IT FELT WARM TO THE touch again, almost like it was alive. Mae lay back on her bed, the zipper of the sweatshirt cold against her neck, the book in her hands. The ache of missing Ro swelled up inside her, just like it had last night, but this time she was ready. Now her fingers tingled, and she felt a rush of adrenaline as she untied the ribbon. The thick book fell open and its earthy scent hit her like a thing long buried.
What she noticed first was an epigraph in perfect calligraphy.
Before me things created were none, save things
eternal, and eternal I endure.
It sounded old-fashioned, the wording as antiquated as the handwriting. Across from it was the inside cover, yellowed with age. Spidery black ink ran halfway to the bottom. It was a list of names, crowned by a single word: Initiates.
Initiates of what? But she’d expected something like this, a reason for Ro’s secrecy.
Underneath the odd heading was the name Grady Deacon Cole II, followed by a date: July 1859. Grady had been the first child born at Blue Gate; Mae remembered hearing that from Ro. She’d said terrible things about him…or maybe that was his father. Ro had liked to scare her, and she’d also liked bending the truth, so Mae didn’t know how much to believe.
Another name was written directly beside Grady’s—something with an H? The letters had been scratched out so many times the page had torn, but the cursive on the line below was legible: Emily Rose Cole. After that was another Cole she didn’t recognize, and then her granddad’s name, Grady Deacon Cole VI. Printed neatly on the next line were three words that made her eyes water.
ROXANNE ELIZABETH COLE
Mae stared at her sister’s name and then at the one above. They were written in the same handwriting—her granddad’s before his stroke. Her heart skipped as she realized what it meant. Ro had lied when she said she found the book. It had belonged to their granddad first; he’d given it to her.
Mae stared at the page for a half second longer and then shoved the book and ribbon into her bag on the way out of her room. She quickly took the back steps to the attic, switching on the light to see. Here the corners were sharp and the steps uneven, as if this second stairwell had been made in a hurry. Blue Gate had been added to piece by piece over the years, and some pieces made little sense, just like their family.
At the top of the staircase a flickering line of gold was coming from underneath the door. A lamp was on, which meant he was here. She started to knock, but the door was already swinging open like it sometimes did.
“Granddad?”
He was sitting in his chair in the suit that he always wore, though no one ever came to visit. His back was to her as he stared out the window. A stack of books was beside him, his worn Bible on top.
“Can I show you something?”
He stayed motionless, his whole body stiff. Mae sucked in a breath, fighting the edge of panic, but then his hand moved. He was fine; the doctor had even said he was looking better and that she shouldn’t worry so much.
She wanted to shove the green book at him, ask him all the questions that were brimming inside her. He could explain why Ro had it, why she’d only taken it out when she thought no one was looking. The more she knew about her sister’s life, the closer she’d be to figuring out what had happened.
Her granddad still hadn’t turned, which meant he was thinking. She shut the door behind her, loud enough for him to hear, and stepped deeper into the room.
This part of the attic had a slanted ceiling, a single bed, a desk, and rows of bookcases on every wall except a newer plywood one that led to a storage space. It was cool enough up here, since it was insulated, and the fans and old air-conditioning unit made it livable. Near the bed, her granddad had spread out his picture collection on a narrow table—they were the first eyes he saw in the morning and the last he saw at night. Antique frames trapped the faces of every Cole who’d lived in the house. Sonny didn’t want his picture added to them, said it looked too much like a memorial and he wasn’t dead yet. But Mae loved old things; she liked visiting cemeteries, and she liked these black-and-whites too.
A nearby frame smacked flat on the table—she must have grazed it with her bag. It was lying next to a daguerreotype of the first Grady Deacon Cole, with his ash-colored hair and pale eyes. Beside him was Rose Louisa Cole, dark-haired and thin, the one the doctors tried bloodletting on when she got sick.
Mae picked up the fallen picture and righted it. It was an image of their firstborn child, Grady Deacon Cole II. Mae had always thought he was good-looking from his portrait in the hallway, with his blond hair and blue eyes. But this picture was muted and dark, his eyes full of secrets. It reminded her of Ro—all those hushed whispers about the things the Coles used to do. Right now Grady’s gaze was on her, like he knew what she’d found.
“Granddad?”
