Slowly a pic­tu­re be­gan to ap­pe­ar on the si­de of each mug, bro­ad red stro­kes on the whi­te backg­ro­und.

  “The­se are og­ham let­ters, Irish ru­nes. The de­signs are ac­ti­va­ted by the hot li­qu­id,” she sa­id. “Ooh, I got ur, or he­at­her, which sig­ni­fi­es he­aling. Zac­hary, you ha­ve du­ir, the oak. That usu­al­ly me­ans strength. And Aura has qu­ert.”

  I pic­ked up my mug and exa­mi­ned the ru­ne. It con­sis­ted of a stra­ight ver­ti­cal li­ne and fo­ur short ho­ri­zon­tal ones. It sort of lo­oked li­ke a to­othb­rush. “What’s qu­ert?”

  “Qu­ert is ap­ple.” Her eyes sof­te­ned. “For lo­ve.”

  I fro­ze. My hands tigh­te­ned on the mug, tho­ugh I wan­ted to hurl it aga­inst the wall and watch it shat­ter in­to a tho­usand pi­eces of de­ce­it­ful whi­te ce­ra­mic.

  Zac­hary held up a fin­ger. “Co­uld I tro­ub­le you for so­me su­gar?”

  “Of co­ur­se.” Eowyn sprang to her fe­et. “Be right back.” She slip­ped out of the of­fi­ce.

  “Gi­ve me that,” Zac­hary sa­id in a low vo­ice. He gently pri­ed my fin­gers off the Lo­ve mug and to­ok it from me. He rep­la­ced it with his Strength. “Just bre­at­he.”

  I tri­ed, but my lungs kept wan­ting to hitch in­to a sob. Des­pe­ra­te, I to­ok a sip of the hot tea. It was bit­ter and sort of smoky. My next bre­ath was al­most nor­mal.

  “He­re you go!” Eowyn swept back in­to the ro­om, her blue gypsy skirt brus­hing her ank­les. She tos­sed so­me su­gar pac­kets and a pa­ir of plas­tic stir­rers on­to the shiny wo­oden tab­le.

  I un­zip­ped my bo­ok bag. “I’ve ma­de a lot of no­tes sin­ce the last ti­me we e-ma­iled. I want to fo­cus on-”

  “Let’s be­gin at the be­gin­ning.” Eowyn sat down. “Crazy con­cept, huh? Tell me, ha­ve you al­ways li­ved in the city?”

  I nod­ded. “Why?”

  “What abo­ut you?” she as­ked Zac­hary.

  “I’ve li­ved all over.” Co­ve­ring the Lo­ve symbol on his mug, he stir­red his tea, tho­ugh he hadn’t to­uc­hed the su­gar pac­kets.

  “So you’re in­ti­ma­tely ac­qu­a­in­ted with the night sky, and you can te­ach Aura. Not too much, tho­ugh-she ne­eds to le­arn on her own.”

  “Le­arn what?” I as­ked her.

  Eowyn re­ac­hed be­hind her and bro­ught for­ward a lar­ge black vinyl port­fo­lio, held shut with a red vel­vet tie. She un­did the tie and un­fol­ded the port­fo­lio twi­ce to ma­ke a three-by-three-fo­ot squ­are. Se­ve­ral gray she­ets of pa­per we­re clip­ped to the in­si­de.

  “For yo­ur star maps.” Her vo­ice ca­me from be­hind the port­fo­lio. “Ni­ne she­ets. One per month bet­we­en now and June. Ide­al­ly I’d li­ke to see a full ye­ar, but this’ll do.”

  I po­in­ted to the ce­iling, tho­ugh Eowyn co­uldn’t see me. “I al­re­ady know the cons­tel­la­ti­ons.”

  “From re­al li­fe or from bo­oks?”

  I tho­ught of my mot­her’s pho­tos. “What do­es this ha­ve to do with me­ga­liths?”

  “You ne­ed to un­ders­tand.” She fol­ded the port­fo­lio, then ga­ve it to Zac­hary. “Think. How do­es a so­ci­ety or­ga­ni­ze it­self, ma­ke de­ci­si­ons, ha­ve prog­ress? By pe­op­le get­ting to­get­her. How do they know when to get to­get­her? They use clocks and ca­len­dars. But what if the­re we­re no clocks and ca­len­dars? You’d ha­ve cha­os.”

