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  “Whatever,” Marcus said, pushing down a sense of irritation that Poppy was probably right again. He pinched his nostrils tightly and then followed her into the foul wind.

  “OUCH, OUCH, OUCH!” Dash stiffened as he tried to stand at the bottom of the spiral staircase, leaning on Azumi’s shoulder.

  “It hurts that bad?”

  Dash glared at her. “I’m not making it up!”

  “You’ve just got to try harder,” said Azumi, as if it were possible to simply ignore the pain that was shooting up his left leg.

  His irritation made him take another step. “I guess I’ll just hop around Larkspur from now on. This’ll be fun.” Dash groaned, loud and long, as if that would relieve the ache in his twisted ankle.

  “Come on,” said Azumi. “Let’s find a better place to clean you up.”

  Dash glanced back toward the staircase. “Can you check under there before we go?”

  Azumi’s face paled. “Why?”

  “Might as well search all corners. Right?”

  She looked at him skeptically, then propped him against the doorjamb and stepped back toward the spiral steps. “Are you sure you didn’t see something—”

  “No!”

  “You don’t have to bite my head off, Dash.”

  At the top of the stairwell, the banging sound started again—Mrs. Fox at the dormitory door.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shifting his weight uncomfortably. “Ever since I found out Dylan was … Let’s just say my brain feels like my worst enemy.”

  Azumi stared at him for a moment. She walked into the darkness underneath the steps. Dash flinched, imagining a pair of hands reaching out from the shadows and closing around Azumi’s throat.

  “Dust bunnies,” Azumi said, emerging from the gloom.

  “Right,” said Dash, still feeling tension in his rib cage. “That’s good. Thank you.”

  They walked around a corner and slowly continued down another hall. Azumi was the one calling out to Dylan now.

  This isn’t real, Dash thought. This is all a dream. Dylan is still alive. I must be asleep somewhere, in some other version of the world.

  Limping, Dash gritted his teeth to hold his hurt inside.

  There’s nothing like hurt to help you understand that you’re wide awake.

  “Dylan!” Dash shouted.

  “Look, a bench!” Azumi pointed through an open doorway into a hall filled with amber light spilling in through glass walls. The bench was an intricate iron love seat, surrounded by lush plants that grew tall from the ground around it. A greenhouse. “C’mon. You can rest there.”

  They entered the glass hall. Dash groaned as he sat, and Azumi stepped away. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I’ll keep looking around. If I can find the others, I’ll bring everyone back here.”

  “No way.” Dash shook his head and tried to stand, only to sway from the pain.

  “It’ll be faster if I go by myself.” Azumi leaned down so that their eyes were at the same level. “Don’t worry. No one is leaving this house without you. I promise.” Then quickly, before Dash could reach out for her, she turned and went for the door.

  “Hold up!” he said, but she swung it shut. Click! “At least keep the door open!” Smiling through the window, Azumi gave a little salute and then ran off. “Azumi!” But she hadn’t heard him.

  Dash struggled to stand, then limped to the door. The handle wouldn’t budge. He wiped his sweat-slicked palm on his shorts and tried again, but the door was stuck, or locked.

  “No,” he whispered.

  He turned back slowly to take in his surroundings again. Through the glass overhead, whispery cirrus clouds brushed against the highest point of the blue sky. The sun had dipped below the tree line. His ankle throbbed and his skinned forearms stung as if with a bad rug burn. He was alone again. Trapped.

  Dash pushed aside a few large leaves and then brought his face to the window. The grass out in the meadow glistened like wind-tickled waves. Escape seemed so close.

  Could he trust that Azumi would make it back to let him out of here?

  A white shape flickered across the meadow, tumbling end over end, as the wind picked it up and carried it straight toward him.

  Slap!

  Dash flinched as the paper smacked flat against the glass right in front of him. It was a sheet of newspaper. The headline near the top caught his attention, and he tilted his head to read: Young Actor Still Missing. And just below that was a photograph of him and Dylan standing together in front of the old studio lot. His heart pounded as he skimmed the article. Escaped from an asylum … Twin killed … A national manhunt … But the final bit made him feel like a ball of ice had lodged in his stomach. The suspect should be treated with caution … Dash Wright may be dangerous …

  Another gust of wind snatched the paper up and away.

