cave, and burn her alive. . .
Wink was having an effect on me.
I never used to think like this.
And I wasnât sure if I liked it or not.
I went over to Poppy.
I kissed the soft, translucent skin on the inside of her wrists.
My lips followed the blue veins as they ran toward her elbows.
Poppy sucked in her breath . . . held it . . .
And then burst out of my arms. She ran toward the door, and stood there, shivering, shoulders shaking and her chin trembling.
Her body slid down the doorframe until she was crouching, her bare knees popping out of her black skirt, her hands on her cheeks.
A knock on the door.
We both jerked.
She looked up at me.
âGo to the music room and hide,â I whispered. âAt least until Iâm done tying her up. All right?â
Poppy nodded and left, though she didnât look happy about it.
It had been her idea to do this, to come here at night, to a place of ghosts and unforgivables. And so I wasnât going to feel bad for her.
I
wasnât.
I waited ten seconds and then went down the stairs and opened the front door. Wink, pale face shining in the dark. She gave me a look, and I gave her a look. She nodded. I nodded back.
âWink,â I said, loudly, so Poppy could hear.
I led her into the music room, my arm around her little waist, my lips by her ear, playing the part.
Past the sagging wallpaper, past the green sofa.
Up to the grand piano.
I leaned Wink against it, and the Rachmaninoff pages fluttered. The piano made a deep, guttural sound, like pedals shifting and wires stretching. But it didnât budge.
I kissed her. I kissed her to keep up the ruse. I kissed her so Poppy would see. I wanted her to see. I slid my hands up Winkâs back to the base of her neck. She leaned her head into my palms.
I took my time.
âHere we go,â I whispered in Winkâs ear. And felt her head nod against my cheek.
âWink, I want you to close your eyes,â I said, out loud. âAnd keep them closed. I have a present for you.â
âOkay,â she said, softly, softly.
I pulled my arms away, and Wink stayed where she was, head back, tips of her red hair touching the top of the piano.
I glanced toward the corner by the bay window, quick. I couldnât see Poppy, not even a faint outline. But I knew she was there.
I thought about the scurrying sounds Iâd heard earlier, and hoped the rats were crawling over her feet and licking her ankles.
And then I felt bad for thinking that.
I kneeled down and got the rope out of the backpack.
I looped it around Winkâs wrists, quick, and snapped it tight.
Her eyes flew open.
âWhat are you doing, Midnight?â And her voice was perfect. Small and apprehensive and starting to get scared. âWhat is this? What are you doing?â
âIâm tying you to the grand piano,â I answered, nice and easy. âIâm going to leave you here by yourself, all night long.â I looped the other end of the rope around the piano leg and pulled. Winkâs arms flew out and she fell to her knees.
She started to cry, quiet, then louder.
âWhy, Midnight, why? Why?
Why?
â
The Bells never cried. That was the thing about them. If Poppy had ever paid any attention, she would have guessed. She would have known.
But, instead, she laughed. She laughed, and then came running out of the corner. She laughed and pointed and practically danced with glee. She was supposed to stay hidden, but she just couldnât help herself.
And Iâd counted on this.
âFeral Bell, tied to a piano, spending the night with the ghosts. Serves you right. Do you think the spirits will like your unicorn underwear? Do you? I canât wait to tell the Yellows about this. They are going to
die
.â Laugh, laugh, laugh.
I gave it a second. Winkâs performance was flawless. I wanted to keep watching. I couldnât help but keep watching.
Wink shrunk back,
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