  She to­ok a long sip of tea, hol­ding the mug in both hands li­ke a lit­tle kid. “The stars and mo­on and pla­nets gi­ve us or­der. Ex­cept for co­mets and su­per­no­vae, we can co­unt on the sky to lo­ok exactly the way we pre­dict. Isn’t that com­for­ting?”

  “Uh-huh.” I didn’t da­re di­sag­ree with her sharp ga­ze. Su­rely this was le­ading so­mew­he­re.

  She po­in­ted to the Sto­ne­hen­ge pos­ter tac­ked to her bo­oks­helf. “The pe­op­le who bu­ilt the things you want to study? They we­re trying to ma­ke sen­se out of li­fe and de­ath.”

  I sta­red in­to my tea. Ye­ah, go­od luck with that.

  Eowyn spo­ke softly. “I think that’s what we’re all lo­oking for, isn’t it?”

  I nod­ded, but kept my he­ad down, let­ting my ha­ir dro­op for­ward in a ve­il.

  “So.” The pro­fes­sor’s vo­ice brigh­te­ned. “To un­ders­tand the an­ci­ent ast­ro­no­mers, you ne­ed to be in the­ir pla­ce, at le­ast one night a month.”

  “Whe­re?” Zac­hary as­ked. “We can’t see many stars from our ne­igh­bor­ho­od.”

  “Don’t worry, I ha­ve a con­nec­ti­on.” She ro­se aga­in and went to her desk. I pul­led my sle­eve down over my knuck­les so I co­uld wi­pe my eyes.

  Eowyn con­ti­nu­ed. “A fri­end of mi­ne has a farm up ne­ar the sta­te li­ne, whe­re the sky is much dar­ker.” She bro­ught me a whi­te li­nen bu­si­ness card, which was one of hers but had anot­her na­me and num­ber scraw­led on the back.

  I poc­ke­ted the card. “Do you know if the­re are a lot of ghosts the­re?”

  “Hmm.” Eowyn fid­ge­ted with her ob­si­di­an ring. “You can ask Frank when you call. It’s al­ways be­en farm­land, so pro­bably not.”

  “I’ll de­al.” I tri­ed not to so­und bit­ter. “I see them every night. Be­si­des, who ever he­ard of an ast­ro­no­mer af­ra­id of the dark?”

  Eowyn ra­ised her hand. “Me, for star­ters.” She ga­ve a ner­vo­us la­ugh. “So bring yo­ur first star chart when we me­et aga­in next month. It do­esn’t ha­ve to be per­fect-in fact, if it’s per­fect, I’ll know you co­pi­ed it from a bo­ok. Just do yo­ur best.”

  I sat for a mo­ment be­fo­re re­ali­zing we’d be­en dis­mis­sed. “That’s it? What abo­ut my re­se­arch-I me­an, our re­se­arch?”

  “We ha­ve all ye­ar for that.” Eowyn squ­at­ted be­si­de me li­ke I was a kin­der­gart­ner. “He­re’s so­met­hing to re­mem­ber. When you lo­ok at very fa­int stars, you’ll no­ti­ce that they of­ten ap­pe­ar brigh­ter from the cor­ner of yo­ur eye. Aver­ted vi­si­on, we call it.”

  “Okay,” I sa­id, for lack of a bet­ter res­pon­se.

  “Sa­me with the ans­wers you se­ek,” she sa­id. “You won’t find them by sta­ring un­til yo­ur eyes fall out. They’ll co­me when you’re lo­oking at so­met­hing el­se.” She la­id a soft hand upon my sho­ul­der. “But they will co­me.”

  On the way ho­me, Zac­hary and I didn’t spe­ak much. He used an app on his pho­ne to check the we­at­her fo­re­cast for the we­ek, and we de­ci­ded to he­ad up to Far­mer Frank’s fi­eld on Thurs­day night, sin­ce it was pre­dic­ted to be a cle­ar night with a new mo­on.

  I wasn’t even su­re I wo­uld sur­vi­ve that long. The­re was Lo­gan’s vi­ewing to­mor­row night, then the fu­ne­ral two days la­ter-not to men­ti­on scho­ol and the scru­tiny that wo­uld co­me with it.

  Inste­ad of do­ub­le-par­king in front of his apart­ment bu­il­ding, I pul­led in­to a me­te­red spot on the stre­et. A fat whi­te Chi­hu­ahua in a jack-o’-lan­tern swe­ater bar­ked at my car, promp­ting the ow­ner to pick it up and tuck it un­der her arm.