  Dash fell back against the iron bench. He fought for breath as his throat constricted. No, he thought, it’s a trick. Like something Dylan would have done. Dash forced himself to laugh and then called out, “You can’t fool me anymore!” He wasn’t even sure who he was talking to. Panic squeezed sweat from his pores.

  Lowering himself, careful to avoid pressure on his ankle, he dug his fingers underneath the closest stone he saw and tugged it up, leaving a dark gash in the dirt. Leaning against the glass wall for support, he stood and swung the stone as hard as he could.

  WHAP!

  The stone bounced off the glass and fell to his feet.

  Dashhh …

  Was someone calling to him? He could have sworn a voice had whispered out to him, but now the room was eerily quiet.

  He reached for the stone again and threw it with all his strength at the door. Bam! It landed askew beside the bench.

  Dashhh!

  The voice was harsher this time, more desperate.

  “Dylan?” he whispered. He looked at the towering plants that tunneled into the distance. Were the trees taller now? Were the shadows darker? The inside of the greenhouse was actually beginning to look like a real forest. Dash swallowed. Was his brain breaking again? He pressed his arms against his rib cage, trying to make himself smaller, invisible.

  There was a creaking sound behind him, like the pull of the ropes that held his parents’ boat to the docks in Marina del Rey. He turned and grabbed the back of the iron bench. “Is someone there?”

  Kreee. Kreee. Kreee.

  “Dylan? Are you playing with me?” He thought of the shadow under the spiral staircase. “It’s okay if you are. I deserve it. I just want to … to know.”

  One of the large leaves rustled.

  “This isn’t funny!” Dash skirted the side of the bench and stepped across the stone path. But as he pushed the foliage aside, he realized his mistake.

  A corpse swayed in a small thicket of trees—a space that couldn’t have been there a moment prior. The bright pink noose around its neck was looped on a branch overhead. The body was a man of middle age, the front of his collared shirt smeared with gore. The dark hair on his grayish-green scalp was sparse. And the face … The face … Where there should have been a face was a mess of stringy black pulp. What was left of his skin had stretched, as if his jaw had long ago detached and pulled his features down with it. His eye sockets were wide pools of darkness, his nose was just an elongated oval hole, and his mouth was frozen in a silent shriek.

  The noose swung slightly again. Kree-eee-eee.

  Dash stumbled backward, a scream trapped in his throat. This isn’t real, he told himself, as if he could blink and the corpse would simply disappear.

  Instead, the rotting body shivered and jerked.

  To Dash’s horror, it raised an arm and clawed at the nylon rope at its neck. The cord pulled tight and then snapped, and the corpse dropped to the dirt. It craned its head toward Dash, as if its empty eyes could see him. Mmmmmm. A rattling came from inside its shredded throat.

  A hand fell on Dash’s shoulder from behind him.

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nbsp; He yelped and swiveled out from under it, turning to find a familiar face only a few inches away. “Azumi!”

  “Dash!” she hissed. “Be quiet!” Fear had turned her dark eyes huge. She was covered in dirt and grime, as if she’d just crawled through a ditch to get back to him. She grabbed his wrist and pulled him away.

  But bony fingers clamped onto the back of Dash’s neck, nails pressing sharply into his skin. He couldn’t help himself—his shriek rattled his eardrums.

  BY THE TIME Poppy and Marcus reached the wide door at the end of the hallway, the wind was raging, pushing hard against them, growing hot and even more pungent. It was rot and bile and waste and death, and it was making their eyes water and their stomachs churn. Neither of them could tell where it was coming from.

  “In here?” Marcus choked out, reaching for the knob. Squinting, Poppy nodded. The door swung inward, and as soon as they stepped over the threshold, there wasn’t even a memory of a breeze. Poppy inhaled a deep, full breath of clean air, and Marcus did the same.

