Souls by the Sea Read online

CHAPTER THREE

  Who has seen the wind?

  Neither I nor you:

  But when the leaves hang trembling,

  The wind is passing through.

  Who has seen the wind?

  Neither you nor I:

  But when the trees bow down their heads,

  The wind is passing by.

  "Got your phone?" Maeve asked, as the girls unbuckled their seat belts.

  "Yep," Burlie whispered. It and a few cosmetics were in a small black velvet pouch she had tied to her belt.

  "Candy bucket?"

  "Got it!" Lydia held up a red plastic cauldron and shook it. It was already rattling with goodness from Miss Fabienne.

  "Money? Say 'Thank you, Aunt Wylie,'" Maeve paused, then a bitter pfft! slipped out.

  "Thank you, Aunt Wylie, pffft!"

  Maeve glared at Burlie. "I offered to redecorate her house but she won't let me. You know there's something wrong with someone who won't accept any kind of payback, don't you?"

  Burlie looked down at Lydia, "Are you sure you don't want to stay home and fight?"

  "I'm sure," Lydia reached across her and opened the car door. They fought each other to get out.

  Maeve's face cracked into a smile and Burlie was a little surprised. "Oh, fine. Desert me." She checked the rearview mirror. "Have a good time," she said. "Call me if you need anything."

  "We will."

  Lydia the Tattooed Lady, her skin covered in battleships, eagles, mermaids, and MUTHA on both biceps, hit the parking lot outside the great main gates of Bathatch Castle. It was warm enough for her multicolored sunsuit and she straightened her bright red cape. Looming over her was an evil Dark Priestess of a, mostly, Egyptian extraction. Burlie's wild hair blew in the wind and her skin was pale. The last of the sunset glinted off the silvery snake jewelry twining up her arms and the black glitter on her eyes and lips. The jeweled blue scarab she had superglued into her naval was the only color.

  Putting on the costume and the makeup had given her a second wind. She would make it through.

  Maeve tooted the horn of Wylie's red Mini at them and drove away as the girls waved. Then it was down to business.

  Seagulls wheeled over their heads and Burlie could smell the sea foam and cotton candy, even at this distance. "Flare the cape. Always flare the cape." Burlie demonstrated, gliding across the parking lot with her head high and her arms out, her black cloak billowing behind her. "Drama!"

  "Flare, flare, flare." Lydia followed her example, her red cape catching the breeze as she strode along, an American Legend with bright blue mascara and sparkling red lips. Because Burlie wasn't going to have all the makeup fun.

  They stalked up to the grand iron gates as the sun disappeared entirely. Burlie paid the entrance fee to a clown in yellow ruffles. He gave Burlie a guide and complimented her on the scarab. Thanks, clown.

  The girls went in as if they owned the place.

  "We have a long walk up the tree lane to the castle," Burlie started, then stopped in sheer wonder. Warm lights shone in her eyes and reflected from her jewelry.

  "Oooh, what are those?" Lydia asked, pointing up.

  "Those are Japanese lanterns," Burlie answered. Luminaries hung from the over-arching branches of the avenue of great trees that led up to the castle. "They're made out of paper." They were orange and red and cream colored with bright patterns of geometric designs or hand painted blossoms. They created a swaying, glowing canopy above their head and cast a very flattering amber light on the people below. "They're beautiful."

  Burlie went for her phone. It was cheap but it had a good camera. She began to click. "Run out front, Lydia, it's picture time."

  "Already?"

  "Watch your step. The mules have been through here," someone called out and Burlie stopped dead. She was inches away from sticky disaster.

  "Thank you," she whisper-shouted to whoever and took an exaggerated detour around the pile.

  "Ewww," Lydia said. "And you're wearing sandals, too." She sounded almost disappointed. Then, "What mules?" she asked.

  Burlie consulted her guide. "'Fancy Mule Hayrides starting on the hour, every hour, at the castle,'" She checked the time on her phone. "Aw, we missed them by five minutes."

  "Fancy mules?"

  Burlie read on. "Half purebred donkey from George Washington's original stock and half Arabian racing horse. Well, that is fancy." Lydia looked genuinely grieved. Burlie was disappointed, too. "Don't worry, we'll catch them."

