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The house no longer resembled the dance. I bet Macon would never allow a silver snowflake through the doors of Ravenwood again. Everything was black now. Everything: the floors, the furniture, the curtains, the ceiling. Only the fire in the study fireplace burned steadily, casting light out into the room from the hearth. Maybe the house reflected his changing moods, and this was a dark one.
“Kitchen!” A black mug of cocoa appeared in Macon’s hand. He handed it to Lena, who sat wrapped in a scratchy woolen blanket in front of the fire. She clutched the mug with both hands, her wet hair tucked behind her ears, clinging to the warmth. He paced in front of her. “You should have left the moment you saw her, Lena.”
“I was kind of busy getting doused with soap and laughed at by everyone in school.”
“Well, you won’t be busy anymore. You’re grounded until your birthday, for your own good.”
“My own good is so clearly not the point here.” She was still shaking, but I didn’t think it was from the cold, not anymore.
He stared at me, his eyes cold and dark. He was furious, I was sure now. “You should have made her leave.”
“I didn’t know what to do, sir. I didn’t know Ridley was going to destroy the gym. And Lena had never been to a dance.” It sounded stupid even as I was saying it.
Macon just stared back at me, swirling the scotch in his glass. “Interesting to note, you didn’t even dance. Not a single dance.”
“How do you know that?” Lena put down her mug.
Macon paced. “That’s not important.”
“Actually, it’s important to me.”
Macon shrugged. “It’s Boo. He is, for lack of a better word, my eyes.”
“What?”
“He sees what I see. I see what he sees. He’s a Caster dog, you know.”
“Uncle Macon! You’ve been spying on me!”
“Not on you, in particular. How do you think I manage as the town shut-in? I wouldn’t get far without man’s best friend. Boo here sees everything, so I see everything.” I looked at Boo. I could see the eyes, human eyes. I should have known, maybe I had always known. He had Macon’s eyes.
And something else, something he was chewing. He had a ball of something in his mouth. I bent down to take it from him. It was a crumpled, soggy Polaroid. He had carried it all the way from the gym.
Our picture from the formal. I was standing there, with Lena, in the middle of the fake snow. Emily was wrong. Lena’s kind did show up on film, only she was shimmering, transparent, as if from the waist down she had already begun to dissolve into some kind of ghostly apparition. Like she really was melting, before the snow had even hit her.
I patted Boo’s head and pocketed the photo. This wasn’t something Lena needed to see, not right now. Two months until her birthday. I didn’t need the picture to know we were running out of time.
12.16
When the Saints Go Marching In
Lena was sitting on the porch when I pulled up. I insisted on driving because Link wanted to ride with us, and he couldn’t risk being seen in the hearse. And I didn’t want Lena to have to walk in alone. I didn’t even want her to go, but there was no talking her out of it. She looked like she was ready for battle. She was wearing a black turtleneck sweater, black jeans, and a black vest with a fur-trimmed hood. She was about to face the firing squad, and she knew it.
It had only been three days since the dance, and the DAR hadn’t wasted any time. The Jackson Disciplinary Committee meeting this afternoon wasn’t going to be much different than a witch trial, and you didn’t have to be a Caster to know that. Emily was limping around in a cast, the winter formal disaster had become the talk of the town, and Mrs. Lincoln finally had all the support she needed. Witnesses had come forward. And if you twisted everything everyone claimed they saw, heard, or remembered far enough, you could squint, slant your head just right, and try to see the logic: that Lena Duchannes was responsible.
Everything was fine until she came to town.
Link jumped out and opened the door for Lena. He was so riddled with guilt, he looked like he was going to puke. “Hey, Lena. How ya doin’?”
“I’m okay.”
Liar.
I don’t want him to feel bad. It’s not his fault.
Link cleared his throat. “I’m real sorry about this. I’ve been fightin’ with my mom all weekend. She’s always been crazy, but this time it’s different.”
“It’s not your fault, but I appreciate you trying to talk to her.”
