Strange Alchemy Read online

  “How are you doing?” she asks.

  “Good so far,” he says. “This is Miranda.”

  I direct a shy wave to his mom.

  Her arms do not uncross in welcome. “And she is?”

  “Miranda Blackwood.” Grant shifts. “You remember her.”

  “Of course,” his mother says, nodding after she gets a better look at me. She sticks out her hand, but I don’t take it. Unbothered by my snub, she takes my arm and squeezes. “I’m Mrs. Rawling. You can call me Sara.”

  “I know,” I say. “Same way you know who I am. Small town.”

  “Please come in, and pretend not to listen while I yell at my son.”

  I blink. That’s a joke. I’m not used to being treated this normally by people who live here.

  “Sounds like fun,” I say.

  “It will be,” Sara says. She steers me across the porch toward the door.

  “Don’t worry, I’m here for my entertainment value,” Grant says, tagging along behind us. “I bet Miranda’s starving. I am.”

  “Oh!” Sara says. “I’m the world’s worst hostess.” She drags me through the door, then turns to Grant. “Let me fix you guys something. Go clean up, wayward son. Leave us girls to it.”

  “Is that okay with you?” Grant asks me, hesitating.

  “Go,” his mom says at the same time I nod.

  Grant obediently disappears upstairs.

  “That should drive him nuts,” Sara says. She leads the way to the kitchen and shoots me a grin as she pulls a loaf of bread down from a shelf. “Turkey okay?”

  I nod. “Perfect.”

  The Rawling family kitchen isn’t small, but it is cozy. Evening light streams in through the back door and a picture window over the sink, further warming the honeyed tones everything was designed in.

  Sara starts removing items from the fridge. She asks, “How do you guys know each other?”

  That didn’t take long.

  “We don’t, really. Grant just” —happened to come by, so I shot him with an ancient gun — “gave me a ride to the courthouse.”

  Sara places several slices of bread on the sparkling clean counter. “I take it he didn’t tell you that he took the car without permission and left me abandoned at the Norfolk airport?”

  I slowly shake my head. “Not until we got here. No.”

  “He has a way of leaving out these things. You said the courthouse. Did you guys go by the office?”

  “You mean, did Grant see his dad?” I ask.

  Sara nods, waiting for the answer.

  “What’s the deal with those two?” I ask.

  “You saw them in action?” Sara slathers some Dijon mustard across a slice of bread. “They think they’re polar opposites. Really, though, they’re not so different. Neither of them likes doing what they’re told.”

  She hands me the first sandwich, and I take a bite, talking while I chew. Delicate graces aren’t my forte. “Who does?” I counter.

  Sara considers me, and I squirm, feeling sized up.

  “Is your dad one of the missing?” she asks quietly.

  “No,” I say. “Not anymore.”

  Sara frowns. She was obviously expecting a different answer. “Why’d you go by there?”

  The turkey sandwich congeals in my stomach. I’ll have to say the words out loud at some point. The first time might as well be to someone who’s being nice to me.

  “He’s dead,” I say. “My dad’s dead. That’s why we went to the courthouse. The chief wanted to tell me in person.”

  Sara is instantly at my side, and she rubs a hand across my back. My mom used to do the same thing when I was upset.

  I feel a stab of sharp, mean loss in my chest for my mother, for my father.… I put down the sandwich.

  “Oh, honey.” Sara’s hand keeps tracing comforting circles between my shoulders.

  I swallow over the lump that burns in my throat. “I’ll be eighteen in a few months.” I need to lighten the moment, keep the tears away. Dad felt too much after Mom died, and look what happened to him. I have to stay strong. No one will put me back together if I fall apart. “The orphan card will get me a lot of sympathy at school. Hello, homework extensions,” I say.

  Sara smooths my hair back, and I know she isn’t fooled. “You deserve better than sympathy.”

  “Well.” I don’t have anything else to say to that. I pick up the sandwich.