  "And we'll take more pictures," Lydia vowed.

  "We'll smuggle one home in the candy bucket."

  Lydia laughed at the mental image of a mule's long ears sticking out of her bucket as they continued along the avenue. They passed excited families, roving teens, and love-struck couples taking advantage of the romantic glow. With the heat unexpectedly broken it was a beautiful evening. Everyone was smiling.

  Everyone except one woman with a Blessed Be necklace and an axe to grind. She was pacing back and forth in everyone's way with a sign that read HATE-OWEEN on one side and SHAME ON YOU on the other.

  "Aw, great," Burlie muttered. "Don't look, don't say anything."

  "You girls!" the woman shouted. "Are you having fun tonight?"

  "Yes, we are!" Lydia shouted back, of course. Burlie groaned.

  "Really?" the woman said, her eyes popping. "It's fun to mock and marginalize the Dissimilar? How do you think the witches feel in their hearts when they see people running around in warts and wigs? How do you think the dogmen feel when Lon Chaney Jr. goes murdering all across the silver screen?" She shook her sign accusingly at Burlie. "How do you think the Smiths feel when teenage girls chase them down the street?"

  "That part's quite sweet, actually," said a voice above their heads. A short man with exquisite skin, curly hair, and a wide grin was looking down on them. The branch he was sitting on waved and the lanterns swayed, casting erratic lights, as he suddenly dropped thirty feet and landed lightly on his feet. He was wearing a thick, red hoodie with chevron stripes on the sleeves. "When they stop the pursuit is when I worry," he bowed to Burlie. She smiled back. "You can't caaatch me." He jogged a few steps ahead of her hopefully.

  "Get him," Burlie ordered Lydia and the two shot off, kicking up the gravel.

  "Stop that, it's not funny!" the woman shouted. "Who do you think you are?"

  He shouted back, "Oh, help! Help, the horror, beautiful young girls are chasing me!"

  Lydia cackled with joy and the pursuit kept up until all three were well away from Ms. Blessed Better than You. "Never more the Burning Times!" was her last goodbye.

  Burlie was grateful for the rescue but she soon slowed and stopped, gasping. The man circled around, Lydia still hot on his heels. He shot past Burlie with a genuine "Help?" She grabbed her little sister who kicked her legs and laughed again. The Smith cautiously turned back again. "How are you, Burlington?" he asked.

  "Better, Sarge," she answered, putting Lydia down. "A lot better."

  He looked at her closely. "Well, true enough." He looked down at the little girl staring up at him.

  Burlie said, "This is Lydia, my little sister."

  "Darling!" He took Lydia's hand and kissed it.

  "Hiiii," Lydia said and giggled.

  "Excuse me, ladies, I'm a sergeant without a squad." He made a bullhorn with his hands. His posh tones changed, became something you'd hear on the subway. "Trainees! Keep up, can'tcha?"

  There was a moment's wait and then, "Coming, sir," was heard from the trees and back along the path.

  "Hup, hup, hup!"

  Out of the night came a platoon from the Southeastern Smith Sodality, an institution located deep in the woods beyond Bathatch castle. The Sodality was law enforcement for the Dissimilar community of North Carolina and also served those rare men and women who laid them down to die - and unexpectedly got up again, much changed and thirsty. The new Smiths needed to be trained. They needed to be watched.

  They needed to
hurry up. "Coming!"

  They appeared, all wearing the red hoodies that marked them as raw trainees as well as, in honor of the holiday, Dracula capes with high collars. They reached their leader. "You can be faster," Sarge barked. "I think a little climb up the West Tower will do you all good. Go." They went, Sarge clapping his hands at them to hurry them along. Lydia clapped her hands, too. "Climb up, then down, headfirst, like a lizard. Because it's tradition, Ralph, stop moaning. Let's...Ernestine? You can't possibly be tired."

  A pretty trainee looking no older than Burlie was stopped dead on the path, her cape wrapped around her head. She struggled out of it. "For pity's sake, boy," she groaned. "It's not ladylike to run. Or climb."

  "You will run," Sarge commanded. "And you will climb. You will even fly. This is your new reality, dear." He pointed firmly down the road. "You can do it," he encouraged. With a embarrassed wince Ernestine took off again, her elbows tucked stiffly to her sides.

