Chapter 44
STAR GAZING
In the music room, I have nowhere to hide, no reason to leave, and I’d look really silly plugging my ears. So, with every muscle tightly coiled, I stand between my dad and Twig while Jude plays, and despite my best efforts to disassociate, I am impossibly engaged.
Sheep cease to exist.
His haunting rendition of O Holy Night melts effortlessly into Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. I am swept away, straight off my feet, unable to breathe until the music comes to an end and applause ripples through the room.
I clap with everyone else, but my throat is tight.
My lungs, too.
I feel squished, claustrophobic.
In need of a proper breath.
So when Isabel tells us the heaters are running on the terrace and we’re welcome to enjoy the stars, that’s all the invitation I need. I slip outside, where a rush of cold air envelops me. Inhaling deep into my lungs, I cross my elbows on the balustrade and focus hard on sheep.
Sheep, sheep, sheep.
But the music was a wrecking ball swinging through my defenses.
My emotions have nowhere to go.
And there are footsteps behind me.
Followed by the familiar scent of Jude’s cologne.
He slides his hands over the railing. “Are you okay?”
I huff, because no, I’m not okay. Not even remotely.
Jude doesn’t press.
He just draws in a breath and for a length of time, we stand there, side-by-side, looking out at the snowy grounds while the heater hums and the stars twinkle.
“Where did you go earlier, before dinner?” he finally asks.
“The library,” I tell him. “Today, I got this idea. About my mom. She was really good at writing letters. A lot better than speaking words, anyway. I started to think, maybe she wrote a goodbye to Simon when she came back here five years ago. Maybe she left the letter inside a book that was meaningful.”
“Dorian Gray,” Jude says.
“Dorian Gray,” I repeat. “But I was wrong. I found the book and there was nothing inside.”
“We have more than one copy of that book.”
I turn with a jerk. “You do?”
“Special editions.”
A spark of hope ignites.
I should want to go back to the library right now, but what if doing so only renders more disappointment? I’d rather live with a spark of hope. At least for now. And despite every blaring alarm going off inside my body, I want to stay here with Jude, too.
At dinner, I felt like a clamshell.
But now?
I want to open up.
I’m dying to share.
So I tell him everything he’s missed, starting with the missing clock in the display case and the drawing of the faceless man, which I showed to Rafe, who confirmed the drawing looks an awful lot like Vorat.
I don’t mention Rafe’s claw marks. Jude doesn’t seem to like the idea of me showing Rafe a drawing.
Somehow, I think he’d like it even less if he knew I did so while Rafe wasn’t fully dressed.
I tell him instead about Lily’s second sketchpad and the cassette tapes.
When I’m finished, I capture my lip between my teeth and wait for his response.
“I’d say it’s impossible,” he finally says, “but I’m not sure that word is real anymore.” He exhales slowly, his breath fogging the air. “There’s a drawing of hers hanging in the billiard room.”
“There is?”
He nods. “Nothing monstrous or prophetic. It’s just a tree. The one in the Midnight Garden, I think.”
An owl hoots in the distance.
A star streaks through the sky.
Jude lets go of the railing. He leans back on his heels and flashes me a crooked smile. “So, Opal Bogaard is a fan of your podcast.”
“Can you believe that?”
“It’s a good podcast.”
My face goes warm.
Jude looks up at the stars—bright glitter against black velvet—and I’m struck by the beauty of his profile. “I re-listened to episode nine of season two yesterday.”
My insides go as warm as my face.
It has nothing to do with the heater and everything to do with Jude, re-listening to episodes on my podcast.
“It’s one of my favorites,” he says.
I lift my eyebrows at him. “It’s about werewolves.”
“A little bit about werewolves. And astrology, which I admit, I’ve never taken much interest in. But I do love the stars.” He slides his hands into his pockets. “There was a short stint of time where I thought I might become an astronaut.”
“Like Neil Armstrong?”
He looks at me from the corner of his eye—a brief, amused glance accompanied by an adorable shrug. “My first year at boarding school I took an astronomy class and a Greek mythology class. The combination had me fascinated with the constellations.”
I look from him to the sky. “I can always find the Big Dipper, but never the little one.”
“Those aren’t technically constellations. They’re asterisms.”
“What-erisms?”
He chuckles. “Asterisms. Familiar star patterns that help us locate constellations. The Big Dipper is part of the Great Bear, or Ursa Major. It’s easier to see because the stars are brighter.
” He leans toward me and traces the sky.
“See those two right on the outer edge of the Big Dipper’s bowl?
If you draw a straight line up, you reach Polaris. ”
I follow the direction of his finger.
“That’s the end of the Little Dipper’s handle, which is part of Ursa Minor. Or Little Bear.”
I swallow, trying very hard not to notice how close he’s become. “So, Orion’s belt. That’s an asterism, too?”
“You’re a fast learner, Whitlock.” He pivots so his back is to the railing. “Orion is the constellation. His belt’s the asterism.”
I twist with him, spotting the three stars in a straight line. “Where’s the rest of him?”
“The two above his belt are his shoulders. And that little line hanging below is his sword.”
“Huh.” I cock my head, able to see him for the first time. Not just the belt, but the full picture of Orion himself—the great hunter. “Okay, Vandenberg. What else ya got?”
He grins. “If you follow the belt to that reddish star, there? That’s Taurus’s eye. And the cluster of stars in the shape of a V are his face.”
I peer upward.
His breath tickles my ear. “And if you look that way, to those two? That’s Castor and Pollux, the heads of Gemini.”
Something about them—one a golden yellow, the other a bluish white—strikes a familiar cord. I can’t look away, even as Jude moves on to a constellation called Canis Minor.
My heart starts to thud a dull beat in my ear, as if my body has made a connection before my brain.
Two bright stars, each one with a tail of fainter, smaller dots, forming parallel lines.
My attention sweeps back to Taurus—a V in the sky—and the revelation comes like a zap of electricity. “The glowing dots.”
“What’s that?” Jude asks.
I turn to him, and he’s standing so close now, my breath catches. “On their wrists.”
His attention dips to my lips before returning to my eyes, shifting from one to the next.
It makes me a little lightheaded.
So, too, does my realization.
“Lainey and Griffin,” I say. “The dots on the inside of their wrists. They’re constellations.”