Molly’s mother had a phrase she would utter from time to time: “Cold hands, warm heart.” It meant that seemingly cruel people could sometimes be kind. Molly was fairly certain that this did not apply to Mistress Windsor, whose hands were not just cold but downright frigid. Master Windsor had clearly been upset to see the ring on his wife’s finger—and why shouldn’t he be? While he was toiling away to provide for his family, she was focused on pretty jewels and petty jabs.
Still, even as Molly thought this, she knew it wasn’t entirely fair. Sometimes she would come upon Constance standing at a window or sitting in the garden, just staring at the icy blue stone, her face torn with longing. But if the ring was valuable, it was clearly not valuable enough—for Molly had also seen her mistress return to the tree several times—no doubt hoping for a necklace and earrings to match. Thus far, however, no other jewels had appeared.
Molly touched the stack of envelopes in her pocket, wondering if a new letter might finally have arrived from Ma and Da. With so many people in the house, it was often difficult to get into the tree’s room. For that reason, she rarely missed an opportunity when it presented itself. Right now, Penny and Alistair were playing in the garden out back. Molly heard voices from the dumbwaiter, which meant that Bertrand and Constance were in the drawing room—arguing, no doubt. She wiped her hands dry and rushed out of the kitchen.
The first trick was getting hold of the key, which was kept in a drawer in Mistress Windsor’s vanity. Molly went to the bedroom, not even bothering to shut the door behind her. She opened the top drawer of the table. Inside lay a jumble of silk scarves along with a black lacquered jewelry box. The ornate box had once held a place of privilege atop Mistress Windsor’s dresser. But apparently, now divested of its jewels, the woman preferred not to look at it. Behind the box, hidden safely beneath the drawer lining, was the key.
Molly grabbed the key, careful not to disturb anything else in the drawer. She was about to slide it back, when her hand brushed against the jewelry box. The box, which had been lying on a scarf, fell to one side with a rattling sound.
Molly paused, looking at the box. She had assumed it was empty, but now she was unsure. Perhaps Mistress Windsor had been getting more jewelry and wanted to keep it secret. Molly reached out and gently lifted the lid. The box contained several rings, all of them identical to the one Constance wore. Molly stared at the rings, each adorned with a pale blue stone.
“You can imagine how it looks,” said a voice behind her, “to find a servant rooting through one’s private things.”
Molly slammed the lid shut and spun around. Mistress Windsor stood in the doorway. The woman’s eyes were red—either from wine or crying or both.
“I’m sorry!” Molly said, dropping the key into her pocket. “I was only … I thought the box might need dusting.” Then, “It was curiosity, nothin’ more.”
The woman raised her eyebrows. “Go on, then.” She took a step closer. “Satisfy your curiosity.”
It felt like a trap, but Molly did as she was told. She lifted the lid of the box and looked at the rings—a half dozen of them—all with identical pale blue stones. “They’re all the same, mum?”
“Very nearly. Each band is a little smaller than the last.” She felt Constance step behind her. “They’re beautiful, no?”
Molly stared at the pale stones twinkling in the shadows. “I suppose, but—” She stopped herself from speaking before she said something she would regret.
“Speak your mind,” Constance said. “I’d prefer it to your glowering.”
Molly sighed. She fixed her eyes on the woman, unable to hold back. “Your family has no money for food or coal or clothes, and here you are hoardin’ up diamonds like King Solomon.”
“Diamonds?” A smile played on the edge of her lips. “Is that what you think those are?” She held out her hand, showing the ring on her finger. “Is that what you think this is?”
Molly set her jaw, her cheeks flushing. How was she supposed to know about kinds of jewels?
“You think me a terrible, vain woman, don’t you?” She examined the stone on her finger. “This diamond is quartz. The band is more nickel than silver. Most women in my position would be mortified at the thought of wearing such a thing in public.”
“But not you?” Molly said.
“But not me.” Constance smiled, her eyes still on the jewel. She sighed or shivered; Molly couldn’t quite tell. “When I met Bertrand—when I met Master Windsor—he had nothing. He was a clerk with no family or title or prospects. Not the sort of match my family approved of.”