  "Hup! Hup! Hup!"

  The Sarge led the way and the squad passed into the night, capes snapping. Lydia ran after them. "Flare! Flare! Flare!"

  "Miss?"

  Burlie startled and turned around. A trainee with white-blond hair and blue eyes, skin as perfect as white shell, had stayed behind and was staring down at her. He squinted. And then he looked shiftily around. For one tense moment Burlie thought he was going to try something. Trainees sometimes got a little carried away.

  He didn't.

  "There's something wrong with you," he whispered.

  Burlie's alarm fizzled. She reached for something witty and cutting to say but there was nothing. She settled for a cold, "I know."

  He didn't get the hint. "You're not well. I can actually read you. Lethargy. Body aches. This is amazing. I've become a perfect diagnostic tool." His hand picked at the area on his chest where a shirt pocket full of pens should be. He looked down at himself, temporarily helpless, but then he focused again. He frowned at her. "Young lady, I've had ugly hangovers that felt very similar. Are you on drugs?"

  "Meds. And I already have a doctor."

  "Eh," He waved that away. He was in the zone now. "Tell me about your nutrition."

  Burlie was going to ask him about his, kind of a sensitive subject for new Smiths, but she didn't get a chance.

  "Dr. Schulz? You've fallen behind again." It was a man with a British accent. "And you're bothering my fiance."

  It was Fisk.

  He was dressed as some sort of Steampunk character with brass goggles on his face, a long duster, and gauntlets. He looked like an insane engine driver. And fiance? Burlie didn't back away but the way she felt made Dr. Schulz boggle. "Good lord," he said, pointing at her. "Mr. Iping. What a sensation."

  "Tattling on me?" Burlie asked him. She turned to go and nearly fell over Lydia.

  "What's going on?" Lydia asked, staring up at the men in a bone breaking way.

  "Just rounding up strays," Fisk smiled at them and took Dr. Schulz by the arm. "Git along, little dogie, to the West tower."

  "I'm not finished," he protested.

  "Overwork killed you in the first place, Leo. I'll see you there," Fisk said and gave him a light shove. The tall man disappeared into thin air. Lydia gasped. Burlie didn't react. Fisk smugly blew on his fingers. "And I'll see the two of you," he said and was gone, too.

  Burlie and Lydia stared at the empty spot where he'd stood.

  "Oh, good god," Burlie finally said. "Ignore him."

  In the center of a huge green circle of lush lawns and geometric gardens (the water bill during the drought must have been fantastic) rose Bathatch. Its warm red brick and strong turrets weren't turned into a sort of Castle Doom as one might expect this time of year. There was a zombie corn maze in one direction, a haunted house in the other, and a collection of small carnival rides and craft booths leading up to the doors but no schlock horror actually touched the walls.

  Except for the Smith trainees trying hard not to fall off the West tower. They could climb up, even Miss Ernestine had gone up, but not one could successfully climb down headfirst without tipping over.

  Burlie listened to the Sarge laughing hysterically and smiled. She could also hear the rushing waves of the sea, the call of shorebirds, and taste the salt of the Atlantic ocean. The view was amazing. Stars over the ocean. "Don't you wish you lived here?"

  "Oooh, yeah."

  "Yeah." Burlie flipped through her guide. "Hey, we can vacation here. And they have a Tudor banquet hall. And a restaurant and tea room. Art gallery. Museum. Games room. Music room. Library. A ballroom with a display of holiday dioramas. Oh, god." She sighed with want. "Doesn't mention a dungeon but I bet they have one."

  "A bounce house!" Lydia suddenly shrieked and took off running toward an inflatable shaped like a circus tent.

  "Wait! Give me your bucket so you don't lose anything," Burlie rasped and hoped Lydia could hear her over the cheerful racket.

  Lydia did and came back. "Don't eat my brownie from Miss Fabienne. I'm saving it."

  "You're welcome, brat," Burlie said, snatching the cauldron. "Go." Lydia went, a little abashed but nothing lasting. She crawled into the bouncy and went nuts, her cape whipping as she jumped.

  Hack!