  “Thanks for the ri­de.” Zac­hary wrap­ped the strap of his bo­ok bag aro­und his hand but ma­de no mo­ve to get out. “Are you all right?” He sho­ok his he­ad and lo­oked away. “Stu­pid qu­es­ti­on.”

  I watc­hed the wo­man set down the wiggly dog abo­ut twenty fe­et away. It trot­ted along the si­de­walk, pul­ling on its le­ash, then stop­ped ab­ruptly to sniff a par­king me­ter.

  “At scho­ol to­mor­row,” I sa­id, “you’re go­ing to he­ar a lot of stuff abo­ut me. Most of it’s bul­lshit.”

  “I won’t be­li­eve a word. In fact, I’ll just gi­ve them blank lo­oks and say-” He ut­te­red a se­ri­es of gut­tu­ral Ga­elic syllab­les. All I co­uld ma­ke out was so­met­hing that so­un­ded li­ke byor­la.

  “What’s that me­an?”

  “I don’t spe­ak blo­ody Eng­lish.”

  I al­most la­ug­hed, but it ca­me out as a co­ugh. Then I lo­oked down at the ge­ars­hift in park, and re­ali­zed I didn’t want to go ho­me and fa­ce Gi­na’s pity.

  “Do you want to know what re­al­ly hap­pe­ned?” My vo­ice squ­e­aked at the end of the sen­ten­ce. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  Zac­hary re­ac­hed over and tur­ned off the ig­ni­ti­on. “I’ve got ti­me.”

  Chapter Seven

  Mon­day mor­ning I wal­ked in­to a ro­om­ful of eyes.

  Or at le­ast it felt that way as I pla­ced my la­te slip on the cor­ner of Mrs. Whe­eler’s desk with a shaky hand. My pe­rip­he­ral vi­si­on was a big blur, but it lo­oked li­ke a wall of be­et­les, sit­ting in pa­irs.

  “Thank you, Aura,” my ho­me­ro­om te­ac­her sa­id, whis­pe­ring so as not to in­ter­rupt the sac­red mor­ning an­no­un­ce­ments on the PA. May­be her eyes we­re kind, but I didn’t lo­ok at her.

  I’d worn my ha­ir down, of co­ur­se, the bet­ter to hi­de. Un­for­tu­na­tely, it al­so hid the end of Mrs. Whe­eler’s ca­ne po­king out from un­der her desk.

  In my hurry to ta­ke a se­at, I trip­ped over the ca­ne and pitc­hed for­ward. The flo­or rus­hed up, and only my fla­iling hands bro­ke my fall. “Oufgh!”

  De­ad si­len­ce. I wis­hed ever­yo­ne wo­uld la­ugh, po­int, call me na­mes. Anyt­hing but sit and sta­re, li­ke I was the one who be­lon­ged in a gra­ve­yard.

  “Aura, are you okay?” Mrs. Whe­eler’s pa­nicky vo­ice ma­de it so­und li­ke I’d had a stro­ke, not a mo­ment of klut­zi­ness.

  “Fi­ne.” I adj­us­ted my glas­ses, ho­ping they didn’t lo­ok as cro­oked as they felt. “Can I ha­ve a bath­ro­om pass?”

  Be­fo­re she co­uld res­pond, the bell clan­ged, sig­na­ling the end of ho­me­ro­om.

  I was first to the do­or, smac­king my bo­ok bag in­to the wall and knoc­king down a DMP rec­ru­it­ment pos­ter ta­ped the­re. Last we­ek I wo­uld’ve be­en ap­pla­uded for my ac­ci­den­tal van­da­lism. To­day the­re was si­len­ce.

  Me­gan was at my loc­ker, le­aning aga­inst it with for­ced ca­su­al­ness. We’d both beg­ged to stay ho­me from scho­ol, but her pa­rents and Aunt Gi­na had dec­re­ed that go­ing wo­uld help us co­pe.

  “Hey,” Me­gan sa­id as I ap­pro­ac­hed, her eyes slightly da­zed. “How’s it go­ing?” One si­de of her ha­ir was yan­ked lo­ose from her pony­ta­il.

  A fresh scratch mar­red her che­ek. I re­ac­hed up to to­uch it. “How’d you get that?”

  “Huh?” She pas­sed a hand over her fa­ce, then blanc­hed at the thin stre­ak of blo­od on her fin­ger. “Oh! Um, my cat. Cor­rie’s ha­ving a bitch-kit­ty day.”

  “And she mes­sed up yo­ur ha­ir?”