He still hadn’t faced her, so he was either deep in thought or deep in sleep. Mae walked over to the window. Her granddad insisted on keeping his bedroom up here; he liked looking out the highest windows of the house. They were four stories high, if you counted the raised basement to protect against flooding. From here she could see the stretch of trees and a glimpse of Mobile Bay. Her fists clenched when she thought of the beach, and she looked down at her hands, willing them to relax. Her fingertips were dark with something—dirt? soot? When she brushed it off on her shorts, her granddad finally turned to her.
The afternoon light from the window fell on his face, and his skin seemed to glow. He looked almost ghostly, with his white hair and pale blue eyes. He smiled at her and squeezed her hand, and then she knew he was ready to talk.
“I found this last night.” Mae pulled the green book from the canvas bag at her hip. “It belonged to you once, right? Then to Ro.”
She wanted to ask more questions, but the look on his face made her stop. He started breathing funny—a gasping noise was coming from his throat like he was choking. His sweaty hand batted at her wrist. His writing pad. He wanted his writing pad.
“It’s here on the desk,” she said, her voice coming out too high-pitched. He fumbled with the pen and then clamped his arthritic fingers around it and bore down on the paper. He held out the notepad with his shaky scrawl.
DID YOU USE IT?
Her cheeks started to warm. She’d read the beginning of the book, but used it? What did that mean, anyway? His eyes searched her face, and her granddad looked more and more frantic the longer she took to answer.
“I didn’t do anything with it.” That was the truth.
He bent his head to scribble some more and then stared at the green book again. There was a loud thud as the pen dropped from his fingers and rolled across the wooden floor. His mouth was opening and closing and he was straining to speak.
“Granddad, look at me,” Mae said, hiding her panic. “Now smile.” It was a test the doctor had given her. Smiling on command meant he wasn’t having another stroke.
But he was shaking his head, and his lips were moving, only nothing was coming out. Mae threw the book down and grabbed his hands, pressing them tight so he’d listen. “Please,” she said.
At last he seemed to hear her. Slowly, slowly, the edges of his mouth lifted in a smile that didn’t meet his eyes.
He was okay, he was just upset. It wasn’t a stroke, except now her own heart felt pinched. Her granddad was rarely like this—he was usually easygoing, trying to cheer everyone up with his little notes.
She let go of his hands, and his gaze flicked to the book beside her.
“I know it’s meant to be a secret,” she said. He tapped at his writing pad again, but she just wanted him to stop thinking about it. “Let’s forget it. I’ll put it away. I won’t bring it up again.”
His eyes darted between her and the book, and after a moment he nodded. She watched him for a minute, waiting for his breath to steady, and then made a point of finding a good spot. Standing on her tiptoes, she slid the book onto the highest shelf, where he couldn’t see it.
When Mae turned back, he was sitting on his bed. His face wasn’t so pale, and his eyes were dry now. She leaned against the bedpost. “Ready for dinner?” Her question sounded hollow to her own ears, the lightness forced. She wasn’t surprised when he shook his head.
“I’ll bring you up some supper later,” she said. “And I…” She stopped, though she wanted to say I won’t mention the book again. Ever.
He settled back against the pillows. His white eyebrows shaded his lids, and his face was slack, exhausted. She’d risked making him sick again, triggering another stroke.
Mae glanced toward the shelf. The green book was too far up to see. Good. She pretended to tidy her granddad’s room until she saw the slow rise and fall of his ribs, his face relaxed now, his eyes shut. Then she walked quietly to the shelf. On her tiptoes, she pulled out the book and shoved it into her bag, ignoring the stab of guilt that cut through her. She made sure he was still sleeping and then shut the attic door and ran down the narrow steps, sneaking in behind Elle in the kitchen. She sat at the dinner table and double-checked that the canvas bag was latched.
“Trying to set us on fire?”
Mae looked up to see her twin towering over her. Heat from the old stove drifted out as Elle batted away tendrils of smoke. After everything that had happened, she’d forgotten to take the lasagna out.
“You look terrible,” Elle said. It was the same thing she always said whenever Mae wore the red sweatshirt. “You okay?”
She wasn’t, actually, but she couldn’t explain why without mentioning the book. “Just thinking.”
Elle did a little twirl, her black dress and auburn hair fanning out in unison. “Well, think about coming out with me later,” she said, nudging Mae’s shoulder.
People didn’t really talk through words—it was all in the gestures, in the eyes. And Elle’s eyes were forceful, like the brightness of her hair. Everything about her was a force, especially the way she stomped around Blue Gate, pulling back curtains, cleaning away the dust, pretending things weren’t falling apart.
