Sleep of Death (Charlotte Westing Chronicles) (7 page)

Chapter
Nine

“It’s complicated,” I explain when I meet up with Sophie before the last class of the day and tell her that she can’t come home with me. That I can’t let anyone see us together. It feels sadly like hiding a romantic relationship. “It’s just that my mom doesn’t know about … about me.”

The silent O of Sophie’s lips
fills me with a blend of guilt and sorrow. The sadness I’m used to. I
hate
that my mom doesn’t know. Can’t ever know. I’ve always hated that.

But now, in addition, I feel awful that a girl I just met
does
.

I mean, with Sierra it was totally different. Sierra
had
to know, and because we’re family she’s spent her whole life lying to the same I people I’ve been lying to. A sort of mutually assured deception; we shared the crime and the guilt, and it was clearly inescapable. But this? I feel like I’m betraying my mom, sharing my secret with a near-stranger; a secret I can’t share with the person I love most in the whole world.

“And—” But I snap my mouth closed. I was going to tell her that my aunt follows the rules.
But even saying that much means revealing to Sophie that my aunt is an Oracle. And that’s not fair; it’s not my secret to spill. But at least I can get away with not outright lying about her to Sophie—at least for today. I just won’t say anything at all. “And it’s just easier if we both go home separately and I come pick you up,” I finish lamely, to cover up the fact that I was going to say something else.

“I get it,” Sophie says. And even though I can tell she
does
, I want to make sure she really understands.

“I’d like to have you over another time,” I blurt, pulling out my exceptionally rusty social skills. “Just not when we’re in the middle of
a … project,” I finish, my eyes darting around as people walk by us. Like I said—rusty. Like one of those abandoned cars that’s more rust than metal. Yep.

A ghost of a smile touches Sophie’s lips and she switches her backpack from one shoulder to the other before nodding and saying, “Yeah, sure.”

It occurs to me that despite blending in way better than I do, maybe Sophie’s been equally lonely. If her life essentially revolves around her abilities as a Sorceress, what kind of social life can she really have had? Maybe we have more in common than I originally thought—a list that has grown surprisingly long in the last four hours.

An unfamiliar glow encompasses me as I pull out my phone and ask for her
number and address.

Sophie stiffens. “Um, now that I think about it, maybe you coming to my house
isn’t such a good idea either.”

“How come?
I thought your mom knew all about this.”

She looks down to where her toe is drawing invisible circles on the linoleum. “She does, but I really,
really
messed myself up last month. The whole reason we’re here in Coldwater is to keep me away from temptation so I can recoup. Mom had to quit a job she really liked and everything. She knows it’ll take a couple of months to get me back up to full strength. Both physically and, you know, the other way. And that’s if I do
nothing
. If she finds out I’m doing stuff even after all that she’ll be pissed. Not that I
am
doing anything,” she says, sounding more like she’s reminding herself than me. “I’m—” She hesitates, then grins. “I’m a consultant.”

I smile back and it feels so weird to be joking about our powers. It’s always been
such a serious subject with Sierra. But it’s nice to find humor in it. Freeing, really.

Sophie sobers quickly. “After everything my mom’s done, it wouldn’t be fair to worry her
, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Fair enough
.” Even though the bell for last hour rings, we steal a few more seconds to figure out a place to meet on the rather short list of landmarks that Sophie’s familiar with after her brief residency here. We part with a wave and jog in opposite directions toward our respective classes.

It’s funny
. I feel happy. Productive. Needed, even. As I step through the doorway to my class and make an apologetic expression at the teacher, I try to remember the last time I felt this
good
.

Even though I’m only about a minute late, it’s just late enough that my arrival creates a disturbance and several heads turn to look at me.

One of them is Linden’s.

Oh yeah.
I remember.

***

Not quite two hours later I pull up to the corner of a park on the far west end of town.

“Right on time,” Sophie says with a grin and a puff of vapor before sliding into the car. “And just FYI, my house is down that street over there.” S
he points to a tree-lined road just in sight of the park. “We’re 658, in case you should ever need to—I don’t know—contact my mom?”

“Actually, it’s probably a good idea
for me to know,” I say, trying to ignore the pit that’s been growing in my stomach since seeing Linden’s face this afternoon. “All sorts of things can go wrong.”

Like stabbing the guy you love in the stomach. I want to cry at that memory. I’ve been so good at shoving them into the dustiest corners of my mind, but today everything is rising to the surface.

We take a few minutes to enter one another’s info into our cell phones. As I hit Save, Sophie adds, “And you can text me any time.”

That glow again, and I manage a little smile. Focus on the positive. “I will,” I promise, possibly with more gravity than the moment called for. But it feels so good to have someone I can tell almost everything to.

Especially since I’ll never be able to tell Linden the truth. Even if I wanted to.

“What are those?” Sophie asks as I pull away from the curb.

“What?”

“Those things on the steering wheel.”

“Oh, the hand controls?” I’m so used to them being there I’m hardly even aware of them anymore. For me the strange feeling would be driving in a car
without
them, even though I don’t actually use them. “My mom’s a paraplegic.”

I can tell her that much without my throat feeling like it’s going to close in. Because I’ve told hundreds of people that fact throughout my life.
Thousands. Because it’s just that—a
fact
. One I can scarcely remember having been otherwise.

