Chapter Eighteen

EIGHTEEN

We had been just under three Septembers in when Hal started to change. He stopped sleeping. He was tired, certainly, but he didn’t come to bed at night, choosing to stay awake, pacing. He seemed disoriented, rubbing at his eyes and ears, asking me to repeat myself when I hadn’t said anything. I shrugged and carried on with my day. It was unusual, certainly, but if I allowed an unusual thing to grind everything to a halt in this house, I would never get anything accomplished.

I was in my studio painting a lovely scene of children playing in a field—most of their limbs still intact—when Hal approached me, his eyes glued to the floor. He looked like a child reluctantly admitting to breaking an antique lamp, and only because he knew he’d be found out anyway.

“That man you said you saw,” Hal said, “the one from the basement. What did he look like?”

I had seen Master Vale only a handful of times at this point, but he was memorable. “Tall,” I said. “Taller than you’d think a human ought to be.” I considered. “I don’t think he’s human anymore, though. Depending on your definition.” I waved a hand, then continued. “He’s skinny, nearly all bones. He doesn’t look like he ought to be able to hold himself upright.”

“Does he have sores?” Hal asked. “All over his body?”

“Yeah,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Pretty gross, isn’t it?” I grinned at Hal. “Have you seen him? Master Vale?” This seemed like wonderful news. Perhaps Hal could help me speculate on Master Vale’s origins, fill in the gaps the newspapers had left. Perhaps I’d finally have a sort of partner in crime in all of this.

Hal wasn’t smiling. “When he talks to you,” he said, his voice wavering, “does he sound”—he tapped at his head, as if the voice had burrowed itself somewhere in the center of his brain, a tick digging under skin—“wrong?”

“Wrong?” I asked.

“Like he can’t quite speak at all,” Hal said. “Like he’s laughing.”

My brow furrowed. I had never heard Master Vale speak before. I had heard barely any of the pranksters speak. At this point, Angelica and her friends hadn’t started notifying me about the basement ad nauseam yet, and the only prankster I had heard speak actual words was Fredricka.

“He talks to you?” I asked. “What does he tell you?”

Hal’s eyes were wet. His lips shook. “To get out of his house,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “we live here now.”

Hal shook his head. He stared at the window, glaring at the yard as if it had personally wronged him in some manner. I could see his fear morphing itself into anger already, painting his face red, curling his fingers into fists. Hal was familiar with anger; he preferred it. It was like a warm blanket to him, something soft and smelling of home.

“We have to do something, Margaret,” he said.

“Easy,” I said. “We play by the rules.”

But that wasn’t what Hal meant.