Chapter 33
REHEARSALS
As the week deepens into the middle of October, the season arrives in full force, with pumpkins on porches, leaf bags on curbs, and Halloween decor in every window.
The Monongahela forest has become a tapestry of blazing red, golden yellow, fiery orange, and deep green.
The days grow shorter, the parade floats come together, and sweater weather is here to stay.
Twig’s been busy helping his dad at the auto shop, so I spend most of my free time with Jude.
We’re still digging through his family archives, though the search has grown tedious and muddled.
What are we even looking for anymore? Clues about the portrait?
Evidence of rift encounters? Another link between the two?
Jude’s focusing on the symbol, which we found on my mother, and the gemstones, since we’re racing Rafe toward a finish line neither of us understands.
I keep an eye out for Ezra’s revelation, written the same year his son was born.
Honestly, I’ve grown bored with the library.
I much prefer our other endeavor—searching for keyholes.
AKA, an excuse to explore the manor. There’s so much to discover, from secret passages to hidden hallways used by servants long ago.
The basement has been the creepiest by far—a labyrinth of stone corridors with walls that sweat.
According to Tulane, no one’s gone down there in years, aside from the occasional trip to the cellar, which is dark and musty and lined with barrels of aged wine and whiskey.
So it’s interesting, then, to run into Rafe nowhere near the cellar.
More interesting still to find him looking on edge, like it’s been days since he’s had a proper meal or a decent night’s sleep.
It gives me a boost of morale. A glimmer of hope.
Whatever he’s up to, it must not be going well.
On Friday evening, I take a break from the Vandenberg mysteries to help Mrs. Calloway. Twig and I sit at his kitchen counter, stapling together parade packets. When we reach the end, Jude calls.
He invites us over.
Not only has Twig been dying to get inside the manor, he’s been dying to use our EMF meter inside the manor, an idea that has Jude rolling his eyes so hard, his irises practically disappear. So when he extends the invitation, I know he’s doing it for me.
Twig jumps off the stool like it’s a hot stove.
We head over with our proton pack.
And what transpires has both of us losing our minds.
The meter jumps wildly between low and high frequencies.
One minute, it emits a long, shrill tone as if detecting a massive, constant field.
The next, it falls silent without any input change at all.
The LED lights remain stuck on red. It doesn’t matter which room we’re in or what level we’re on.
Jude thinks the meter must be broken.
But later that night, Twig sends a video of it working just fine in his bedroom. Along with a million-and-one follow-up texts.
Ding, ding, ding.
One after the other.
The readings defied physical law.
Magnetic pulses don’t appear in short bursts.
They don’t reverse polarity.
Electromagnetic fields are supposed to be consistent. Directional. With a clear source.
Selah. It’s coming from everywhere and nowhere.
In the morning, he sends more. Charts. Graphs.
Screenshots. And what can I say, other than Foggy Hollow’s always been strange.
We devoted an entire podcast episode to it.
Our town has a long history of lost signals, weird static, and phantom broadcasts.
Radios patching into distorted sounds. Dropped calls.
Glitchy electronics. Phones that pick up disembodied voices.
EMF meters don’t act normal in Foggy Hollow.
But last night was something else.
The results were fascinating, creepy, and ultimately … unhelpful. The rift could be hiding in any of the rooms. Which makes sense, I guess. According to Simon’s journal, it opened in multiple places.
The real question is:
How did it open?
And why?
The questions circle in the back of my mind as I grip the cool balustrade of the ballroom’s balcony and gaze toward the ceiling, where crystal chandeliers hang in perfect line, casting fractured rainbows across the polished parquet flooring.
Isabel and her entourage of cleaning crews and preservationists have been busy preparing for next weekend, and it shows. There’s not a cobweb in sight. Everything looks bright and new, so much less frightening in the daylight than it had the night before.
Jude, on the other hand, stands like a closed book at the bottom of the staircase. His face unreadable. His posture refined. His features drawn. His hair perfect.
