Winterwood

At the line of summer homes, where the Harrison home sits hidden in the trees, I can just make out a narrow spire of smoke rising from the chimney. “No one should be in there,” I say. The Harrison place is rarely used, a small single-story cabin that sits vacant most years.

“There’s been light in the windows at night—candles, I think.”

I swallow and step down from the porch. It could be Oliver.

He was gone from my room when the boys broke in. Maybe he went to the Harrison house, maybe he’s been hiding out. Although I don’t know why.

Still, I need to be sure.

I look back at Mr. Perkins. “If you won’t leave, then I won’t either.” A threat, a way to force him into coming with us.

He levels his gaze on me, testing me, to see if I’m serious. “Just as stubborn as your grandmother,” he says, grumbling, before reaching behind him and pulling the door shut with a bang. There’s nothing he wants to take with him, nothing to save. But at least he’s coming with us. He’s fleeing these mountains.

I grab his arm and help him down the steps. “Go with Suzy,” I tell him. Suzy shifts from one foot to the other, impatient, ready to run.

“Where are you going?” Suzy asks.

“I have to check that house, then I’ll be right behind you.”

She raises an eyebrow like she doesn’t believe me.

“I promise,” I say. “You get a head start.”

She blinks, powdery ash drifting away from her lashes. Even her soft russet hair is now a charcoal-gray. “Okay,” she says, nodding, and she and Mr. Perkins continue away from the lake, through the dirty gray snow. If they don’t slow down, they’ll make it down the mountain. They’ll make it out before the fire reaches them.

But my heart won’t let me leave until I know he’s safe.

Adrenaline roars through me.

The fire has already started tearing apart several of the other homes set farther back in the trees, roofs burning, windows broken out, curtains billowing with the wind while flames lick up the walls.

The fire is a storm now. Sparks instead of snow. Ash instead of cold. It’s blown down from the mountains, from the north, and it won’t stop until it’s devoured everything.

Until there’s nothing left.

The snow in front of the Harrison cabin is still deep, and my boots sink in up to my knees with each step. My breathing is quick, lungs like daggers scraping against my ribs. When I reach the porch, I grab the railing and use it to pull myself up—hand over hand—the spellbook tucked under my arm.

I know I’m running out of time; flames have already reached the trees behind the house. Limbs snapping, snow melting from leaves, bark wheezing as it peels away.

A light shivers from the front windows, a dim glow—hardly visible through the smoke.

I don’t bother knocking—there’s no time—I yank open the door and burst into the living room.

The room is dark, woven with shadows. A long dining room table that must seat ten people sits against one wall, and a broad fireplace burns hot on the other.

And on the couch, someone is asleep—a boy—a blanket half pulled over him.

Oliver.

My heart stops beating and I take a step closer, hope rising dangerously up into my chest.

“Hello?” I ask. I can’t make out his face, partially covered by an arm, but then he rolls onto his side and the arm drops away. The motion startles him awake and he flinches upright—pale-blond hair pressed awkwardly to one side.

It’s not Oliver. Not Oliver.

It’s someone else—a boy I don’t recognize. With a narrow face and bright-blue eyes.

Disappointment sinks through me.

“Who the hell are you?” he asks.

“Who the hell are you?” I ask right back.

He tilts his head, confused. And I feel my expression draw tight—both of us unsure of the other. I survey the house quickly: the small kitchen with plates stacked high, cans of food on the wood counter, cupboards left open. He’s pilfered whatever he could find—which surely wasn’t much, considering the Harrisons rarely visit their summer home. Expired dried beans and stewed tomatoes left behind. Emergency food. A bottle of bourbon sits on the coffee table beside the boy, only a few sips left at the bottom. He’s been in here getting drunk. Maybe he ran away from the boys’ camp, maybe he’s been in here since the party a few houses down—still wasted, no idea what day it is.

I scowl and he scowls back.

“You have to get out of here,” I tell him sharply, turning away to head for the door—whoever this boy is, I don’t care, he just needs to leave.

But he doesn’t move from his place on the couch. “Why?”

“There’s a fire heading down the mountain.” I point to the window, so he can see for himself.