  They were inside a large rotunda. The curving stone wall reminded her of the castle turrets she’d read about in The Chronicles of Prydain and The Sword in the Stone. Outside four tall windows, Poppy could see the meadows and woods surrounding Larkspur. A thin staircase rose up against a far wall to a balcony.

  “I don’t see an exit here,” said Marcus, his voice almost accusing. “And where was that wind coming from?”

  But several tables around the room had caught Poppy’s attention. Pieces of paper were strewn across one of them. Poppy could see drawings of large black dogs, lips pulled back to show sharp teeth. There was another illustration of what looked like an old-fashioned fair, with a carousel and a Ferris wheel and streamers and red balloons floating through the sky. At the very edge of the table was a crayon drawing of six figures—five that looked like children dressed in the familiar gray orphanage uniforms, and to their right, a taller figure in a black suit. Each of them had a name over their heads: Gage, Sybil, Eliza, James, Orion. The tallest figure was labeled Cyrus, and 1935 was written in the corner.

  Poppy was overcome with a dizzying sense of nausea and disgust. Were the kids on this page more orphans that Cyrus had tormented, just like the Specials? Just like her? Feeling as though she’d discovered an important clue, she grabbed the drawing and held it to her chest, careful to not crumple it.

  The next table over was messier—torn strips of paper were lying in piles and a metal bucket sitting on one end was crusted with white goo. “Papier-mâché,” Poppy heard herself whisper.

  In the center of the room were five desks covered in papers and a layer of dust. A plastic cat mask stared at them from one of the desks, and Poppy shuddered. A wooden chalkboard stood at the front of the room, dusty text written on it with bright white chalk.

  The words Hope and Fear were written across the slate, each followed by a quotation.

  “What’s this all about?” Marcus asked, coming over to stand beside Poppy.

  “Looks like a lesson. I guess this is a classroom?”

  The door clicked shut behind them. They both turned, but no one was there. Poppy raced across the space and grabbed the knob.

  “Don’t open it!” said Marcus.

  But she cracked the door a few inches and peered out into the hallway, bracing herself. No awful stench. No mysterious wind. “Just making sure it wasn’t locked. It must’ve swung shut on its own.”

  “That wasn’t smart,” Marcus said, his voice clipped. “How many other freaky things need to happen here before you stop and think first?”

  “I did think about it first,” Poppy shot back. “It just doesn’t take me as long as you.”

  An uncomfortable quiet settled on them. Marcus’s watery gaze made him look like he wanted to cry … or maybe scream at her. Poppy felt herself about to apologize when she saw that the blackboard behind him was now clear. She gasped.

  Marcus leapt toward her, as if she could protect him. “What? What is it? Is someone there?”

  Poppy shook her head and pointed. “Oh!” he said, noticing the board. “Well, I didn’t touch it. I swear.” The chalk had been smeared hastily. The only words still visible were Hope and Fear.

  “I didn’t say you did.” Poppy approached the desks again, tentatively now. Marcus stayed close. “Is someone here?” she asked. “Connie? Is that you?” Then she tried, “Matilda?”

  Marcus looked at her incredulously. “That’s the name of one of the Specials, right? The girl in the cat mask? The one who spoke to us back in the music room—”

  Poppy shushed him. A sound was coming from the other side of the board, a slow scratching. “Listen,” she whispered. “Someone is here.”

  Poppy stepped toward the chalkboard; the scratching stopped. She grasped the wood base and pulled it toward her. The chalkboard swiveled and then flipped upside down.

  There was a new message written for them. Poppy read it aloud, her skin prickling. “Not the Specials.” Looking up and around, as if someone were listening, she tried to keep her voice from shaking. “Are you going to hurt us?”

  The sound came from behind the board again.

  Scratch, scratch, scratch.

  When it ended, Poppy cautiously reached out and flipped the chalkboard over.

  Another message had appeared.

  We are the first orphans.

  “The first orphans?” said Marcus. “You mean … ” He turned wide eyes at Poppy. “There were others?”