  Burlie cleared her throat and wondered how long Lydia was going to take. Then she kicked herself. Having to drag her big lump of a sister along all night wasn't going to give Lydia any good memories. And she needed some.

  Hack! Damn it.

  "Hurly Burly, is that you?" shouted a man. A dork, dork, dork, actually. Burlie slowly turned around.

  "Hey, Mr. Piggsbee," she whispered to Rockwell High's choirmaster.

  "Wally. Call me Wally. You always forget! And you still haven't friended me on Facebook. And..."

  A lifetime ago she would have been more tolerant of any choirmaster, even this one who forced his class to perform nothing but forty-year old folk standards, but Wally Piggsbee III (or IV) who she hated from his ratty red hair on down to his man-sandals, sunk himself forever when he made sure everyone knew about, and appreciated the depth of, Burlie's deep and awful and painfully soul-crushing tragic tragedy.

  Every day was the same, Piggsbee buzzing like an anxious bee around and around her. Feeling okay today? Huh? And she could hear him. The new girl has a ruined voice. Nodules on the vocal cords. Can barely talk. Wow, what a loss! And on meds. Actual medication. There she is. Let's all stare at her as she goes by. And be nice. Be very nice and very gentle with her. She's on meds, you know, poor, poor, poor little thing. Hey, is everyone noticing how supportive and wonderful and good I'm being to her? Hey, Burlie, high five! High five! High five, Burlie! High five! Fist bump! Burlie! High five! High five!

  Burlie took a strengthening breath of sea-air and turned around. Good thing What-a-Wally didn't know the real story behind the 'nodules.' Or the true depth of her loss. Or that she'd tried to jump from the top of St. Barnabas's bell tower last March. He was offensive. The truth would make him unbearable.

  "You're not eating sugar?" he asked, gawking at the candy bucket.

  "Yes, I am. All the sugar there is."

  He gave a huff but rushed on. "High five, I've got some great news for you." He held up a hand.

  Burlie slapped his palm without enthusiasm. Leaving him hanging would only stretch out whatever hell was coming down the pike.

  He sprinted ahead, his smile broadening. "I spoke to Ms. Grigg and there won't be any problems with you transferring from art to choir. It's not too late in the year. Isn't that great?"

  "Transfer?" Burlie asked, staring at him. "What are you talking about?"

  "You're going to sing in the choir," he crowed. "Isn't that great?" he asked again. "I had the idea when I was watching Mr. Holland's Opus."

  Burlie contemplated murder for three beats of her heart. "I...can't...sing. I can barely talk," she finally whispered as if she were patiently explaining something to an infant. No, no, that's hot, baby, drop it.

  "You can sing," he s
aid smugly. "You will sing."

  "Just how?"

  "With your hands." Wally waved his own around and a passing scarecrow had to duck. "You're going to learn sign language. You're going to sign the songs and dance while we sing. Isn't that great? I know a choreographer and I have a friend that works on Channel Five News. When they hear about all that you've been through they'll do a feature! You'll be known everywhere."

  Burlie wondered what would hurt her less. Meteor strike? Spontaneous combustion? "No," she finally whispered. "No. That won't happen."

  "What? What? Sorry, I can't hear you," he said, grinning at his little joke.

  Burlie didn't think it was very funny. "Here's some sign language." She'd never in her life given the bird to anyone but she did now, right to his face, with so much force she almost tangled her middle finger in his weedy beard.

  "Burlie!" His eyes popped.

  "Woo," observed a couple of bystanders. "It's on, now."

  "I'm not transferring," Burlie said, snapping her hand down again. "I'm not going on the news or anywhere. I'm sticking with art. I'm good at art."

  His expression changed to a mawkish blend of affection and patience. "Honey, this is more important than drawing. This is about inspiring people."

  Burlie shook her head. "Don't 'honey' me. It'll never happen."

  "But you really are an inspiration. Don't let your disability say that you aren't." Wally reached out with both hands to do the understanding double shoulder-squeeze of tolerance. "Don't let it win." Burlie knocked his hands away and candy fell out of her bucket to patter onto the ground. Some passing kids looked down on it with interest. Everyone else was openly staring at the show. "Listen," Wally said and his eyes were glistening. "Everything will be all right."