  “You’ll stay here tonight.”

  “Oh no, I can’t!” I see her giving me a look that means she’s not going to lose this fight. “I have to go home. I have a dog.”

  Sara considers me for a long moment, traces a last circle on my back. “Grant can go get some things for you. The dog’s welcome here too.”

  “I don’t want… that is, you know…” She waits. “The thought of, um, Grant in my room. My dresser.”

  “Right,” she says, getting it. “I’ll go with him and pack you some clothes. That good? I’d like to talk to him… if you don’t mind staying here alone for a little while. I promise we won’t leave you alone too long. We’ll set you up in the tub and you can have a nice bubble bath while we’re gone. Okay?”

  I nod, because what else can I do? The matter is clearly settled as far as she’s concerned.

  Sara leaves my side to finish making Grant’s turkey on wheat, apparently getting that I’m not ready to talk in depth about any of this yet. I can’t express the gratitude I feel. My eyes feel wet again, and I blink away the tears.

  “Grant is special.” Sara doesn’t look up from her task. “His dad knows that, but he doesn’t understand it. Even though he grew up with a mother who was also… special. It’s why we lived away all those years. I dragged him back here because he missed it, even if he wouldn’t admit it. But he doesn’t know what to make of things that aren’t easily explained. That you just have to take them for what they are sometimes. He doesn’t understand what it’s like for Grant. He loves him, but he doesn’t understand.”

  I chew the chalky bread, taking that in. “He worries about him, doesn’t he? That counts for something.”

  Sara watches her. “It’s hard not to worry about Grant.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  Grant’s footsteps clop on the stairs, coming down fast. Sara winks at me and raises her voice, “Just let me get those pictures. He’s dressed like a little cowboy. So cute.”

  I laugh, and it eases the tightness in my chest. I wait for Grant’s mock protest. My laugh fades as I realize why this feels so strange.

  This must be what normal families are like.

  Chapter 8

  GRANT

  I slide into the sedan’s passenger seat. I know better than to ask Mom to let me drive. If I hadn’t brought Miranda home with me — and if Mom didn’t know about Miranda’s dad — I’d still be in major trouble. I’m sure she’s only letting me come along so she can grill me. Mom put Miranda in the guest room with an old robe and a bunch of bath products and promised her we’d be right back from going to get her stuff and her trusty Sidekick.

  I can’t imagine what Miranda thinks of our house, probably that it seems like Normalcy HQ. That’s one reason I’ve never felt too comfortable living in Gram’s place. The normal white and normal wood and normal shape are way too normal to be connected to me — or to Gram, for that matter.

  But, about to get grilled in the third degree from Mom or not, I’m happy to have a few minutes away from Miranda — not that I want to leave her, but it’s hard to think with her around. Deciding what to do next is proving difficult enough.

  I heard the words the moment after I touched her mother’s headstone, the moment I looked down and found Miranda smil-

  ing at me with the first genuine approval I’ve seen cross her face. One glimmer in the air, and a voice to go with it, low and right in my ear
:

  Curse-bearer. Curse-bearer, she is a curse-born child.

  I can’t figure out how to tell her.

  “Why is she with you?” Mom asks.

  I wish I could explain. “I’m… helping her… with something.”

  “I’ll need more than that.” Mom puts the car in gear, but she pauses with a foot on the brake and squeezes my arm. It’s affectionate. She’s not hurting me. I am forgiven for the car thing. “It’s good to see you. Are you really doing okay? You seem…”

  “Quiet,” I say, and I think I’m probably lying about more than just the one voice. Where there’s one whisper, more will follow. So much for brain disorders. I’m vaguely aware there are stories about the Blackwoods being incredibly unlucky, but I don’t understand what curse-bearer means yet. I don’t want to. I’ll have to puzzle it out anyway.

  “Did you load Miranda up with embarrassing anecdotes to punish me?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Mom says, neutrally.