Molly folded her arms. “So you grew up rich.”
“I’m not asking for sympathy,” Constance said. “But I should think you might appreciate what it means to lose one’s home.” She gave Molly a meaningful look. “I married Master Windsor against my family’s wishes. When they learned of it, they cast me out, revoked my inheritance, and never spoke to me again. On the day of our ceremony, Master Windsor gave me this ring—it was all he could afford. But for me, it was more than I could have hoped for.” The woman rotated the ring, which was loose on her thin finger. “And to this day, every time I put it on my finger, I can remember him—both of us—the way we used to be.”
The woman loosed a trembling breath. “It’s obvious that you have some idea of this house.” She eyed the walls as if they might collapse in on her. “But please don’t presume to have any idea of our lives.”
Molly stared at the woman. She thought of what she had seen weeks before on the driveway. Master Windsor had taken the ring off his wife’s finger to pawn it for money—money to pay off debts he had incurred. She felt a chilling sense of guilt. “But why do you need so many of ’em?” she said, indicating the box.
Constance took a deep breath and exhaled. Molly almost thought she could see her breath against the light from the hall. “Much as I might wish to hold on to the past—I find it ever slipping away.” She held up her hand, thin fingers outstretched. The ring slipped over her knuckle and fell to the floor with a dead clink.
“It don’t fit no more?” Molly looked from the ring to the woman, who appeared so much frailer than when she had first met her. Like a thing wasting away.
“So it seems.” Constance gave a bitter smile. “I suppose I shall have to get another.” She held out her bony white hand. “I’ll have that key now.”
olly stood in the middle of Penny’s bedroom. “Miss Penny?” she said, her voice rising.
“I won’t drink it!” the girl shouted. “You can’t make me!” The girl was presently on her bed—not in her bed but standing atop it, each foot planted on a pillow, her back pressed against the wall.
Molly sighed. In her hand was a spoon filled with some blackish liquid that smelled bitter like alcohol. It had been supplied by a doctor who had come to check up on the family earlier that week. Molly had learned only that morning, when she saw the bottle untouched, that Penny had been lying about taking it. “Doctor Crouch said you have to drink this every night before bed.” She took a step closer. “It’s just a little spoonful.”
“I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!” Penny leapt to the floor, keeping the bed between herself and the spoon. “Alistair said it’s made from rat’s blood.”
“Rat’s blood?” Molly rolled her eyes. “And how would Alistair know that?”
The girl threw her arms out. “He’s older than me … Older people know all sorts of things!”
Molly nodded, conceding the point. “I’m older than your brother, and I say it’s not rat’s blood. And the doctor—why, he’s older than all of us put together.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, catching a glimpse of herself in the dark window. She tucked a loose strand of hair under her cap. “Now, why don’t you tell me what’s really troublin’ you?”
The girl worked her lips together, making her face very small. “I don’t want us to be sick,” she said, her voice low.
Molly looked at the girl’s face, so pale in the la
mplight. She thought of the portrait downstairs—how many times she had seen it and wondered at how the family was changing. “Miss Penny, just ’cause you don’t want to believe a thing doesn’t mean it’s not true. If you’re sick, this medicine is the way to get better. Besides, I was in the room when the doctor looked at you. He said it was just a touch of fever—”
“He said he didn’t know what kind of fever. That means it could be anything!” She climbed back onto the bed, approaching Molly. “It could be black death or scurvy or cholera or even exploding eyeball disease … Alistair told me about that one.”
Molly nodded gravely. “Well, if you think your eyeballs are gonna explode, please do it outside. I dinna want to clean up your sheets.” She smiled to show she wasn’t serious. Her gaze drifted to the small bookshelf along Penny’s wall, where she noticed a number of new Princess Penny books lining the bottom. She turned back to the girl. “Now, what do you think Princess Penny would do if she was faced with a great, big, horrible spoon o’ medicine? You think she’d run away scared? Or would she take it all down with a hearty laugh and ask for more?”