  "I'm going to write a cease and desist letter," Burlie wheezed and wished, with everything she had, that she could scream at him. "If I have to sue you to make you leave people alone, I will." She turned her back and walked away. That vicious ghoul. A notorious ghoul, too. Before she came along he was concentrating all of his love and light on a dwarf kid who actually had no problem with being four feet tall, thanks very much. Wait'll everyone hears about this.

  Wally came bouncing right behind her. "Now let's calm down and talk, Burlie. Burlie? Are you seriously running away? You can't be frightened." Everyone was watching them go past. He was going to stalk her all over the carnival, wasn't he? "Burlie, don't be childish. Let's discuss this like adults, okay?"

  He was pulling out all the stops tonight. Burlie was disgusted. That there were kids who actually fell for his garbage made it downright disturbing. The dwarf kid didn't and neither would she.

  Piggsbee said, "What would your parents think if they saw you right now?"

  "They'd say call the cops, that man's harrassing my daughter."

  He gave such a wounded theatrical gasp that Burlie was embarrassed for him. What a putz.

  A wild drumbeat distracted them both. A line of monolithic Tiki gods, figures of papier mache as huge as tree trunks, was dancing past. Burlie admired the work that went into the costumes for a split second before she took advantage. She jumped to put them between her and Wally and ran between the booths. She quickly found the darkest shadow available next to the medical station and crouched in it, pulling her black cloak tight around her. "You can't see me, I'm invisible," she whispered to the nurses peering over the wall at her.

  "Oh, okay."

  The Tiki gods danced away and Wally craned his skinny neck, searching for her. "Burlie?!"

  Burlie froze. And Wally Piggsbee walked right past her, craning his neck to see through and around the people. "Hey! People are counting on you!"

  What an idiot.

  "I won't give up on you, Hurlie Burlie," he called out from further on.

  Burlie slowly crawled away.

  "I don't blame you at all, honey," one of the nurses murmured as the girl slithered past.

  That tone of 'honey' Burlie didn't mind. "Wow," she simply said and all were in agreement.

  How degrading, Burlie thought as she crept along in the dark until she was sure she'd lost him. He'd give up on her, all right. When she gave copies of her letter to her parents, the principal, the school board, and maybe even a lawyer he'd give up on her pretty damn fast. Then he could play the misunderstood martyr. Win-win for Wally.

  The choir. That vicious creep.

  Burlie carefully wandered back to the bouncy and looked in. Lydia had a cute little boy by the hand and was skipping up and down with him. Awww, adorable. Sadly enough, though, the romance had to end. "C'mon," Burlie rasped. "You've bounced enough."

  "Nooo!"

  "We'll come back after you've seen everything." Lydia was still reluctant. Burlie slowly put her hand inside the candy bucket. As soon as her finger touched Miss Fabienne's treat Lydia hugged her boyfriend goodbye and came out. "Bye," Burlie said, blowing a kiss at the boy as Lydia rescued her treasure. He grinned and bounced away. "Let's go inside and take the tour. Quick," Burlie said, looking back over her shoulder.

  "I want to go on the Ferris wheel."

  "Castle. Now. Move, move, move," Burlie prodded Lydia and they shot towards the wide stone steps leading up to the massive front doors.

  "What's going on?" Lydia whispered. Burlie flailed her arms in explanation. "Oh." Lydia rolled her eyes.

  "Yeah. Hopefully he won't hang around long. We'll come out soon and ride every ride," Burlie promised. "Then we'll catch a mule to the gate and call Mama to take us home," she said, hoping Lydia would forget the bounce house for the evening. The spike in energy her anger had given her was gone. She yawned and covered her mouth. Forget trick or treating, Lydia, she wanted to beg. And staying up late to watch a big lizard destroy Tokyo. Let's just pull up a haybale and collapse right here. Please?

  No such luck. "We're gonna need another bucket," Lydia said, jumping up the red brick steps with unstoppable energy.

  Fine. "Flare the cape," Burlie said. She reached the top step and struck a pose. "We have arrived."

  "We're here," Lydia agreed and swirled her red cape, the lights of the castle reflecting off the scene on her skin of Washington crossing the Delaware, la la laaa.

  The great doors swung wide and they went in.

