“Nancy made me swear not to call Matthew, and Sophie lives in Scotland. What else could I do?” Jenny says to the unknown caller. There’s a long silence, before she continues in a whisper, “I really don’t have the strength to babysit two teenagers and a geriatric tyrant.”
Rachel grinds her teeth as she slips into the dining room to clear the table. Cutlery clatters into plates and glasses tinkle together as she makes her way into the kitchen to wash the dishes.
“Have you done your homework?” her mother shouts from the living room.
“Yes,” she growls, plugging the drain and running the faucet to fill the sink. Rachel grabs the dishwashing soap, squirts a generous amount into the water, and watches the white bubbles grow beneath the steady downpour.
“Did you give Dougal an extra blanket?” her mother asks, now standing somewhere close behind her.
Still seething, the most she can get out is a grunt.
“Okay, good.”
Rachel looks over her shoulder, ready to argue.
Her mother leans against the kitchen counter, scratching her brow.
“What’s wrong?” Rachel asks, shutting off the water.
“I have to drive to Bangor soon and look after your cousins for a while,” she says, before looking up. “Your aunt decided she needs a holiday. Can you believe it?”
“How convenient.” Rachel waits until she’s turned back to the sink before she rolls her eyes. Somehow her mother always finds an excuse to run off when things at home aren’t to her liking. Her cousins, both older than Rachel, can’t live by themselves without constant supervision. “When are you going?”
“I’ll probably have to drive through tomorrow morning.”
Rachel scrubs the dishes hard beneath the water. “And when will you be back?”
“In a week or so,” her mother says. A few beats of silence stretch between them before she blurts out an exasperated, “I can’t very well say no, Rachel. She’s my sister.”
“I didn’t say anything to the contrary.”
Her mother huffs in response. “I can feel you judging me from over there.”
Rachel pulls her lips into a tight line as she focuses her anger on cleaning the dirty dishes, cutlery, and glasses. It’s not like she can do anything else. Her mom’s going to leave whether she wants her to or not, so what’s the point in even trying to get her to stay?
“You’ll keep an eye on things, right?”
“Don’t I always?” Rachel says, setting the dish on the drying rack.
Another awkward extended silence, before her mother says, “Will you get Mrs. Crenshaw’s room ready for her? I’ll be back before she comes home, I’m sure, but—”
“I will. Don’t worry.”
The frustrated sigh is followed by a simple, “Thanks.”
Rachel listens to the retreating footsteps. Her mother first moves back toward the living room, before she changes direction and makes her way upstairs. Rachel halts her relentless scrubbing of the dishes. There’s no use fighting against Jenny Cleary when her mind’s already been made up. She’s, after all, as stubborn as she is beautiful. Ask anyone in town.
This time she’s not coming back. The thought pops into Rachel’s head from nowhere.
After everything Jenny’s endured—becoming a widow at such a young age, having a mental breakdown and then keeping it from her only child, struggling to get by as a single parent, and the whole situation with the Night Weaver—Rachel doesn’t hold the need to distance herself from this godforsaken town against her mother. Heck, no one will even bat an eyelash if she hits the road and never looks back. The Night Weaver’s manipulation and influence over the summer is just the proverbial cherry on the cake.
“Don’t be absurd,” she whispers to herself, finishing up with the dishes.
She pulls the plug and watches the water swirl down the drain. Drying her hands with a dishtowel, she looks out of the kitchen window where the moonlight brightens up the otherwise dark backyard. It’s quiet out there—not creepy quiet, just nighttime quiet. Peaceful.
It’s the calm before the storm.
Three
Chilled to the Marrow
Long before the sun is up, Rachel awakens from an unseasonal chill. Still half-asleep and shivering, she wraps a blanket around her shoulders and stumbles out of bed. She exhales puffs of air, her extremities numb. With Ziggy bouncing along by her side, Rachel crosses her bedroom and opens the door. She exits into the hallway, tiptoeing to where the thermostat is located, and turns up the heat without paying close attention to her actions. She quickly retreats to her bedroom with Ziggy in tow, closes her bedroom door again, and dashes back to bed.
“What are the chances of you being able to warm me up?” she whispers. The golden sphere bobs in place, before it slips back to its preferred locale—snuggled up beneath the covers next to her feet. “Thought so,” she says through chattering teeth.
Rachel pulls the duvet up to her ears. She inhales cool air through her nostrils and exhales warm air into the space between her body and the blanket, hoping to get cozy that way. A few minutes pass, but the cold lingers. Groaning, she gets out of bed a second time to check on the window, figuring she might have forgotten to close it properly before she turned in.
As Rachel pulls the curtains aside, Ziggy rolls out from underneath the covers and illuminates the interior of the bedroom. The golden glow confirms the window is shut fast. Not even a trickle of a breeze can get inside. She blinks a few times, lifting the fog in her mind so she can figure out why her bedroom is freezing.
Ice forms on the edges of the glass and quickly freezes over the entire windowpane. Her heart thumps faster, while she moves her hand to the umbrella pendant.
“Ziggy?” her voice quivers.
The golden orb rushes to her side just as an unseen finger traces a line through the ice. The accompanying squeak as a second line is traced makes her forget all about
