“Uh-oh.” Poppy sounded gleeful. “I guess we’ll have to let you know.”
The houses and buildings abated and eventually we were surrounded by unending woods. I used the time for some deep breathing. Every mile we were getting closer and closer. Every minute that passed meant one fewer minute before seeing Roza—which was overwhelmingly exciting—and Wren—incredibly horrifying. It was so strange to balance the two, and they both revved up my system, causing a fluttering in my chest.
“The cell service is cutting out,” Poppy announced. “Is that normal?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” He glanced back at us. “Real spotty up here.”
The undulating line of woods opened up briefly to showcase several long gray buildings. A figure stood at the mailbox by the road—a woman whose strands of loose gray hair flew out from beneath a furry hunter’s cap. I nudged Poppy and she looked over. The woman raised a hand, her plain face solemn but kind.
Poppy waved cheerfully back. “Who’s that?”
“That’s a nun, believe it or not,” Joe said. “That nunnery’s been there for two hundred years.”
“I love it!” Poppy watched out the back window. “How many live there?”
“There are only about ten of them now, I think. Ten nuns in that big place. But they live here all year round. Have a few cows and chickens. Make some real tasty jams that they sell out by the road sometimes.”
“Aww, that’s cute.” Poppy returned to her phone.
“They’re pretty cut off from the world, aren’t they?” I asked.
“They have interns in the summer.” Joe’s dark eyes alighted on mine in the rearview mirror. “College kids who help out with the gardens. But in the winter they’re alone, far as I know.” He cleared his throat. “They’re actually the closest people to Blackbriar.”
“How far are we?” A new flush of excitement and fear filled my chest.
“Not far. About fifteen miles.”
“Whoa.” Poppy glanced at me. “So we’re going to be super isolated.”
“Pretty much,” Joe said. “Especially if there’s big storms. Last winter the people who live out here got snowed in twice.”
“So when you say ‘snowed in,’ what does that mean, exactly?” Poppy asked.
“Well, it didn’t used to be this bad. Maybe a few snowfalls here and there. But last year and the year before, there were some big storms. It took a few days for the snowplows to come all the way out. Until then, they were stuck.”
“Yikes.” Poppy bit her lip. “What if the power goes out?”
“Most places have backup generators. Don’t worry. I’m sure the house has a couple.”
We moved on to happier topics, and ten minutes later, we slowed to turn onto a bumpy gravel path. We’re here. Every cell in my body crackled with new energy.
“Is this it?” I tried to sound calm.
“Sure is,” Joe responded.
Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
“Oh my god.” Poppy’s hand shot out and found mine. Hers was bony and cold, a skeleton’s grip. We wound through a long, curving path with some potholes that made us fly up in our seats. Poppy giggled nervously.
“You’d think a millionaire would fix her driveway,” Joe muttered. As if in answer, the gravel turned into cement, and we smoothly transitioned out of the trees to an open space.
Of course I’d seen pictures, but in real life it was even more impressive than I’d expected. The Victorian fortress towered over us, magnificent and proud. The doorway was flanked by two turrets, and snow-cloaked ivy climbed up the gray stone walls. There were so many windows, all milky white with the pale setting sun. It unsettled me, like looking at eyes rolled up into a head.
“Wow,” Poppy breathed.
“Beautiful, huh?” Joe sounded proud, as if taking ownership in the sight.
My unease faded, and now I felt only joy. This was it. This was Roza Vallo’s mansion. This was real. This was happening. I quivered with anticipation as we pulled into the circular drive and stopped at the front steps.
“Well, girls, this is our stop.” Joe opened his door and the cold swept into the warm space.
Poppy was still staring at the house.
“Ready?” I asked.
She turned and there was a peculiar look—uncertainty? apprehension?—on her face.
But then she smiled. “Yeah! Let’s do it.”
Joe had already taken both our suitcases from the trunk, and now he rubbed his gloved hands, as if eager to go.
“Oh, wait, can I—should we give you a—” I plunged my hand into my purse.
“No need, it’s all taken care of.” It was strange seeing Joe head-on after the forty-five minutes in the car. He was similarly taking stock of me, his expression serious. “You two be careful, okay?” He reached out and I shook his hand.
“Thank you, Joe! You’re the best!” Poppy cried, wheeling her suitcase to the front steps. I followed, glancing back to see Joe already pulling around the drive.
“Okay, girl.” Poppy grinned, her hand hovering over the circular doorbell. “Ready?”
For a second I couldn’t breathe, but I nodded and Poppy pushed. A deep thrum came from inside the house, like a purr or a growl. My fingers tightened on my suitcase’s handle as the door slowly creaked open.
Chapter 6
A woman poked her head out, her expression impassive, as if faintly annoyed we’d appeared on her doorstep. She was maybe in her late forties, with pale skin, delicate lines ringing melancholy sea-gray eyes, and bleached hair pulled tightly into a bun.
“Uh, hi,” Poppy said after the woman remained silent. “Is this… we’re here for the retreat.” She glanced at me. “I mean, obviously.”
“Okay.” The woman squinted and pulled open the door. “Come in.” She had an accent, something Slavic. Now she motioned impatiently for us to pull our suitcases inside. She wore a cherry-red velour tracksuit that hugged her curves. Poppy widened her eyes at me—WTF?—and I shrugged, hiding a smile. The woman reminded me of an imperious countess I’d been seated next to at an immersive dinner theater in college.
The second we let go of our bags, our host grasped them and took off. Her glutes swayed and the pink soles of her gym shoes flashed. Poppy hesitated and then rushed after her. I hurried after them both, my wet boots squeaking on the marble floor.
We zoomed through the entryway into a large front hall that rose at least fifty feet above us. An enormous marble staircase swept down from a second-floor landing. Large paintings filled the walls—to the left, abstract shapes, to the right, looming figures. A chandelier hung suspended over the staircase, casting light with hundreds of electric candles.
The space was grand, majestic, and a stream of giddiness filled my veins. I was here. I was in Blackbriar. I wanted to go back and tell my younger self, reading Devil’s Tongue in Barnes & Noble: Keep going. Despite all the bullshit, magical things are coming to you.
The woman veered off to the right, past a marble table topped with a vase of orange flowers. We followed her down a long hall lined with plush Moroccan rugs and marble statues, lit by stained glass wall sconces. Paintings dotted the velvety green walls. My eyes were trained on one that appeared to show a dead cow lying in a field when I slammed into Poppy.