  The two of them were laughing when I came back to the kitchen. I can’t believe that with everything going on — a hundred and change missing people, most of the spirits missing too, and Miranda’s murdered father — I’m actually nervous that their conversation involved baby pictures, embarrassing anecdotes, and cutesy nicknames being spilled. Moms are psychic and evil.

  She doesn’t say anything else until we reach the end of our cul-de-sac. The questions come along with the turn onto the highway, one of the main drags that more or less runs the length of the island.

  “So, it’s quiet. Now are you going to tell me what’s going on? I can’t believe all this is happening.” She rummages in her purse and takes out a pack of cigarettes, taps it on the top of the steering wheel. She glances over and catches me frowning.

  “You kept smoking?” I ask.

  “No,” she says and sighs. “This would be my first one since we dropped you off in Jackson.” With that, she rolls down the window and chucks the white-and-red package out.

  It isn’t an environmentally sound disposal method, but it’s better than her smoking. Besides, no one will ticket the police chief’s wife for littering.

  “I hope a wild animal doesn’t eat those,” I say.

  “It won’t. They’re disgusting.” She reaches over to brush my shoulder. “It’s good to have you home, no matter what the circumstances.”

  The circumstances.

  No matter how hard I try, I can’t get the missing people and Miranda’s dad’s murder to fit together.

  “Grant,” Mom prompts, “it’s not optional. You have to tell me what’s going on if you know. And why the sudden interest in Miranda Blackwood?”

  “You have a problem with her? You seemed to like her.”

  “She’s delightful, but that doesn’t explain why you felt the need to steal my car to go see her. Or why you brought her home with you.” She keeps going before I can cut in. “Bringing her was absolutely the right thing. But I want to know what the deal is. It’s really quiet in there?”

  She means in my head.

  “I wouldn’t go that far. But no voices, if that’s what you mean…”

  “Grant.”

  I don’t see any reason not to come clean. “Okay, one voice. I heard one voice — we stopped at the cemetery, and we were at Miranda’s mom’s headstone and…”

  “And?”

  “It said she was the curse-bearer or something.”

  The one eye I can see of hers widens. “You didn’t tell her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Good. That’s the last thing that poor girl needs right now.” She drums her fingers on the steering wheel. “Where do you think the missing people are? Do you think it has something to do with the Blackwoods? That’s why you went to see her, isn’t it?”

  I shake my head. “No, not exactly. That’s what I need to explain to her. I feel — I can’t explain it. She’s in danger. Her dad’s murder seals it.”

  “He was murdered? Here?”

  “I know.” Her shock isn’t surprising. It’s not the type of thing that happens on Roanoke Island. Tourist drownings and drunken accidents, sure. Murder? Not unheard of, but rare, and almost always due to family crap gone wrong.

  “I was surprised your dad called you. But this… where do you think all the people are?” Mom asks. She’s lost whatever measure of calm she still possessed. “Our neighbors are missing. Half my rook club is missing. Where are they?”

  The question sends a chill deep into my bones. Mom’s rook club is half youngish moms like her and half little old ladies. They swap out partners and yell about trumps to each other, playing cards late into the night at least once a month.

  “They’re gone, just like the spirits,” I say.

  “So you think the two are connected?” she asks.

  “I don’t know.”

  Out the car window a few lights are visible through the trees along the roadside. I forgot how dark the interior of the island gets at night, away from the town’s bright center. The branches are like fingers, reaching into the sky.

  Mom slows at the stop sign, signaling to turn onto Miranda’s street. “They had to go somewhere. People don’t vanish, not all at once. Not unless they’re cult members — and my rook club is not full of cult members. People don’t vanish,” she says again. “They turn up dead or move somewhere else and start over. None of us believe the original colonists went away forever in a blink. And this isn’t hundreds of years ago. People have cell phones with GPS — nice work turning yours off, by the way. I should lock you in a —”

  I interrupt before she can go further down that path. “What if they did?”

