The next several days pass by uneventfully. We spend our waking hours in cautious optimism, while the nights remain bitter and cold.
Mrs. Lloyd insists that the decline in unexpected deaths means the blood-thirsty Milton children are no longer feasting on loved ones as they sleep. "Burning their hearts answered our prayers!" she exclaims. And the townspeople agree.
I still refuse to believe it. Their narrow-minded certainty is something I try to ignore, but doing so doesn't answer any of my questions. Stories of the Undead are nothing more than macabre fairy tales created to scare small children into obeying their parents.
Yet it doesn't escape my attention that the strange happenings have just...stopped.
Eliza hasn't been to school since that day in the cemetery. Every morning, we stop by her house only to have her parents tell us the same story: "Eliza's not feeling well today" or "She's just a little under the weather" followed quickly by: "It's nothing at all to worry about".
But I am worried. Winter brings illness, and illness often brings death. Eliza's never been down for this long before. And with the doctor out of town, there's no telling if Eliza's family have the medical supplies they need. Syrup to soothe a cough, or laudanum for pain. Kerosene can be purchased at the general store and slathered across the chest for congestion, but it's useless against the more serious ailments that require a physician's check-up and proper medication.
Eliza's not the only student absent from class. Clara Singleton, one of the older girls, has been out, too. She's Miss Perkins' favored helper, assisting the younger kids with their penmanship or simple arithmetic. It frees up time and allows our teacher to focus on more complex subjects with the older students. In Clara's absence, I've been asked to take her place.
"Maybe you'll be the next teacher?" Thomas says at lunch.
Hope blooms in my chest like a long-awaited spring. Sharing knowledge with hungry, young minds has always intrigued me, but I've never confided that thought with anyone. Not even Mama. Thomas has this curious way of seeing inside me, yet I still brush off his comment so I don't get my hopes up.
"The only reason Miss Perkins chose me is because I was finished with my school work. It doesn't mean anything." But I want it to.
Thomas and I, along with Honor and Victor, take up a bench at the back of class, each of us picking at our meager rations of pork and beans.
When the weather allows, we're sent home for an early afternoon meal with the intention of returning to school once we've finished. But this winter has been so frigid, each family donates ingredients for various stews that Miss Perkins heats in a kettle on the stove. Leftovers are stored in the icebox for later. Nothing goes to waste in South Harbor, especially food. Preservation is a necessity during the winter months when resources are not as plentiful.
"You could be a teacher, Sissy." Honor swallows half a spoonful of molasses-covered beans. "You're even better than Papa at helping me with my school work." He swipes the back of his hand over his mouth then rubs it across his pants.
Usually, I'd remind him of stubborn stains that don't want to come clean, but right now I'm just grateful he's eating. Even if it is only a little.
I lean over and rustle his hair. "Thank you, Honor. You'll always be my favorite student."
As Honor beams, I wait for a scathing comment from Victor, but it doesn't come. He's been unusually amicable toward me since our run-in with Mr. Baptiste at the cemetery, and I'm reluctant to poke the beast.
"Have either of you given any thought as to why Mr. Baptiste was lurking around the cemetery the other day?" I ask as casually as I can muster.
Something about the situation still doesn't add up in my head. That man hasn't been in town long and has no friends or family to speak of. What business would he have in a graveyard full of dead people he never knew?
Victor shrugs. "He was probably just curious about what happened. You know, with the graves and—everything." His face pales beneath his freckles.
"But it's strange, don't you think? He doesn't know any of us. Why would he care? I just think..." I stop before I say something I'll regret.
"You think what?" Thomas prods.
When his eyes fix on mine, my reserve caves. "Don't you think it's suspicious that all of these deaths started after he moved to town?" I do the math in my head. "We've lost six people in a very short amount of time. And no one knows the cause."
Victor stops mid-chew. "But we do know the cause. Aunt Tilly sent Ma that letter, remember? And then there's what happened with Agnes." He swallows the food in his mouth and shovels in another bite, not even bothering to conceal the ground-up contents as he speaks. "I know what I saw. The Milton kids did this. They're the ones responsible."
Tension settles across my shoulders. I readjust in my seat and shake my head. "There must be another explanation."
"But you saw the letter—and Pastor Turner confirmed what it said!" Several kids glance over at us before returning to their bowls of food.
It's true. I did see the letter. But still...
Thomas' eyebrows rise as he studies me. "I know that look. What are you thinking?"
I shrug. "It just seems like there's a connection between him and what's happening. I'm not sure how or what, but it feels like more than a coincidence. Don't you think so?"
I hold my breath and wait for his response. No matter what anyone says, the timing of his arrival is suspicious. And the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Mr. Baptiste has to be involved. Somehow, someway.
"When Papa asked me to welcome him to town, he intentionally blocked my view so I couldn't see inside his house. Almost like he's hiding something." I'm thrown back to our first meeting on Mr. Baptiste's porch. Everything about the incident was bizarre. He was bizarre. "What if he is?"
