Chapter 2
MOVING DAY
ONE MONTH LATER
Istep out of Dad’s Ford Bronco beneath a moody sky, feeling like a princess in a dream.
Up until now, I’ve only ever seen the Vandenberg Estate through the gaps of its black iron fence.
This evening, I’m standing inside that fence, unable to take a proper breath.
Judging by the look on Twig’s face, he can’t either.
Dad lets out a low whistle.
It isn’t directed at the gothic manor looming before us—a sprawling mansion with stone gargoyles, lancet windows, and towering turrets.
It’s directed at the grounds. Two thousand, five hundred acres of them, most of which have gone wild and overgrown.
Caring for them will be a massive undertaking.
So massive, in fact, Mr. Tulane requires his new groundskeeper to live on site.
Which means we said arrivederci to our dingy doublewide and buongiorno to our very own carriage house, with walls of gray stone covered in creeping ivy, and a set of old-fashioned carriage doors that are no longer functional but offer plenty of charm.
My new home.
Dad walks around his Bronco to the small trailer hitched to the back, gravel crunching beneath his work boots. He slides open the hatch, revealing the sparse interior.
The carriage house comes fully furnished, which means we didn’t have to bring any of our derelict furniture. Twig and I sold it all in a yard sale last week. Unpacking should be a breeze.
We each grab a box.
Inside, the main level is wide open—one giant room with a kitchen, a dining area, a living area, and a ceiling two stories high. My attention travels up the staircase, where the bedrooms are.
Dad gives the first stair a test with his boot, like he’s checking its sturdiness, then turns to me with a fond tip of his chin, his brown eyes soft with amusement. “You know I don’t care where I sleep.”
The invitation is clear.
With matching grins, Twig and I clamber up the stairs.
Of the two options, I know which one I want immediately.
The floorboards creak as I set the box on my new daybed and tiptoe past the antique furniture, to the mullioned window on the far wall.
I unlatch the brass fastener and push it open, letting in a soft breeze that stirs lace-trimmed curtains.
I imagine sitting here in the window seat, staring out at the misty grounds with a stunning view of the manor—my own private stakeout every single night.
With a happy sigh, Twig and I rejoin my dad.
In short order, the boxes are unloaded and we’re back in my room.
I close the door behind me with a soft click.
Twig catches my eye, and we start laughing.
Actually laughing. Because how is this real life?
A month ago, I would have given anything to stay in our trailer home.
Today, I’m standing in the guest house on the Vandenberg estate.
Inside my new bedroom. Our fourth-grade selves would never believe it.
“Imagine if we could tour the manor,” Twig says, gazing out my window.
“You’re getting greedy,” I reply, opening the wardrobe. Warped mirrors line the inside of the doors, and a row of hangers dangle from a bar. It smells like cedar and dust.
Twig opens one of the boxes. “It’s not farfetched.”
He’s right. It isn’t.
The new Vandenberg family has a son our age.
And instead of getting private tutors, like the Vandenberg teenagers before him, he’s officially enrolled at Foggy Hollow High, information Twig gleaned from his mother, the high school secretary.
We searched for a picture of him online.
It shouldn’t have been difficult. Surely he’d be on social media.
But no. Jude Vandenberg remains a complete enigma.
We only know that he and his stepmother have spent the past several years overseas—she in France, and he in England at an elite all-boys boarding school.
He’s also the great nephew of John Vandenberg, the patriarch of the Vandenberg four who vanished thirty years ago.
On Monday, we’ll get to meet him.
One more unbelievable fact in a long line of them.
I start unpacking my clothes.
Twig takes out a stack of books from the box. The one on top is my journal. I’ve been using it to record my dreams, which have been wild and vivid ever since I found out I was moving here.
“Did I tell you about the dream I had last night?” I ask, hanging up a jean jacket that once belonged to my mother. It’s one of the few items of clothing I own that doesn’t come from The Lucky Penny, a consignment shop downtown.
“Not yet,” Twig says, opening the top drawer of my new writing desk.
“There was fire everywhere. I was trapped inside The Silver Lantern. Some man outside kept screaming for a woman named Florence. And then I realized it was me. I was Florence.” I hang my cream-colored turtleneck and move on to my collection of grunge band tees.
“It makes a person wonder. What if these dreams are me in past lives?”
“Or rehearsals are getting to your head.”
He’s referring to the reenactment. The Burning of Foggy Hollow, a Living History, performed every September in town square.
