment at the report of her sister’s opulent circumstances.

“So,” she said, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin, “you say that Orchid is in good health, lives in constant mourning, and has two children. Twins. How…ghoulish.”

“They were nice to me,” protested August quietly. “Well, one of them was.”

Hydrangea grunted, then sipped her soup.

“And your journey,” she asked cautiously, attempting to appear calm, “was unremarkable? No giant alligators or other dangerous encounters?”

August observed his aunt’s fluttery eyelids, and the soup spilling from her trembling spoon. Should he tell her? Surely the tale of his bizarre graveyard experience would shatter Hydrangea’s frayed nerves completely. As it was, his failure to immediately answer her clearly rattled the lady.

“August?” she said sharply. “Is there something I should know?” Her agitation gathered momentum. “Did something happen? I knew catastrophe must follow this foolhardy scheme. Your first adventure abroad must surely be your last!”

“No!” cried August. Then more calmly, “No, ma’am. There was no alligator. Everything was perfectly safe and uneventful.” He needed to steer Hydrangea away from this topic, to distract her before she succumbed to her fears and his newfound freedom was endangered.

“Have you ever heard,” he said, abruptly but casually shifting gears, “of Orfeo DuPont’s famous fossil?” He attempted to appear innocently curious.

Hydrangea looked up with a puzzled frown.

“Now, how in heaven would you hear about…” Her eyebrows rose in sudden revelation. “Orchid!” she said, like a cat coughing up a hair ball. Hydrangea shook her head in disgusted disbelief. “As if deserting us for our enemies was not enough! Now she assuredly plots to get her greedy hands on the DuPont treasure!”

August squinted.

“Treasure?”

“Great-Uncle Orfeo’s hunk of Cadaverite,” muttered Hydrangea, clearly preoccupied by thoughts of her sister’s wickedness. “It’s the rarest of gemstones, you know. Very troublesome to find. A specimen that size, the size of Orfeo’s? Why, it must be worth a king’s ransom.”

“But…” August was confused. “Aunt Orchid said the stone was of value to no one but a collector.”

“Pffft!” Hydrangea smacked her hand on the table in an uncharacteristically defiant gesture.

You know how sometimes two things make a sound at exactly the same time, so you might wonder if you really heard the second thing at all? August could have sworn that as Hydrangea’s palm struck the weathered wood, he heard a crash from elsewhere in the house…the sort of violent sound that would result from someone—or something—forcing its way through a rotted basement door. Indeed, the water in his glass was rippling, as if from some tiny earthquake.

“Did you hear…,” he began.

But Hydrangea was all consumed by indignation and resentment.

“Remember what I told you, August. Money and prestige. That’s all Malveaus care for. Orchid always has to be the best, have the most.” Her eyes widened with realization. “She wants you to search for the Cadaverite on her behalf, doesn’t she? That’s what she wanted with you. That’s all she wanted with you.”

August’s face fell, transformed by an expression of shock and dismay.

Hydrangea softened at the boy’s reaction.

“I’m sorry, sugar,” she muttered, “but I fear it’s true.”

The lady, however, had failed to notice that August was not looking at, or even listening to, her. He was transfixed by something just beyond his aunt’s right elbow.

The dining room and parlor faced each other across the foyer. From his viewpoint, August could see something rising up through the parlor floor, or rather, climbing from the black hole that opened to the basement.

A shadowy figure, with twisted, jerky movements, was heaving itself into the room. It got a foothold, then gathered height, until it crookedly stood, still strewn with weeds and dripping river water.

It was Claudette.