Penny tugged at the end of her braid. “A hearty laugh,” she said. “But no seconds!”
Molly smiled. “Fair enough.” She slid the spoon into Penny’s mouth and removed it. “How was it?”
“It tastes …” The girl smacked her lips together. Her eyes went wide. “Like raspberry cordial!”
“Imagine that!” Molly stood and walked to the dresser. “Now, this bottle’s meant to last till the doctor comes back—so don’t you go stealin’ sips when I’m not lookin’.”
Penny sat up. “Aren’t you going to have any?”
“Oh, I dinna think the doctor’d like that, miss.” She set the spoon on a tray and replaced the cap on the bottle.
“Why not?” Penny said. “You’re sick, too.”
Molly put her hands on her hips, turning around. “So you’re a doctor now?”
“But you are,” Penny said. “Look there—in the window.”
Molly turned toward the glass, which was black against the night sky. She studied her reflection, and a chill skittered through her. She took an unsteady step backward, one hand at her neck. “Let’s get you tucked in …”
Molly barely remembered leaving Penny’s room. The next thing she knew, she was racing down the staircase, breathing fast.
Molly rushed into her bedroom and shut the door behind her. She wished she had a lock. With shaking hands, she took three candles from her nightstand and lit them. She needed light. She needed to be certain.
Molly slowly walked to her dresser, which had a cracked mirror mounted on its top. She didn’t want to look. But she knew she had to. She raised her eyes and stared at her reflection. “It canna be.”
The girl in the mirror looked like Molly, only different. Her skin was smooth. The freckles that Molly had inherited from her mother had all but faded away. She pinched her cheeks hard to make them blush, but they refused to change. She carefully unfastened her cap, letting her hair fall around her neck—
It was almost black.
She lifted a curl from her cheek, and the strands of hair broke away from her head, falling limp between her fingers like dead weeds. She flung them away, horrified. “No, no, no, no …” She braced herself against the dresser. Her whole body felt weak, like she might pass out.
Molly knew the change couldn’t have happened all at once. When had it started? Lately she had been so caught up with chores and letters from the tree that she could scarcely think of anything else. She thought of Kip and felt her stomach drop. He paid attention to things. He must have noticed the change—he probably saw it the moment it began. But if he had, why hadn’t he said anything?
Molly put on her coat, blew out the candles, and slipped out of her room. She would not be sleeping in her bed that night.
ip lay wide awake on his creaky cot. Wind shivered past the stable walls and through his thin blanket. He had been sleeping out here ever since Molly first showed him the night man’s top hat, but moving away from the house had not helped him sleep any better. His thoughts were continually haunted by the knowledge that his sister was still inside there—fast asleep—while the night man stalked the halls. Kip stared up through the windows at the moonlit heavens. He tried to draw constellations in the sky, connecting stars to each other so that they resembled good things from his life. But just when he could almost see his parents or the farm, the little stars would flicker and fade and appear anew in the shape of the tree.
A scraping in the shadows startled him. “Who’s there!” he said, scrambling for Courage.
The door swung open to reveal Molly. She was still in her clothes and was clutching a lantern. “Scoot over,” she said. “I’m bunking with you tonight.”
Kip slid his crutch back under the cot. He peered at his sister, who looked tired and tense. Had something happened to her? “Thought you said the stables was too drafty.”
“They are drafty.” She flashed a fake smile. “But I thought you could use some company.”
“I got Gal for company.” He nodded toward the horse, who was standing in the stall, ears twitching, asleep. He looked back at Molly, searching her face in the lamplight. “You sure there ain’t some other reason?”
Molly rolled her eyes. “Are you gonna make me beg?”
“Of course not, I just want …” Kip sighed. What did he want? For Molly to be honest with him. To tell him the fears that crowded her heart. To tell him that she, too, was scared of this place. He stared up at his sister, at her dark hair and darker eyes. “Molly, look at yourself …” He shook his head, knowing that this wasn’t the time. “You’re standin’ in horse apples.” He pointed to her feet.