As though sensing my stare, his eyes lift to mine, and for just a moment, the closed book cracks open a smidge. The look makes my pulse jump as erratically as the EMF meter.
Beside me, Lainey leans over the railing to get a better look at Rafe, who looks much improved from our last encounter. I tug her back before she tumbles head over feet and plummets to her death. The last thing this estate needs is another tragedy on its hands.
Next to Rafe and Jude, Mayor Ridley converses with Miss Eloise Applewhite, Foggy Hollow’s very own retired ballerina turned drill sergeant. She’s on the masquerade committee and is walking us through our first rehearsal, starting with the Founder’s Decent, followed by the opening dance.
The men stand at the bottom. The women at the top.
As per tradition, each man will walk halfway up the staircase while the woman descends.
He will meet her on the landing and escort her to the dance floor below.
At the moment, Miss Applewhite and Mayor Ridley are trying to decide the order in which the couples will be announced.
They settle on the mayor going first, even though his connection to the founding families is a significant stretch.
Apparently, his wife is second cousins twice removed from Marvin Doorn—an out-of-town math professor who has agreed to ride in the parade but has no interest in staying for the ball.
Mayor Ridley gladly stepped in to take his spot.
Isabel and her escort, Everett McBride, go next. Everett is a Foggy Hollow transplant. He moved from Alexandria after retiring early from a lucrative antique and estate appraisal business. Isabel hired him to catalog the estate’s historical items under the pretense of preservation.
Jude isn’t fooled.
He thinks she’s hunting for valuables.
As I watch them reach the bottom of the staircase, Rafe catches my eye with a smirk.
I turn up my chin as Miss Applewhite announces Camilla Bogaard, escorted by her husband, Ignatius Bogaard.
Then their son, Sterling, escorting Becca Lynn Parker, a mousy girl who has always tried very hard to fit in with the popular crowd.
“Miss Selah Whitlock,” Miss Applewhite calls next. “Escorted by Jude Vandenberg of the Vandenberg Family.”
I’m tempted to rush.
Hurry to Jude.
Especially when he’s looking at me like that.
But Miss Applewhite had been very clear, and very stern, about how we are supposed to walk. Like a wedding march, ladies. Not a sprint. She’d been eying Lainey when she said it, but I might’ve been just as guilty.
With one hand on the railing, I force myself to walk slowly. With poise. Taking care not to trip. Even if my heart is doing its best impression.
Jude meets me on the landing, his footsteps quiet and precise, his eyes never leaving mine. He extends his arm in perfect form. I slide my hand into the crook of this elbow. His shirt is smooth beneath my palm, the fabric taut over the shape of his bicep.
Together, we descend.
“What are you doing after this?” I ask in a whisper from the corner of my mouth.
“Whatever you’re doing,” he says back, his voice low.
I bite back a smile. “Floats at the fairgrounds.”
“More glitter, huh?”
“Maybe some paint.”
“We could continue our research afterward.”
“It’s a date,” I say as we reach the dance floor.
Jude’s hand moves to the small of my back and butterflies take flight—a whole kaleidoscope of them.
We stop next to Sterling and Becca Lynn and watch Rafe meet Lainey halfway up the stairs.
“He’s unraveling,” Jude says, his voice even lower.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“He came home last night about an hour after you and Twig left. Went straight to the study. I heard him slamming cabinets, opening drawers. He poured himself a scotch, drained it pretty fast, then hurled the glass against the wall.”
I peer at Rafe with fresh suspicion.
He’s desperate. That much, we know. Why else would he have dug up Ezra’s grave? The question is—why is he desperate? What’s so special about these gemstones? Who would have planted fakes? And what does it have to do with the larger puzzle at play?
When the twelve of us are assembled, Miss Applewhite takes her place at the head of the ballroom, her posture arrow-straight. “The Waltz of the Hollow was first danced by lantern light during the Yuletide Ball of 1758.”