  Just then a gro­up of se­ni­ors pas­sed by in a tri­ang­le spe­ar­he­aded by the vol­ley­ball cap­ta­in, Mic­he­le Lund­qu­ist, and her boyf­ri­end, Ste­ve Ray­burn. The guys star­ted me­owing at Me­gan.

  As they wal­ked away, cack­ling and his­sing, Me­gan’s fa­ir skin tur­ned al­most as red as her ha­ir.

  Then she lo­oked past me and sho­ok her he­ad qu­ickly.

  I tur­ned and saw Zac­hary halt a few fe­et away. “Oh. Hi.” He scratc­hed the left si­de of his fa­ce, whe­re he had the be­gin­nings of a bru­ise.

  “So­me­one want to tell me what’s go­ing on?” I as­ked.

  “Aura!”

  Amy Ko­el­ler pus­hed past a gro­up of che­er­le­aders, her long blond ha­ir tang­ling with her back­pack strap.

  “I’m so sorry abo­ut Lo­gan. That ro­yal­ly sucks.” She hug­ged me, for the first ti­me ever. “And, oh my God, if I knew tho­se pe­op­le on­li­ne we­re go­ing to be so me­an, I ne­ver wo­uld’ve men­ti­oned it. I am so inc­re­dibly sorry.”

  I ga­ped up at her. “How did you know I knew?”

  She stra­igh­te­ned her sho­ul­ders and lif­ted her chin, li­ke she was on the wit­ness stand. “Yo­ur fri­ends had a lit­tle in­ci­dent.”

  “Ha!” Me­gan exp­lo­ded. “Na­te and La­uren we­re tal­king shit abo­ut you, Aura, in the co­urt­yard be­fo­re scho­ol.” She po­in­ted be­hind her. “Then the­ir do­uc­he bag fri­ends jo­ined in, so I told them to go screw them­sel­ves-”

  “And then La­uren hit Me­gan.” Amy’s eyes got big. “I bet it was her class ring that ma­de that cut.”

  “That’s when he sho­wed up.” Me­gan ra­ised her fist to Zac­hary. “Sa­ved me from a se­ri­o­us ass-kic­king.”

  He re­tur­ned the brot­herly ges­tu­re. “Actu­al­ly, I think it was them I sa­ved from you.”

  “Are you hurt?” I as­ked him.

  “Had a lot wor­se rows in my li­fe. At le­ast no­ne of the te­ac­hers saw.”

  “I got­ta run to Eng­lish.” Amy squ­e­ezed my wrist. “Sorry aga­in.”

  My bat­te­red fri­ends flan­ked me as I ope­ned my loc­ker, snag­ging the sle­eve of my rag­ged black ho­odie on the latch.

  “You guys didn’t ha­ve to do that for me.” I tug­ged out my Ame­ri­can lit bo­ok. “If you’d got­ten ca­ught, you co­uld’ve be­en sus­pen­ded.”

  “But we didn’t get ca­ught,” sa­id Me­gan. “Hey, you know who was too chic­kens­hit to stand up for you? Bri­an Knox. He was sup­po­sed to be Lo­gan’s fri­end, but he just sto­od the­re.”

  My me­mory flas­hed back to that odd al­most-fight bet­we­en Bri­an and Lo­gan the night of the party.

  Zac­hary chec­ked his watch as the hal­lway star­ted to empty, and I re­cal­led his re­mark abo­ut ha­ting be­ing la­te. “Which one was Bri­an?” he as­ked Me­gan.

  “Abo­ut yo­ur he­ight, sandy ha­ir, al­ways we­ars that stu­pid back­ward whi­te ba­se­ball cap. Sor­ta be­efy, li­ke a wrest­ler, but that’s mostly his be­er gut.” Me­gan lo­we­red her vo­ice. “He has a ma­j­or prob­lem. They all par­ti­ed, but so­me­ti­mes Bri­an wo­uld get was­ted be­fo­re a gig. Mic­key and Lo­gan we­re abo­ut to kick him out of the band.”

  “I didn’t know that.” I strug­gled to cram the bo­ok in­to my bag. “When did that hap­pen?”

  “Last we­ek. But then tho­se la­bel guys cal­led, and it was too la­te to get a new drum­mer.”

  “Lo­gan didn’t tell me.” I gu­ess we’d be­en too busy figh­ting abo­ut our own is­su­es at the ti­me. Reg­ret stab­bed at the ten­der pla­ce whe­re my last ribs met, and it was all I co­uld do to stand up stra­ight.