An ode to our tragic past, when fire consumed the town in 1822.
Dozens died. Those who survived lost nearly everything.
But the town would not be broken. Led by Amos Vandenberg, Kit Bogaard, and Alexander Doorn, the people rallied, and three years later, Foggy Hollow rose again like a phoenix from the ashes.
“I’m not playing a woman named Florence, though. And what about the dream I had a few nights ago?” Bombs raining from the sky. Alarms blaring. “I was hunkered in a basement wearing a ruby necklace and a utility dress with a CC41 label, clutching a little boy to my chest. How do you explain that?”
“What’s Langley teaching in U.S. History?”
“Not World War II.”
Twig’s phone vibrates.
His mom is here.
Outside, Dad is conversing with an old man dressed in a black suit with a waistcoat. I take in his hollow cheeks and neatly combed snow-white hair—a jarring contrast to the unruly state of his eyebrows—and I have to intentionally avoid eye contact with Twig lest the two of us geek out.
Mr. Denis Tulane, in the flesh.
Dad calls us over.
“This is my daughter, Selah,” he says, “and her friend, Spencer. This is Mr. Tulane, the estate’s caretaker.”
Oh, we know.
We’ve only been pestering him for an interview the past two years, which is probably why he’s looking at me so strangely now, like I’m the paparazzi ready to bulrush him with a microphone and an onslaught of questions.
Mr. Tulane bows in our direction, then continues his conversation with Dad like Twig and I never interrupted.
“As I was saying, everything should be in order. The cleaning crew attended to the carriage house earlier today. The beds have been made. There are fresh linens in the closet. The bathrooms have toiletries, and you will find your refrigerator stocked with the basics.”
“That was very generous of you,” Dad says.
“Yes, well. I expect you will be busy clearing out the overgrowth along the front drive so it’s presentable when the family arrives on Sunday.”
Dad flattens his palm over the crown of his head, his cheeks puffing with air. Today is Friday, and the front drive is massive, with a lot of overgrowth.
I nod toward the front gate, where Mrs. Calloway idles in her Honda Accord.
Dad’s cheeks deflate with an exhale. “You’re not joining us for dinner?” he asks Twig.
“Kate’s singing the National Anthem at the football game. My parents want to grab dinner downtown before we go.”
“Tomorrow, then,” Dad says.
Twig nods enthusiastically before casting one last longing glance at the manor. He obviously doesn’t want to leave. I’m thrilled I don’t have to.
As I walk him out, Mrs. Calloway rolls down the passenger side window and waves cheerfully.
She’s a tiny white woman with a big smile, an older version of Twig’s sister, Kate.
Twig looks nothing like either of them, just like he told me the day we first met.
He doesn’t match his family because he’s adopted, a story he would elaborate upon later in our friendship—how as an infant, he was left on a doorstep in a basket without any information at all, leading us both to wonder, where exactly did Twig come from?
We’ve brainstormed origin stories ranging from wizarding worlds to fae kingdoms to alien planets.
“This must be so exciting for you two,” Mrs. Calloway says, her narrow shoulders lifting toward her ears.
Dad might not fully appreciate how big of a deal living here is to me, but Mrs. Calloway does.
She also knows how close we were to moving.
Given the fact that I’m Twig’s best and oldest friend, she really didn’t want that to happen.
Mrs. Calloway dotes on her son. And by proxy, Mrs. Calloway dotes on me.
Almost like a mother.
Twig opens the door and folds himself into the car.
After a bit of small talk, I watch them drive away, then turn back to the gate.
Not closed, but open. Because this is where I live now.
I trace my finger along the Vandenberg Family crest, branded into the black iron—a shield with two crisscrossing keys at the bottom.
In the center, a sun with thorny rays is cradled by what could be mistaken as a crescent moon, but is actually a claw.
A breeze swirls around my ankles and flutters through my hair.
With it comes a vague whisper, like breath on the back of my neck.
My skin prickles as I turn toward the house.
And there, framed inside a window on the second floor, is a shadowed silhouette.
Not a profile, but someone facing the grounds.
As though watching.
Staring.
At me.
My prickling skin turns into a full battalion of goosebumps as my attention darts to Mr. Tulane, still conversing with my dad. Then the circular drive, which is empty. No cleaning vans. No work trucks. By the time I look back at the second floor window, the shadowed figure is gone.