“You know who invited us to a party tonight? Lance Childers. He’s back from his exchange,” Elle went on. She was grinning as if nothing had happened, like she wasn’t bothered by the fact that Lance had been the one to find Ro’s body last year.
“Let me guess,” Elle said. “You’d rather stay home in your sweatshirt and paint.”
“Something like that.” Mae set her bag on the chair beside her. She’d start reading again later, find out what the book had meant to Ro and why it had upset her granddad so much.
Elle yanked on her sleeve and whispered, “Seniors will be there,” before she turned and shouted, “Food’s getting cold, Dad!”
Mae glanced past the kitchen table to the archway. Sonny was hunched over his desk in the next room, his back curved like a slab of stone. If she ever tried to paint him, he’d look the same in every portrait: hardened and barren, almost like the backdrop of a desert. “Give me a minute,” he said.
“I’m hungry and it’s never a minute,” Elle snapped, heading toward him.
Mae could sense her sister was after a rise, which meant she had some time. Her fingers itched to hold the book again, and she slid it out of her bag, hiding it under the table. Her heart skipped a beat as she fumbled to untie the ribbon, stealing another look at her dad’s back and Elle’s flashing hair as they yelled at each other in the alcove.
The ribbon fell away and Mae opened the book, squinting at the writing. After the odd epigraph the ink grew thick, spanning the paper edge to edge. She skimmed a couple of pages and kept going. The book was written in various handwritings, as if all of its owners had made entries in it over the years. Her fingers started tingling as she turned the pages, faster and faster. Maybe Ro had written in it too. Maybe she’d left some clue about what had led to her death.
Mae clutched the cover tighter. This was it—what she’d been waiting for. Something to go on besides Lance’s dad telling them that the police were doing everything they could. Finding the book in her sister’s room had been a good thing, even though looking at it felt wrong, like she was spying on Ro, invading the space she somehow still filled.
Mae glanced over at Elle and her dad in the alcove and then flipped to the end. On the last page was a dark thumbprint in the bottom corner. This was what Ro had tried to show her before. This was what she’d turned away from, the smell of red velvet cake thick in the air.
Mae’s mouth tasted sickly sweet as she stumbled over the strange heading—A Ritual for a Raising—and the even stranger words that followed. They were written in sloppy cursive, almost like the writer had been in a hurry.
Please follow carefully:
Harbor love in your heart,
while in your hand
hold the loved one’s belongings.
Then begin the offerings.
For death feeds life
as blood feeds the ritual,
and little creatures show the way.
A cat for nine
The page ended there. It seemed unfinished, like there should be more, but there wasn’t anything else, and the back cover was missing completely. She reread the heading again—A Ritual for a Raising—and still had no idea what it meant. Why had Ro wanted to show her this so long ago? Why had she never mentioned it again, keeping it to herself instead? It was like a riddle Mae couldn’t quite grasp, and the dark thumbprint made her feel dizzy—there was something odd about it. The entire book was odd, but it had been Ro’s, and she’d been devoted to it. She went back a page, trying to make sense of things. Before the raising ritual was a list, labeled Signs of the Raised—the writing underneath it nonsensical—and on the page before that was the heading Putting to Rest the Raised, which was followed by some sort of prayer.
“What’s that?”
Mae flipped the cover shut so fast she felt the sting of a paper cut. A bright bead of blood oozed out of her finger as she slipped the book into her bag.
“Textbook. Summer reading,” she said.
Elle made a gagging face and headed to the counter, then took a bite of the burned lasagna straight from the pan. Her eyes went to the alcove. “Dad,” she called. “Soooonny. It’s officially cold now. Congratulations.”
Sonny slid back the chair at his desk, and the newspaper clippings around him fluttered as he stood. “Lord-we-thank-you-for-this-food-Amen,” he said, looming over the kitchen table before sitting down. “Where’s your grandpa?”
Mae felt queasy. She thought she’d shoved his panic behind the white door in her head, but now it was all she could think of. “Resting,” she said. “I’ll bring him up a plate later.”
Sonny nodded and then looked back and forth between them. “If you girls are going out again tonight, you tell me—”
“Where, who with, and when we’ll be home,” Elle finished, taking a big sip of orange juice. She’d put on too much red lipstick and it left a ring on the glass. “We know already.”
“So you know not to be going out alone.” It was his new rule, ever since last year. He glared at her, his long hair messy under his cap, his ponytail in a knot.