  “Hmm.” Me­gan pinc­hed her bot­tom lip as she tho­ught. “I won­der if Bri­an was the one who star­ted tho­se ru­mors. No­ne of the pe­op­le tal­king on­li­ne we­re ac­tu­al­ly at the party.”

  “I’ll find out,” Zac­hary sa­id mat­ter-of-factly, li­ke it was al­re­ady do­ne.

  “How?” I as­ked.

  “Don’t worry.” His ga­ze flit­ted over the stu­dents as they hur­ri­ed in­to the clas­sro­oms be­fo­re the bell rang. “I ha­ve ways.”

  My aunt put her hand on mi­ne as we pul­led in­to a par­king spa­ce at the McCon­nell Fu­ne­ral Ho­me Mon­day eve­ning. “Re­ady?”

  A blur of vi­olet ghosts shif­ted and pul­sed in front of the wi­de whi­te bu­il­ding on North Ave­nue. At le­ast it was to­tal­ly Black­Bo­xed so the­se spi­rits co­uldn’t fol­low us in­si­de. They must ha­ve all mo­ur­ned so­me­one he­re whi­le they we­re ali­ve. As long as no­ne of them we­re too “shady,” I’d ma­ke it to the do­or wit­ho­ut fal­ling over or thro­wing up.

  “Let’s hurry,” I sa­id.

  I kept my he­ad down as we wa­ded thro­ugh the sea of ghosts. My path con­tor­ted to avo­id each one, even tho­ugh I co­uldn’t physi­cal­ly bump in­to them. Aunt Gi­na didn’t com­ment. She was used to it.

  “Why won’t they let me in?” an old man as­ked, ke­eping pa­ce with my long stri­des. “They ha­ve my wi­fe.”

  “They ha­ve my wi­fe,” sho­uted a yo­ung guy in a sol­di­er’s uni­form. “I’ve wa­ited for her all the­se ye­ars. Why hasn’t she jo­ined me?”

  Appa­rently the­re was anot­her vi­ewing to­night be­si­des Lo­gan’s. I was glad the ghosts co­uldn’t see and he­ar each ot­her and start figh­ting over that po­or de­ad (and ap­pa­rently twi­ce-wi­do­wed) lady in­si­de.

  A man I didn’t re­cog­ni­ze sat on a bench out­si­de the front do­or, smo­king a ci­ga­ret­te. He nod­ded in our di­rec­ti­on, ob­li­vi­o­us to the ghost we­eping be­si­de him.

  Just a few mo­re steps. I co­uld see Me­gan thro­ugh the glass do­ors in the lobby. It wo­uld be qu­i­et in the­re.

  “My po­or, po­or Lo­gan.”

  The wo­man’s vo­ice fro­ze my fe­et. Gi­na was hol­ding the do­or open for me, but I had to turn aro­und.

  “Grand­ma Ke­eley?”

  The man le­aped up from the bench. “Shit.” He co­ug­hed on his smo­ke. “The­re’s one sit­ting next to me?”

  The ghost ig­no­red him and wi­ped her wispy vi­olet eyes. “Hel­lo, hon. I’m af­ra­id I’ve for­got­ten yo­ur na­me.”

  “It’s Aura. I re­mem­ber you used to ha­unt Lo­gan’s old ho­use on Cal­vert Stre­et.”

  The man stub­bed out his ci­ga­ret­te in the sandy asht­ray. “I’ll ne­ver get used to this.” He stro­de thro­ugh the do­or my aunt was still hol­ding open.

  “I can’t get in,” sa­id Lo­gan’s ex-grand­mot­her. “I can’t go to my own grand­son’s vi­ewing.”

  “But you can co­me to the fu­ne­ral and bu­ri­al on Wed­nes­day,” I sa­id, trying to be help­ful. I was pretty su­re Lo­gan’s church wasn’t Black­Bo­xed, tho­ugh I’d he­ard they we­re ta­king up a col­lec­ti­on.

  “Pah.” She wa­ved her hand. “The­re’ll be not­hing to see but a cas­ket. I want to see his be­a­uti­ful fa­ce one mo­re ti­me.”

  “Me too,” I whis­pe­red, and re­ali­zed it was true. The dre­ad I’d felt all day at the tho­ught of vi­ewing Lo­gan’s… corp­se was sud­denly swam­ped by the ne­ed to to­uch him, to drink in my last glimp­se of him be­fo­re he be­ca­me not­hing but a flat ima­ge in a hund­red pho­tog­raphs.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28