Molly leapt back and hurriedly scraped the wet dung from her heel. Kip rolled to the edge of the cot, making a space for her. “Boots off,” he said. He listened as she removed her boots, put out her lamp, and climbed into bed beside him.
“Thank you,” she whispered, an arm around him.
“It’s not like I was sleepin’ anyway,” Kip said. He closed his eyes, trying to quiet his restless mind. He concentrated on the sounds of life around him. Molly’s breathing rose and fell in his ear. Galileo snorted softly behind him. Water dripped from the edge of the roof into the rain barrel. Crickets sang in the grass. Wind rattled in the trees.
“Molls?”
He heard Molly stir behind him. “What is it?”
Kip stared out the window. “Do you think he’s inside there right now?”
Molly shook her head. “Not yet. When he comes, you can feel it. Like when a song goes off-key.”
Kip rolled over to face her. “That’s why you’re sleepin’ out here, ain’t it? You didn’t want to be in there with him.” He eyed the rank squalor of the stables. “I know it’s why I am.”
Molly nodded and released a long breath. “You were smarter’n me, though. You knew it was bad almost right away.”
“Smart’s got nothin’ to do with it. I was scared.” He swallowed. “I’m still scared.” He looked at her face—a paler, sicker version of the sister he loved. He sat up. “I still think we should leave, Molls. Whatever that man’s doin’ to the folks in that house each night, whatever he’s doin’ to you … It ain’t good.”
She touched her dark hair. “So you did notice?”
Kip nodded. “Hard not to.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
He blinked in the darkness. “I thought you wouldn’t listen. And don’t say it ain’t true, because it is. You looked in a mirror every day for weeks and didn’t see nothin’. If your own eyes canna convince you, what chance do I stand?”
Molly looked like she was about to object but instead sighed. She flopped back down, staring up at the rafters for a long moment. “Sometimes, while I’m sleepin’,” she said at last, “I think I can feel him in my room, standin’ right over me …”
“You canna try an’ stop him?”
She s
hook her head. “It’s like I’m trapped inside my dreams, and there’s no way out.” She clenched her jaw. “And then mornin’ comes and everythin’ is bright, and I feel safe again.” She turned to him, and there were tears in her dark eyes. “I just wish I knew what he was doin’ … and I wish I knew why.”
Kip took a deep breath and placed his hand on hers. “Maybe it’s time we found out.”
olly and Kip spent the next day preparing to spy on the night man—a task that mostly involved steeling their nerves and ignoring their common sense. They still weren’t certain how he entered the house each night, and so they decided to wait for him on the lawn. After all the family had gone to bed, Molly met her brother by the woodpile in front of the stables. She brought scarves and hot broth, which they drank in silence as they watched the dark house. “You comfortable?” she asked as Kip adjusted his weight on the logs.
“I could do with a story,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Nothin’ scary, though.”
Molly shook her head. “That’s a tall order. Mother Goose would be scary on a night like this.” The truth was, Molly hadn’t told a proper story for weeks—not to Kip, not to Penny, not even to herself. She had all but lost the desire. There was only one kind of story that interested her now. She reached into her pocket and removed the most recent letter from their parents. “How about a story from Ma an’ Da instead?”
Kip eyed the letter. “What’s the point? You already read it once.” He swatted the end of his crutch at the tall grass. “Readin’ it again won’t bring ’em here any faster.”
Molly tried to decipher his expression. With each new letter, Kip seemed less and less happy to hear from their parents. She wondered what he would say if he knew where the letters really came from. She put the envelope back into her pocket but kept her hand on it. Just touching the paper made her feel better, made her feel safe.
Molly watched the house. Every window was dark but for her window, which gave off a faint yellow glow. She and Kip had placed a candle on the windowsill. She stared at the steady speck of light, thinking of what it would mean if that flame went out. A part of her didn’t want to know what the night man was doing in the house each night. A part of her wanted to forget the whole plan—to crawl back into her warm bed and wake up none the wiser.