“I’m not,” Elle said. “Mae’s coming. Aren’t you, Mae?”
“Mm-hmm.” Mae gulped down her glass of water and clenched her bag strap, nervous about her lying face. Her dad narrowed his brown eyes at her but didn’t say anything.
“Well, that’s settled.” Elle began serving up her plate first. “You know what? I was thinking about my bed-and-breakfast idea—”
“Not this again,” he said, and Mae pulled a pencil from her bag and started drawing on her napkin with her left hand while she ate with her right. She was halfway done with her food by the time Sonny picked up his fork.
“We distinguish ourselves with the menu,” Elle said. “Make it traditional Southern fare, have stories about Blue Gate on the place mats. Doesn’t that sound good?”
“Don’t matter what it sounds like,” Sonny said. “We’re selling.”
Mae gripped her pencil tighter. He’d been talking about moving all year, and she was dreading it. “It’s really not a bad idea,” she said, and Elle threw her a grateful look. “Might get some money flowing in if it’s done right.”
Sonny slammed the table near Mae’s plate. “I told you it doesn’t matter,” he said.
“But Blue Gate’s perfect for it.” Elle waved her fork in the air, pointing at the bay windows that opened over the field and the surrounding woods. “It’s huge, and it’s practically a historic landmark. People like that sort of thing.”
“Mae, quit drawing,” Sonny snapped. “We’re having supper together.”
Mae dropped her pencil onto the table, glad Elle was still talking. The sketch of an eye stared back at her from her napkin.
“I’ll clean up the house in the next few weeks before school starts and you’ll see what I mean,” Elle said, nodding to herself, convinced she was right. “It’s about time we cleared some of this old stuff out anyway.”
Their dad’s shoulders tensed and Mae held her breath, but he only looked away. He would either stay quiet like this or he’d lose it. In the past year she’d seen dishes shatter against the wall; she’d seen him spend all day firing his rifle in the yard, or empty a fifth of whiskey in a single afternoon. Gone was the dad who used to take them out on the sailboat as kids, letting them reel in every fish he caught.
“A bed and breakfast would give you something to do,” Elle went on. “It’s called work.”
“I’ve got things to do,” Sonny grunted. “I’m heading over to the wharf.”
A flicker of hope hit Mae’s chest. “You’re going fishing?”
“Nope. I’ve got a lead.”
Mae stared down at her plate until it blurred. She knew exactly who used to work at the wharf, and her dad didn’t need to be going there with a gun. “Did someone see him?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Plenty of pieces of shit around these days. Hard to tell them apart.”
She wanted to know what had happened to Ro as much as he did, but Sonny would skip judge and jury. “Are you looking into anyone else?”
“Can we just stop talking about it?” Elle asked, her voice rising. “I’m sorry I brought it up. All I meant was that the house needs cleaning.”
A knock came from the front door. Mae grabbed her bag and got to her feet, glad for an excuse to leave the table. Her dad called out behind her to check who was there, but she already knew. The old chandelier clinked overhead as she opened the heavy door.
“Took you long enough,” Fern said, her chubby arms folded across her T-shirt.
“Could say the same about you.” Mae stepped aside and swung the door open wider for the eight-year-old. Fern’s mom worked the night shift as a nurse and slept during the day, so she was free to roam. “The rain keep you away? Your stomach usually brings you over earlier.”
“It’s my legs that bring me over, Mae,” Fern said, ducking past her. “And it stinks in here,” she added, skipping down the hall until she was swallowed up by shadows.
Mae closed the door behind her and locked it. Then—finally alone—she couldn’t help herself. She felt in her bag for the book, its spongy leather cover.
Prickles flashed down her spine as Ro’s stories of their family came flooding back. How they’d done cruel, cruel things. Mae felt a rush of vertigo—maybe because the foyer was so high, shooting above her like the very sky itself, or maybe because of the portraits that she could never escape in the house. Rows and rows of old paintings hung along the staircase and through the hall. The Coles were staring down at her, all those pale blue eyes that seemed to say We know what you have, what you’re hiding.
The best portraits could talk to you without words. They could tell you exactly what they thought of you, send a hex through their gazes.
“Mae?” her sister called, startling her.
She shoved the book away and followed the sound of Elle’s voice to the kitchen. Fern was at the table, her legs swinging from her seat, and Sonny had escaped to the alcove, the open archway between them.