  “Did what?”

  “Went away forever in a blink. And what if the rest of the spirits are gone too?”

  Mom doesn’t say anything, but her expression tells me that she longs for the cigarettes she sent flying out the window. At this moment, I can’t blame her.

  Chapter 9

  MIRANDA

  I stand in the medium-sized guest room Sara showed me to. The walls are covered by shelves full of books with cracked spines, and colorful pieces of art that obviously didn’t come with the frames. I’m trying hard not to think, and harder still not to feel, but being alone is wearing down my defenses.

  And it’s only been five minutes.

  I gave Sara and Grant both the impression I could use a little time alone. That I was fine with staying here solo. But despite their best efforts to make me feel like a welcome guest, I got itchy levels of uncomfortable the second they left.

  It isn’t the house. Like the kitchen, the rest of it is cozy, full of nice but worn-in things and lamps that cast warm glows through pretty shades. But if I stay in this room I won’t be able to hold out. I won’t be able to help it — the thinking and feeling I desperately want to put off — and then I’ll break down. I need to do something.

  An idea hits me. Well, not so much an idea as a fact — Grant’s room is on this floor, and there’s no one else in the house.

  It might be a bad idea, but hey, we’re talking about someone who stole a car to come pay me a visit. I need to know more about him. Spying it is. So what if Grant hasn’t lived here for years? It’s a place to start. At the courthouse when he told me I could trust him, I believed him without understanding why. I put myself between him and his dad because of it. Was I right to believe?

  I creep out into the hall, walking fast and keeping my footfalls soft, even though no one else is here. The first room I go into houses a nice sewing machine with scraps of fabric strewn around the workstation. A patchwork quilt that appears to be made entirely of old Bruce Springsteen T-shirts lies folded on the floor.

  Sara must be a crafty type, like my mom was. Part of me wants to pretend this is my mom’s craft room, that it’s her who works at this sewing machine, that this is
the life Dad and Mom and I have together.

  But it’s not. None of this coziness belongs to me. I have no family, not anymore. I nearly stop exploring then.

  Don’t break.

  Instead I leave the sewing room and hurry down the hall. The door at the end of it calls out to me, mainly because of the Jolly Roger emblazoned across the center. The skull-and-crossbones sports a tacked-on set of Groucho Marx glasses. This has to be Grant’s room.

  I take a breath and listen for any noises, all the while reassuring myself they can’t return this soon. Then I turn the knob and enter.

  Jackpot.

  The room even smells like Grant. A peppery clean scent. Wait — since when do I know what Grant Rawling smells like? I refocus on the task before me.

  Grant’s room is shockingly messy for a room that hasn’t been lived in for three and a half years. Books and laundry are discarded across the entire space. A big duffel bag lies across the unmade bed, a vintage Ramones poster hanging over it.

  His desk in the corner is covered with books, a wide variety. There’s also an old iPod, earbuds still plugged in. Either he left it behind when he went away or he hooked it up as soon as he got up here, because it’s even plugged into a charging strip.

  I cross my fingers and snag the iPod. It’ll give me something to listen to in the bath, something to shut out thoughts and feelings. I should have time to sneak back in here and put it away before he notices it’s gone. Besides, Mom taught me that while eyes are important, music is the real window to someone’s soul. Grant heard spirits talk about me, after all. I deserve some intel of my own.

  I scamper back to the guest room, crossing into the bathroom and starting the tap. Then I change into the robe Sara loaned me, dump in the bath salts, and lean against the sink to wait for the tub to fill.

  I thumb through the music on the iPod as the water runs. There are a lot of artists I’ve never heard of, but several that I like. Hozier, Neko Case, The National. I sort by favorites and stumble upon a playlist called North Carolina Stuff — The Rosebuds, the Bowerbirds, Ryan Adams. Maybe he did have this with him in Kentucky and listening to it was like a connection to home for him.