But my heart speeds up because I know I’m going to have to tell Sophie more. Maybe not today, but it’s so much of who I am as an Oracle
, and why I live life the way I do. Eventually I’m going to have to tell her. Not because I owe her an explanation or anything, but because it seems like I should. Like I ought to tell Sophie everything I can. Especially since, despite everything, there are still secrets I
can’t
tell her.

“Always?”
Sophie asks, her tone casual; the way people ask about stuff they know you might not be comfortable talking about. It’s a tone that gives you a way out.

I shake my head, not accepting the easy path, even though she was generous enough to offer it.
“Car accident. When I was six.” One that I caused. Or was responsible for, anyway. Manipulated. Screwed up.

“Do you guys live with your dads?
Oracles, I mean, not you specifically.”

Hello random
. The look of confusion on my face apparently speaks better than the words I don’t say.

“Oh,” Sophie says, and looks embarrassed. “I guess you do.”

“You don’t?”

“Sorceresses are very … female. I know that sounds stupid. I mean, all Sorceresses
are
female, but like, we don’t really let guys into our lives. Not on a permanent basis, I mean,” she clarifies, then breaks into a grin I can only describe as saucy. “We
like
guys, don’t get me wrong. We just don’t traditionally keep them around. So, like, I know my father’s name, and I guess I could find him if I ever really wanted to, but he’s not a part of my life. Never has been. Doubt he knows I exist.”

“So your mom’s a … a Sorceress too?”

“No, actually. That would be helpful because then we could share the work. But the Jeffersons are a Sorcery family and have been for generations and generations, so she knew there was a decent chance I’d be a Sorceress as soon as she found out I was a girl. About one in five girls in our family are. We have strong blood,” she says proudly.

“Oh.” I can’t think of anything else to say. It’s odd, the idea of having a mother—who isn’t even actually a supernatural—devote her entire life to your role, even before your birth. To be willing to give up the man she loved.
Or maybe to not let herself love in the first place.

But then, how would my life be different if I didn’t have to hide what I am from my mother? Or father, if he
’d lived. There’s a definite freedom with the openness of such secrets. I consider my life with Sierra and my mom and, even though we didn’t intend to have a life of just women, it’s turned out that way. I consider agreeing with Sophie and pretending it’s the same with Oracles, but telling the truth feels so good it’s almost a high and I don’t want to stop now.

“My dad’s dead,” I say, another fact I’m used to spouting off, but it aches this time.

“I’m sorry,” Sophie says softly. And I hear more than the pity I’m accustomed to; there’s real empathy, there. I know without asking that there have been times in her life when she
wished
her dad were around. He may not actually be dead, but he’s
gone
.

“So we need to figure out where mile marker 146 is,” I say, changing the subject as we approach the street that goes down the center of Coldwater and connects with the highway. Apparently I’m not going to have to get into the whole
I killed my father
thing today, and I can’t deny that I’m incredibly relieved.

Of course we choose the wrong direction and drive several miles east before we’re certain we should have gone west. But something about having a partner makes the whole situation funny instead of stressful and we both laugh as I pull over to the side of the road and make a U-turn.

“Okay,” I say a few minutes later when we pass through the main drag for a second time. “We turned around at 137, so it’ll be about nine miles this way, right?”

The next ten minutes pass in near silence. Even though it seems like this would be a great time to chat, neither of us feel the need to. Maybe we’re both mentally preparing for what’s about to come. It’s not an awkward silence. It feels natural
, and as we draw closer I’m grateful for a lack of mindless chatter that would only put my teeth on edge.

“
There’s 145,” Sophie says, as the little green sign comes into view.

“Okay, it should be along here somewhere then. If we get all the way to 146, we’ve gone too far.” I glance in the rear-view mirror and see that no one’s behind me so I slow down.
A lot. Within seconds I recognize the trees, planted in too-straight a line to be natural. The aspen windbreak. “That’s it,” I say, pointing.

“I don’t see anything,” Sophie whispers.

“Just wait.” The car bumps onto a graveled driveway and, within a few feet of turning off the highway, the trees open up to reveal the house from my vision. With the afternoon light shining off the rock façade it looks even more beautiful than I remembered. The gables have hand-carved lattice trim along them and the tall, rounded front doors have a shiny silver knocker among the glinting cut-class panes. The snow is a blanket of white across the front yard, but I can see the tiny green blades of tulips in the flowerbeds just starting to poke up.

“Wow
,” Sophie says, peering up at the beautiful home. “Is that it? Seriously? This is where two people are going to be murdered in their beds?” She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “Just goes to show—you never know.”

I slow the car and then pull to a complete stop, not sure where to go or what to do.

“Dude, don’t stop,” Sophie says. “Keep moving. It looks really suspicious to just park in front of some stranger’s house.” She points farther up the gravel road. “There are probably more homes this way, so just keep driving until we can’t see this house anymore.”

“Hey,” I say a few seconds later, and point off to the side of the road. “That looks like a place
meant for people to park.” There’s a broad expanse of snow in a large semi-circle that looks shallow and flat. At any rate, it’s good
enough
.

“Perfect. Pull over there.” As I maneuver the car into the parking area—that’s got to be what it is—Sophie starts to dig around in her backpack. “Okay,” she says, sitting up again with a bundle of papers in her hand. “How’s this?”

She shows me a flyer all decorated in different colors of markers with a bunch of lines that look like sign up spots. Half a dozen of them are already filled out with names and numbers listed in two colors of pen and what looks like different handwritings.

“What
is
that?”