“Well, be quick about it!”
Thia called a hasty response and took the attic steps two at a time, squinting as the light faded. Another round of thunder cracked as she emerged into the dusty interior of the top floor. She flicked the light switch, but the room stayed dark. The power must have gone already. She sighed, thinking of her chargeless phone.
There was just enough light from the tiny square window on the far wall to illuminate the small space. It had been years since she’d been up to the attic—Grandma Winnie, too, given the undisturbed layer of dust that coated the floor. The gabled roof didn’t allow for much storage space; there was a line of shelves too tall for the ceiling’s slope where it met the wall, so the piece sat a few feet out, shrinking the room further as it formed a barricade of storage from floor to ceiling.
She crossed to the window and peered out into the storm. The rain had begun in earnest; it spattered against the glass, blurring the streetlamp beyond into a smudge of orange.
Lightning forked the sky, and the world turned temporarily silver. It was beautiful, even if it was terrifying. She counted until thunder rolled again. “One one thousand, two one thousand….”
BOOM.
The storm was less than a mile away.Yikes.Grandma Winnie was probably shaking in her snakeskin cowboy boots that they weren’t in the cellar yet.
Abandoning the window, Thia made for the shelving unit. She was fairly sure the flashlights were in a box on the second shelf, but her grammy did not have her organizational abilities, so nothing was labelled. She tugged the first box toward her and flipped open the lid: sleeping bags. She put it back and reached for the second. Possibly snow equipment?
The third was too heavy to move. She had a vague memory of storing the extra flashlights with the camping stove, so this was likely her target. She removed the box of snow equipment again to give herself more space and then wedged herself between the shelves to wrap her arm around the back of the heavy box and pull it forward. It moved about an inch, which might have been a good start, except that the force of Thia’s pull sent her elbow careening into a fourth box, which was much lighter. It tumbled backward off the shelf into the alcove where the angled roof was too short for the height of the storage unit.
Swearing, she shoved her head between the shelves to survey the damage. It was much darker back there, and she could just make out the shadow of a flashlight’s silvery handle in the open mouth of the box, which had tipped on its side, out of reach. She’d have to move the shelf to retrieve it.
The rain was getting louder. Grandma Winnie would probably file a missing person’s report if she didn’t get downstairs in a manner of minutes.
Extricating herself, she wrapped both arms around the heaviest box and yanked it as hard as she could. It came free, thudding to the floor with a sharp bang that sent dust flying up into her face. She coughed, covering her nose as it settled, and peeked in the top.
Photographs. That’s what was so goddamn heavy. Rolling her eyes at her grandma, she abandoned it for the far end of the shelf, where she just managed to lift one end high enough to tug open a gap that she could slip through into the space behind.
Wiping the hair out of her face with her forearm, she picked up the overturned box. Aside from the flashlights, it was mostly empty, save for a few snack bars and yet another blanket. She grabbed the two flashlights and tossed the box back onto the shelf, then pressed the buttons on each, brandishing them like guns.
Light flared. “Ha,” she muttered, satisfied.
Her attention caught on the wooden beams of the floor. Now illuminated, she could see what had been invisible before: in the center of the warm panels, maybe a foot or so off the wall, a perfect ring of blackened wood marred the otherwise immaculate flooring.
She crouched, holding both flashlights in one hand, and ran a forefinger over the charred indent. It was smoother than the pale wood surrounding it and shimmered as the light caught it. Like it had been scorched. It wasn’t unusual for an old house to have had a brush or two with fire, but the exactitude of the curve was too precise to have been accidental.
What the hell?
Her grandmother’s voice sounded from somewhere downstairs, too far away to make out the words.
Straightening, Thia was about to leave when the swing of her arm cast the glow of the flashlight over a shape in the far corner. She paused, raising the light properly, and saw a small chest, only slightly larger than a jewelry box. She might have left it, since it clearly wouldn’t hold anything needed for the storm, except there were three iron letters wrought to the front of the lid:M.A.W.
Her mother’s initials, before she was married.Melina Amelia Whittaker.
Thia crossed over the strange burnt circle and touched the chest with tentative fingers. Her grandma had all but turned their home into a shrine for her deceased daughter, so why leave this tucked away in the dust?
She slid open the latch and raised the flashlight. The chest was empty except for two things: a mirror and a folded piece of paper.
Thia grabbed the mirror first, nearly dropping it at its unexpected weight. Barely the size of her palm, the glass was pristine, but its casing seemed ancient, an ornate bronze tangle of petals. She flipped it over, tracing the metal curves to a large emerald embedded in the center.
It was the same color as her mother’s eyes, that specific blend of green she knew better than her own hazel. She inspected herself in the glass, noting the bags under her own eyes, the frizz of escaped curls that cast shadows on the ceiling. She raised a hand and smoothed it down, but it was no use. Her ruddy brown ringlets had a mind of their own and would not be tamed without a comb and oil.
Thunder crashed, reminding her of the task at hand. She tucked the mirror into the pocket of her hoodie and grabbed the paper next. It was thick and luxurious, and it took a minute to unfold. When she raised the flashlight, her heart stopped.
It was a certificate for her mother’s graduate degree. But the logo said NYU, not KUMC. And it wasn’t in medicine.
It was in occult studies.
That couldn’t be right. Did her mom have two graduate degrees? How would she have managed that? And why wouldn’t Grandma Winnie have told her?
“THIA!” her grammy’s voice bellowed from the stairs.
