Long Lost, стр. 5
The boy gave Fiona a look that lasted two seconds too long before jogging down the staircase.
Fiona rocked backward on her feet. The boy wasn’t being friendly either. He was just telling her something he thought she should know. And not knowing it already meant that she definitely didn’t belong here.
She turned back to the portrait. Fastened to the bottom of its frame was a little gold plaque reading OUR STORIES ARE WHAT BIND US TOGETHER.—M.C. Fiona glanced into the painting’s eyes once more. Then she looked to either side, where the landing split into two parallel hallways overlooking the reading room, and scurried away to the right.
The hall led her past a row of rooms labeled POETRY and PLAYS and ROMANCE. And then, on the very last door: MYSTERY.
Fiona darted inside. She found herself in a wood-paneled room more than twice the size of her own bedroom. The floor was covered by antique Turkish rugs, and the ceiling was crossed by heavy beams and hung with antique glass lamps. It was the perfect spot to dive into a mystery novel. Especially because Fiona had it all to herself.
She trailed through the bookshelves, letting her fingertips bump along the books’ spines. Most of them were covered with crinkly clear plastic. But suddenly Fiona’s fingers hit something soft—something that felt like satin, or very cold skin.
Fiona halted. The book she’d touched was bound in dark green leather. There were no words on its spine, not even a little alphabetizing label. Fiona drew it out. The book looked old, like something you’d find in an antique shop, or buried in a trunk in an attic. On its cover, the words The Lost One were embossed above a sketch of a dark forest. Hidden in the forest’s twisted branches were other shapes: hunched figures, things with wings, things with eyes.
Fiona plunked down on the floor between the shelves, her back braced against their solid wood, and opened the book.
Once there were two sisters who did everything together, it began. But only one of them disappeared.
A delightful little shiver ran down Fiona’s arms. She held the book closer and read on.
Chapter Three
Once there were two sisters who did everything together.
But only one of them disappeared.
It was early summer in their small New England town. Lilacs scented the June breeze, and dragonflies dove around the river’s edge where the sisters often went to play. The water wasn’t their only territory. Together, Hazel and Pearl went everywhere. There wasn’t a grassy or leafy spot for miles around that the sisters hadn’t explored. There was no fence they wouldn’t jump, no fruit they wouldn’t steal, no wild animal they wouldn’t touch, no cave they wouldn’t crawl inside.
Together, the girls were fearless.
Theirs was the wealthiest family in town, as everyone knew. Their money could get them out of any scrape, and business took their parents away on long journeys, often for weeks at a time. In the summer, with no school to contain them, the sisters had as much freedom as they could snatch from their housekeeper’s stern hands.
Their stuffier neighbors shook their heads. They tutted to each other that those girls would come to a bad end.
None of them knew how right they were.
A gust of wind shook the tree outside the mystery room windows, sending tiny fluttering shadows across the open page. Fiona wriggled sideways into a beam of sun.
She tried to picture herself doing forbidden things with Arden, climbing over other people’s fences, sneaking into hidden caves. Even in her imagination, Arden wouldn’t go along. She’d be too afraid of injuring her skating ankles.
Fiona returned to the book.
One day, deep in the woods on the far side of the river, Hazel descended from the top of a tall pine. She and Pearl had discovered this ferny, emerald-green grove and christened it the Enchanted Forest. They had spent the spring decking its trees with ribbons and silver bells that Hazel had stolen from their mother’s dressing room, and Pearl, who liked to write and illustrate little stories, had filled a notebook with tales set within its bounds.
Pixie, their shaggy terrier, hopped joyously around Hazel’s legs as she leaped to the ground. He disliked it when Hazel went anywhere that he couldn’t go, and up tall trees was at the top of this list.
“There, there, Pixie.” Hazel rubbed his ear. “Good boy.”
She had begun picking bits of sticky pine bark from her skirt when, from above, there came a terrified shriek.
Hazel’s heart leaped to her throat. The shriek was Pearl’s.
“Pearl!” she shouted. There was no reply.
For just an instant, Hazel’s thoughts flew to the Searcher.
The Searcher was a dark being that skulked through these woods, awaiting the moment when it might catch another wanderer alone. According to the tales that wound through the town, any such unlucky wanderer was never seen again.
But Hazel knew that these were merely stories. And she was too smart for stories.
Besides, the shriek had come from above.
Hazel squinted up into the feathery green boughs. “Pearl!” she shouted again.
This time, there came an answering shout.
“Up here!” Pearl’s voice was high and brittle. “I’m stuck! And I’m slipping!”
Hazel followed the voice to the base of a nearby pine, Pixie bounding along behind her. Through the branches, she caught a flash of lace-trimmed skirt and a glimpse of Pearl’s small, worried face.
Hazel placed her hands on her hips. “How can you be both stuck and slipping?”
“Just HELP me!” A branch overhead shivered furiously.
With a sigh, Hazel pulled herself onto the lowest bough. Pine needles rippled around her, pointing like a million accusing fingers. At thirteen, Hazel sometimes felt like a grown-up, as though she should be responsible for both herself and eleven-year-old Pearl. But more often, she felt sure that she would never grow up at all. She climbed to the next bough, and the next. Pixie whined resentfully below.
“Hurry!” Pearl’s voice urged.
Hazel climbed the rough rungs of the pine until at last,