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Once the sunlight goes to bed, that's when darkness wakes the dead.
When a series of grisly deaths devastate 19th-century New England, sixteen-year-old farm girl Faith must outsmart the Undead to ke...
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December charges in like an army, bringing with it more snow and a drift against our farmhouse reaching well above my head. Winter doesn't slow us down. Honor and I still begin each day helping Papa with the farm animals, preparing breakfast, and dressing for school.
Our one-room schoolhouse sits at the far edge of town. It's a big square with a walnut desk in one corner and a pot-bellied stove in another, the constant crackle of flames rising from the vent. A wedge of blackboard fills the wall in between them. In the center of the room, fifteen students occupy the benches, ranging in age from eight to seventeen.
Only a couple I consider true friends: Eliza Webster, a freckle-faced girl my age whom I've known since before I can remember, and Thomas Morningstar, a barrel-chested seventeen-year-old who looks more like a man than a boy. His transformation happened over summer as he helped his father haul in nets of halibut and cod, the daylight's golden rays baking his skin. He's a handful of mischief and sunshine, and I've always liked him in a way I've never had to think about. But there are times, now, when I catch myself lingering over his sinewy build and blond hair, the tips still white from all that time working in the harbor, and something unfamiliar spirals in my stomach.
"Oh, Miss Alexander..." An amused voice pulls me out of my head. Our teacher, Lillian Perkins, stares at me staring at Thomas. "How do you expect to learn anything when you spend your time daydreaming?" She closes her geography book and plops it on the desk, her lips twisting into a mischievous half-grin.
Heat swamps my cheeks as chuckles erupt around the room. I fold my arms over my chest, and force myself to look her in the eye. "I'm sorry, ma'am. It won't happen again."
"Except we all know it will," Victor Lloyd sing-songs loud enough for everyone to hear.
Miss Perkins' sinks onto the edge of her desk and crosses her ankles, the hem of her dress swallowing her boots. "And what about you, Mr. Lloyd? How many times have I asked you to stop whispering in class?" Her head tilts as she waits for a response that doesn't come. "Mind your manners, or you'll find yourself in the corner with the dunce cap again."
She says that last part like she's upset, though I don't believe she is. The cone-shaped punishment is a threat she throws at Victor nearly every day, but has only followed through with on one occasion: last year, when he loosened all the screws in her chair. As she crouched to sit, the seat crashed to the floor, and her along with it.
Victor scowls as more laughter explodes from the students.
"That's enough!" The teacher claps her hands and stands. "We'll miss supper if you all need to be disciplined—we're running late enough as it is. Now, I want each of you to pick up any trash you see lying around and dispose of it properly. Eliza," she nods at my friend, "please draw tomorrow's water from the well."
"Yes, ma'am." When Eliza pushes away from the desk, her auburn waves swish above her shoulders as she fetches the tin bucket.
"Victor, see to it that the erasers are clapped out." Miss Perkins returns her attention to the class. "I'd like to start our lessons right away in the morning, there will be no time to dilly-dally. First up, we'll work on penmanship. Beautiful handwriting is the mark of an educated person, you know." Her eyes find Victor's once more. "And watch your posture, young man. You're going to end up a hunchback."