“If I eat my greens, will I be as tall as you when I’m sixteen?” Fern asked Elle. “I’m already just about taller than Mae.” She blew air through her lips. “How come you’re twins but you don’t look the same? She’s got dirty-blond hair and you’re a ginger.”
“I like my hair,” Elle said.
“We’re fraternal twins,” Mae added absently, trying not to think of the book until she was alone.
“What’s that mean?”
“What did I tell you before when you asked?”
Fern shrugged, a smirk on her face. She knew Mae would explain anyway, and Mae knew she was right. Facts were easy to talk about. It was personal stuff that was harder. Like What do you think happened to Ro? And How do you feel about her being gone? She shoved those questions behind the black door in her mind and double-bolted it.
“It’s when two separate eggs are fertilized by different sperm, so we’re not identical.”
“Why, thanks for that, Mae,” Elle said, stacking the last of the dishes in the sink. “I’m glad I’m not still eating.”
“Anyway,” Fern went on, “Lance told me neither of you are as pretty as your sister.”
Elle turned the faucet off. “Did he say we were pretty?”
“Tell your cousin not to talk about her,” Mae said, defensiveness rising.
“Lance don’t listen to me,” Fern said. “He don’t listen to nobody. And he’s always talking about Ro, now that he’s back.” Fern was chewing on one of her curls, which had somehow ended up in her mouth with the lasagna. “You know what else he said?”
“What?” Elle asked.
“I can’t tell you.” Fern ran her finger and thumb along her lips, zipping them. “It’s a secret.”
Mae wanted her to come clean, but acting interested was what she was after. Fern liked games, just like Ro had. Her sister once drenched herself with fake blood on the porch and scared them into thinking she was dying, and she’d also pretended to choke at a restaurant, bowing to her openmouthed audience when she was done. Every trick was usually morbid, and all of them ended with her laughter.
“What sort of secret, Fern?” Elle asked, playing right into her hands. Then she turned, her face bunched up as smoke seeped out from the alcove. “Not inside!” she yelled.
Sonny had lit a cigarette and was sifting through the newspaper clippings on his desk, circling a page with red pen. When he saw them looking at him, he swooped forward and shoved the clippings under his arm. A photograph flitted down behind him as he stood.
“Gotta go,” he said. “Meeting the boys.”
“Take this child home on your way,” Elle told him.
“I’m not a child,” Fern said. “I’m eight.”
Mae’s curiosity got the better of her, and her mouth opened before she could stop it. “What secret?”
Fern put her finger to her lips with a “Shh,” and Elle rolled her eyes and marched into the foyer, heading upstairs.
“If you’re coming, come on.” Sonny left the kitchen with Fern following behind, leaving Mae alone. When the front door slammed shut, she glanced at the empty hallway and then picked up the photo that had fallen to the floor. It was lying facedown, Ro’s handwriting scrawled on the back.
R.C. & C.S.
She turned it onto its glossy side, and one look was enough to send her running to the door, barging out to the porch and into the drizzling rain, her Cons slipping on the steps. But the sandy driveway was empty; wet tire tracks disappeared down the road. Her dad’s faded blue truck, with his hunting gear and gun rack, was gone. There was only the old fountain with the twin gargoyles and the two beech trees ringed with rocks. One big tree for her mother, a younger one for Ro.
Her throat seized, and she looked down at her hands. Her fingertips were dark again with something black, ash or grease maybe. She wiped them on her shorts and thought about calling Sonny, warning him not to do anything he’d regret, but his cell phone wouldn’t have reception, and he wouldn’t listen to her anyway.
Sliding the picture into her pocket, she felt the new bottle of paint she’d been meaning to put away, and then something soft and bendy. She pulled it out. It was her granddad’s writing pad—she must have accidentally picked it up earlier. The only words on the page were shakily written.
Must know
And then, below that, another word in capital letters.
DANGEROUS
Mae took in a sharp breath and balled the top sheet in her fist. She felt trembly, like a chord that had been plucked. Dangerous. She almost choked on it. Dangerous. It was an anxious word, slammed her right in the ribs. If her granddad could still speak, maybe he would have told her more about the book—about why it was so important to Ro—but she couldn’t risk asking him now.
Mae turned around and looked up—high, high, high along the cracked wall of the house. All the way to the attic window, where she could just make out a face through the glass. Granddad?
He was peering down at her, watching. She shivered, suddenly feeling cold.
Strange. For a moment he’d looked like someone else. Someone much, much younger.