I think of young Ezra with Molly Ludwig. Jude must be thinking the same thing, because his eye catches mine.
“It was said to have bound the town’s founding families in rhythm and ritual.
After the fire, when the Hunter’s Moon Masquerade Ball replaced the Yuletide Ball, the dance remained and was given its name.
It’s designed for three couples. Which means we’ll have two sets of dancers: the older generation …
” She gestures to the grown-ups. “And the younger generation.”
Great.
Our set includes Rafe.
Miss Applewhite gives her hands a sharp clap. “Two lines, please, facing your partner. Ladies on one side. Gentlemen on the other.”
We shuffle into place. And as she launches into a long-winded monologue about the historical significance of this particular dance, my eyes drift to the fireplace.
It’s adorned with an impressive carving of a fallen angel—wings outstretched, one hand reaching skyward, the other dragging something unseen into shadow.
The exact spot where Twig’s EMF meter went particularly berserk.
Music plays from the bluetooth speaker on the ground by Miss Applewhite—graceful and lilting, in three-quarter time. She speaks over it, positioning Rafe and Lainey as the lead couple in our set. Jude and I are second. Sterling and Becca Lynn, third.
“Now, we bow and curtsy to begin.”
Across from me, Jude bows, a lock of hair falling over his brow, and everything else—Rafe, the gemstones, the rift, last night’s experiment—disappears.
“We begin the dance with a circle of six,” Miss Applewhite calls. “Three couples, hand over wrist, circling left—your other left, Mayor Ridley—and then right again. Think of it as a brief alliance. Don’t get attached.”
My skin crawls as Rafe’s hand circles my wrist. We turn clockwise for eight counts, then counterclockwise for the same.
“Return to your places now. Second and third couple, do try to look elegant while doing absolutely nothing. You’ll get your turn soon enough. Top couple, take hands.”
Rafe and Lainey come together, passing between me and Jude, Sterling and Becca Lynn—four steps in, four steps out.
“Now cast off and progress!” Miss Applewhite cries, modeling the move in dramatic fashion.
Jude and I become the new lead couple. I anticipate coming together, taking his hands.
But no.
Miss Applewhite tells us to move diagonally.
Becca Lynn gets Jude.
I have to take Sterling, whose palms are clammy, his lips moving as he mouths the steps in rhythm.
Miss Applewhite continues calling commands, leading us through the dance, and only once does she yank on my shoulders. “Posture, darling. You’re dancing, remember. Not hauling potatoes.”
Poor Sterling gets the brunt of her critique.
Mayor Ridley takes a close second.
She keeps pointing out Jude, and begrudgingly, Rafe, whose only mishap was intentional.
“The hand goes here, Mr. Vandenberg. Any lower and I’ll put you under etiquette review.”
Lainey bursts into laughter.
It’s as if the Vandenberg cousins already know this dance. It’s as if they’ve danced it at a thousand balls before this one. Jude leads with quiet authority. And I quickly realize …
The Waltz of the Hollow might be modest, but somehow, it’s more arousing than anything I’ve seen on our high school dance floor.
It’s a study of anticipation and longing.
The rush of coming together, only to be separated much too soon.
Brief touches that are never enough, stirring up a cauldron of warmth that could drive a person insane.
And all the while, Miss Applewhite insists upon eye contact, eye contact, eye contact!
By the time the rehearsal ends, I feel as though Jude has seen into my soul, and there’s a fire in my cheeks I’m not sure will ever go away.
“Dress rehearsal will be on Thursday,” Miss Applewhite announces. “Please make sure your attire is finalized. Mrs. Tibbs has informed me that she is very busy with parade costumes, so if you plan to use her for alterations, do be considerate and contact her sooner rather than later.”
It occurs to me that I don’t have any attire at all. I’ve been preoccupied with other things.
Everyone breaks.
I expect Rafe to linger, to say something cryptic. Instead, he makes a hasty exit with Lainey.
I watch them go with narrowed eyes.
If only we knew what he was up to.