  Poppy glanced at the page she’d taken from the art table. “Gage, Sybil, Eliza, James, and Orion,” she read quietly. Marcus leaned toward her, examining the drawing from over her shoulder. “Are you … good?” Poppy asked.

  “Like they’d tell us if they weren’t!” Marcus whispered.

  The scratching started up again. Then, to their surprise, the board turned on its own, revealing more words.

  Not safe here.

  It wasn’t the answer Poppy had wanted, but it was better than reading NO. “Who’s not safe here?” she called out.

  “We’re trying to find an exit,” said Marcus. “Can you help?”

  The board flipped. Instead of words, a chalk drawing appeared. A brooding young man. Crosshatching continued to add depth so that, for a moment, the man almost seemed to loom out of the flat surface. His face was long, with a sharp chin and a prominent brow. His cheeks were sunken and his lips were pressed together tightly so that they formed a severe line just below his long nose. A wild bush of hair sprung out from his head, as if he’d forgotten to brush it.

  “Who’s that?” Marcus asked. “He looks like a creep.”

  The man’s eyes flicked toward them, as if daring Marcus to repeat himself. Poppy grabbed Marcus’s wrist.

  Chalk lines slowly appeared, scrawled across the man’s forehead. Cyrus Caldwell.

  More writing: Your cousin, Poppy.

  “No,” Poppy whispered, her voice hoarse. “I don’t want … ”

  Marcus groaned and yanked himself away from her. Poppy noticed little pink indentations on his skin, and she realized she’d dug her fingernails into his arm.

  The light in the room shifted, turning paler and bright, as if it were early morning instead of late afternoon. The drawing of the man on the chalkboard seemed to glide forward, his skin and hair and clothes filling with color, and then he was there, in the room with them, standing before the row of desks that were filled with five children. Were these the first orphans?

  “Poppy, what’s going on?” Marcus whimpered.

  Poppy forced herself to look at the young man’s face. “I think it’s just a vision, like how your uncle Shane appeared in the music room to help you. The orphans need us to see something.”

  “But what if the orphans aren’t doing this?” asked Marcus. “What if it’s someone much worse?”

  THE VISION CAME to life all around them, and brief scenes moved past Poppy and Marcus like images in a flip-book.

  Gage could play the piano as
well as any adult. Sybil was obsessed with books and reading. Eliza had a tendency to sleepwalk, but when she woke, she was able to recall vivid dreams about her missing sister, which Cyrus cataloged faithfully in his notebooks. James had never developed the ability to speak, but he shone with kindness and devotion to the others. In contrast, Orion was never quiet, full of energy and contagious enthusiasm that won him admirers during group trips into the nearby town of Greencliffe.

  “The orphans,” Poppy whispered, dread crawling up her legs. “They’re just like what we’ve learned about the Specials. Just like our group. It’s like Cyrus has been seeking out the same types of kids over and over.”

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Marcus responded. “And I’m really cold.”

  Poppy realized that she too was freezing. The sensation had crept up on her so slowly that she hadn’t noticed it. She struggled to pull air into her lungs, but she could get only a worryingly small gulp.

  “I have a surprise for you,” Cyrus proclaimed, standing at the front of the classroom. “A boat ride down the river to West Point!” His smile was odd, a little too tight. “How does that sound?”

  Poppy’s legs and hands were numb and prickly, and her hair clung to her skull as if it were wet. Marcus’s face was pale.

  They watched as the group piled onto the deck of the white, two-story vessel that Cyrus had chartered for them.

  “Isn’t this wonderful?” asked Cyrus, as the captain pulled the boat away from the dock. It was as if he couldn’t see the children huddled together on the bench near the bow, cowering as the boat moved farther from shore. “So relaxing,” he insisted, his voice like molasses as he pointed out landmarks along their way.

  As they reached the middle of the wide river, there was a boom and a shudder as the engine burst, blowing a hole in the bottom of the boat. The orphans cried out and Poppy shrieked silently along with them.