  Bathatch Castle's grand entrance hall was ornate and full of light. Burlie half-expected the place to smell like a dusty, stuffy museum but it didn't. Which was understandable, Bartholomew 'Black Bart' Batt still lived there and it was always full of well-heeled guests even in these hard times. The castle was bright and alive. The sea breeze freshened every corridor and rustled all the enormous Boston ferns in Chinese urns.

  Burlie's accent went from her usual soft Southern to your basic gangster mook. "They got foins in oins," she said. "Classy joint."

  Lydia nodded, her mouth open. She was taken up by the sheer, high vaulted loveliness. "Next year let's be princesses. With tiaras."

  "We'll be queens with crowns," Burlie answered, "Empresses. I shall make it so." Burlie rubbed her hands together with greed like a proper evil priestess.

  They joined a costumed group of Cub Scouts, their den mother firmly telling them all to keep their hands in their pockets or she'd kill them, and soon a guide arrived to organize them all into an orderly unit.

  They were led through the medieval banquet hall, through the museum, past the tea room, and up, up, up the East Tower. The spiral stairs almost killed Burlie but she made a joke of it. All the kids laughed to see her crawling up the last few steps on all fours. Then they crossed the enormous roof with its wall-walk and glass conservatory of exotic plants. Burlie was right, the views from the castle were amazing, even at night. They stopped for another photo session under the palm trees, Burlie clicking away with her phone.

  Then down the West Tower, momentarily free of Smiths, and through marbled halls decorated with oil portraits, ancient statues, and boar heads (more pictures taken of both girls making kissy faces at them) and to the ballroom at the ba
ck of the castle on the main floor where the guide finally cut everyone free.

  Burlie had to sit on a rose silk settee until her will to live returned. The place was beautiful, yes. She loved it. But it was huge. So many, many steps.

  "You okay?" Lydia asked.

  "I'm fine. I'm just slow."

  "I know."

  Burlie smiled.

  A very small voice asked, "Do you want to go home? We can if you want."

  Burlie straightened. "No, absolutely not. We just got here." Lydia grinned with relief. "C'mere and let me fix your lipstick."

  She touched up Lydia's make up and her own. Glitter. Face powder. Hair comb. Then, refreshed, they went into the ballroom to see the dioramas.

  A large guard greeted them with a smile and they smiled back. "Don't touch anything," Burlie warned and Lydia nodded.

  There were gilded mirrors down one wall and windows framed with black and gold velvet curtains down the other. They were open and the carnival lights blazed in. The glass chandeliers and wall sconces took the light, organized it, and scattered rainbow brilliance all over the room. A waltz was playing over hidden speakers. A few people were dancing, carefully but happily, around the displays.

  The girls, like so many others, stopped still under the occulis with its rays of solid North Carolina gold spreading out from it in a glittering spiral. They stared up at the stars twinkling through. "Now that's a skylight," Burlie, Master of Understatement, said. "We need something like that when we get our own house again."

  "And the sparkle lamps, too." Lydia was awed and happy, staring up as she had under the Japanese lanterns. Burlie was glad to see it.

  Circling the walls, and running down the middle of the room, were the dioramas. This year's theme was Hollywood Horror. Some were large, crudely but enthusiastically made by children out of cereal boxes. Others were tiny, set like elaborate jewels in matchboxes. A few were overwhelming, well over six feet.

  "Ooh, look," Lydia said and wandered away.

  One of the scouts forgot himself and pulled a hand out of his pocket to point. "Universal Monsters over here, Jeff! In a real pumpkin. All of them."

  Burlie, a fan, joined the boys and smiled down at the carved pumpkin. All the monsters were there; mad Dr. Frankenstein, the Monster and his Bride, the Creature from the Black Lagoon, the Mummy, Dracula, the Wolfman, everyone, all chasing each other through a tiny swamp. Wait, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, too? They were from Warner Brothers, not Universal. "I am such a geek," Burlie whispered.

  Whoever had made it had used cinnamon for color and that and the fresh pumpkin combined to make a smell that was as good as the burning leaves.

  Autumn. May it last forever.

  "Here's 'The Wizard of Oz' in a shoe box," Lydia squealed and pulled Burlie over to look. The flying monkeys definitely counted as Hollywood Horror.