Victor snorts. "Hiding what—dead bodies?"
"Maybe." I shoot him a look.
"Do you think he killed our friends?" Honor asks in a small voice.
Guilt twists my insides. I hate to frighten him like this, but if there is something going on, my brother must be prepared. I promised Mama I'd watch out for him. But even more important than that, I need to teach him how to watch out for himself.
"I just think we should be on guard, that's all. We don't know anything about Mr. Baptiste, other than the fact that he's extremely peculiar and secretive. What if he's a—" I swallow the rest of my sentence as a shudder works its way down my spine.
"A murderer?" Thomas finishes for me.
I shrug and stare out through the frost-laced window. "I need to know what he's up to."
Victor lets out a huff of breath. "And how are you going to do that—search his house for clues?"
Search his house for clues.
The thought needles into me like a splinter. It's not a bad idea. If I had free reign of the mansion, who knows what information might turn up. But how would I make that work?
When I turn back, three pairs of eyes are fastened to me, as if they're watching the blurry scheme form inside my head. My heart races as I glance around the classroom to make sure no one is paying attention.
"That's exactly what I'm going to do." I lower my voice. "The next time he's in town, I'll sneak into the mansion and look for anything suspicious. Old newspaper articles, or maybe a journal. Anything I can use as evidence."
Victor squirms on the bench like an excited toddler. "Maybe he has a collection of wooden stakes like Vlad the Impaler?"
Goosebumps creep up my arms. Vlad the Impaler was a 15th-century Romanian ruler who had a nasty habit of driving wooden spikes into anyone who crossed his path. It's even said that he created a forest of 20-thousand rotting corpses to scare away an invading army. He's not the kind of person I'd want to run into in the dark. But then, neither is Mr. Baptiste.
Honor nibbles on his bottom lip. "But what if you do find something?"
"Then I'll take it to Constable Webster." When I nudge him with my leg, he drops his lip and presses his mouth into a tight line.
"I don't know, Faith. What if you get caught? You could get into trouble—or worse." A hard swallow moves down Thomas' throat. Trouble has never stopped me before. Thomas knows this. "I'm going with you."
I immediately shake my head.
He isn't hearing it. "We're all going with you."
Victor's dark eyes flash. "Hey—I never agreed to that!"
Thomas angles himself toward him. "What's the matter—are you a chicken?"
"Of course not! I just think it's a stupid idea. Probably the stupidest one I've ever heard."
As the idea continues to simmer, a rush of irritation prickles along my flesh. "Who said I want anyone to come with me? I don't need help. And certainly not from you." I glare over at Victor.
"We're coming, and that's final. Don't even bother trying to talk us out of it." Thomas grounds his jaw as he stares at me. "So, what's the plan?"
I'd rather do this on my own and not be responsible for the safety of my friends. But Thomas' determined expression is all the proof I need to know I won't win this argument.
My shoulders slump and I let out a sigh. "Give me a minute to think." I plant my elbows on the table and gnaw on my thumbnail until an answer finally comes to me. "We'll wait until he goes to town. Then once the house is empty, we can sneak in."
"See? Stupidest idea ever!" Victor's eyes narrow. "What happens when he catches us? Then we'll all be trapped."
I feel my face blanch. "Maybe one of us can hide outside and keep watch? That way when they see him coming, they can make a loud noise to get our attention. Then we'll escape."
Thomas gives me a slow smile. "I like it."
In a gesture of solidarity, he stretches his arm in front of him with his palm facing down. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I don't like the thought of involving them, but breaking in would be much easier if I had some help. Especially if Mr. Baptiste makes it back before I'm out.
Reluctantly, I open my eyes and place my hand over his. We turn to Victor. After a long moment, he rolls his eyes and gives in, too.
Victor's gaze swings over to Honor.
My chest goes tight. "Oh, no—absolutely not. Don't be ridiculous." I shake my head, my braids whipping back and forth around my shoulders. "My little brother isn't coming with us."
"But I want to help, too," Honor whines. "I can be the one who waits outside, and I'll screech like an owl if he comes home. Papa says I sound just like one. Wanna hear?"
Thomas adamantly shakes his head and slaps a hand over Honor's mouth. His eyes meet mine. "You did say we need a lookout."
He has a point. And to give Honor credit, his animal calls are impressive. He's been mimicking geese and barn owls since before he could talk.
The energy at the table tenses as I consider what he said. Finally, I turn to Honor with a loud huff. "Fine. But if there's any sign of trouble—any sign at all—you hide in the forest until I come to get you."
Honor let's out a happy squeal, and once again, Thomas' hand finds our pact, followed by my brother's.
It's a dangerous plan, but it's more than I had before. As long as I don't think of all the different ways it can go wrong. Very soon, we'll have the answers we need.
I can't wait to get started.