  They moved on and Burlie gave a broken ooh over someone's homage to 'The Headless Horseman' in an altoid tin. Small as it was, she could see the muscles of the horse straining as it reared. The jack-o-lantern in the Horseman's hand flickered with a tiny orange rice-light.

  She turned and noticed a seascape that didn't fit the Hollywood theme at all. Or maybe it did, if you liked the films of Hayao Miyazaki which Burlie certainly did. A glass Japanese fishing float hung from the ceiling on a hemp cord. It was half-filled with sapphire crystals. Sleek, petite mermaids, spouting whales, and gracefully coiled sea serpents swam through the sparkling gems. Burlie immediately loved it. So blue and calm and lovely.

  Worlds within worlds, Burlie thought. If I could only build a world and live in it, she thought. Even a world no bigger than a soap bubble would be fine. It would be all my own. And nothing bad could get inside. I could sleep.

  "You're lucky there's a guard here," she whispered to the sea serpents.

  "Look at this." Lydia was pointing at a small, odd display tucked into a corner. "It's the town. And they're having a carnival, too."

  Burlie tore herself away to walk over and study Lydia's find. On a short pedestal was a steamer trunk with an open lid. A clear pane of glass fitted neatly over the top to protect the delicate model within. The inside of the lid was painted midnight blue. Jeweled stars and a full, mother-of-pearl moon, were embedded in strings of gold wire to make a night sky Van Gogh would have loved.

  And the town inside! Souls by the Sea. It was scaled-down perfection and charm with no tiny lights or gaudy metallics at all. It didn't need them. Built of all vintage, original materials. Suddenly Burlie felt stupid. No, it wasn't built to look old, the entire thing was old. It had to have been made at least a hundred years ago. The sea, some sort of painted foam, hadn't survived that well. It had dried and curled away from the beach. A few banners, minute triangles of colored paper glued along silk threads, were broken. There was a tiny cobweb in a corner. Some artistic type should fix all that, Burlie thought, her fingers itching.

  Oh, but the whole of it was fantastic. Burlie gazed on the town as it used to be. The mirror that was Linger Lake had clouded but the paint on the little cottages surrounding it was still vivid. Plum Tree, too, was perfection. Not much different there. The carnival, however, was being held in the wide town square, a central park that was long gone. A dead mall with papered over windows and locked doors was there now. What a waste. Burlie didn't even want to think about it. She looked over the tiny railway with its tiny engines. The original was still active, the tourist trains rolling along, puffing steam, and she could hear their mournful whistles in the night. How she loved that sound.

  The little matchstick people were a triumph. Burlie hoped no one went blind putting in all that detail. Little girls with huge, floppy bows on their heads. Little boys in long sleeves and short pants. Women riding bicycles festooned with ribbons. Men in plaid hauling wood to the bonfires. Tiny carved pumpkins. Costumed devils, ghosts, and goblins. Carnival rides and booths decorated with smiling black cats and dancing spiders. A little band playing on a green bandstand. Dozens of couples dancing. The beautiful castle, remote from the fun in those days, overlooking it all.

  They were having a grand time down there on October 31st in the year...Burlie looked at the card next to the trunk.

  She flinched.

  In the year 1918, while the Spanish Flu was killing half of them. There was no name. Who made this? The carnival hadn't happened that year. Burlie's history teacher said that Sheriff Piggsbee had canceled it and all other gatherings. Was someone anticipating the fun or did a survivor make this? Someone who desperately wished the world was otherwise? Someone who wanted to remember the town as it was? Or as it should be.

  Burlie rallied and, as ever, chose to shield Lydia. "Don't you wish you could shrink down and ride on that Ferris wheel?" she whispered. "Or the seahorse on the carousel? What an adventure that would be."

  There was no answer. Lydia stood stock still in front of the little town. "Lydia?" No answer. Burlie tapped her shoulder. "Hey?" No answer.

  Burlie gripped her by the arm, hard, and shook her. "Lydia!"

  No answer. The little girl's eyes were glazed and empty. Burlie felt her heart stop.

  "Yes, it would be a grand place to jump into," said Fisk Iping. "What a marvelous idea."