The Witching Hour

Chapter Nine

Poppy had been thinking lately about Percy.

He was so young. Poppy had lost her grandmother a few years before, but she had been here a while and enjoyed life plenty.

She thought of Percy, and she thought of his funeral. How she'd come down with a cold the following day because of Julia's dress. How the little girls cried. How James had cried. And again, the little girls. His sisters. Who, if he hadn't left so soon, would have someday become Poppy's classmates.

She remembered now that Percy had told her about them. Katie and Ellie, he said. They were his favorite people. He took care of them, because their parents weren't around enough. Katie was older, a redhead like her brother, with bright eyes and a wide smile. Ellie was only six, dark-haired and witty, and preferred stories of dragons to those of fairies and mermaids.

Percy, like her and her siblings, was one of the children who spent half the nights at school and half at home. It was because of Katie and Ellie. He was like their guardian, more a caretaker than their real parents. And he had to be there with them, almost every night.

Poppy had almost forgotten, but she'd met Katie and Ellie once before the funeral. It was a day when Percy couldn't find someone to take care of them, so he brought them to school with him. Miss Hallow let them all skip class that day. It was glorious outside–the sun was out for the first time in months, and the first flowers were blooming outside the building.

Poppy, Tom, Sage, and Percy and his sisters went outside and played ball. As far as she could remember, the rest of the boys stayed inside.

She'd only seen Percy's sisters twice, and those two days were in such contrast with each other, like night and day. A day when the sun shone and flowers bloomed, warm enough to play outside for hours–and a day when everything was heavy and the snow was still falling around the huddle of children in dark clothing, grieving a little boy.

Poppy only knew Percy for a year. James and Julia had been friends with him since they were nine. Five or six years now. But it didn't change that she'd cared for him, cared about him, and that it hurt when he passed.

He was thirteen. Percy was thirteen. Younger than her.

It wasn't fair. If anyone deserved to shed the box of a Quiet Witch, it was Percy. Destined for greatness, fated to fall short of his destiny.

A boy with so much love. Unfortunately, his body could no longer contain him.

Poppy knocked on the door. She didn't quite know why she'd come here, but Julia knew where he'd lived, and so here she was.

No one answered for several minutes. She knocked again.

Nothing. From behind her, a woman called, "You're too late!"

Poppy turned around. "What do you mean?"

The woman was old, and she held herself up on a young man's arm.

"They left," the woman said. "The Howard family. That's who you're looking for, isn't it? They packed up and left yesterday. I watched them go."

They were gone. Percy's family was gone.

"All of them?" Poppy asked. It was a stupid question.

"Yes, all of them," the woman said. "Both of the parents and the two little girls. I heard their son died."

"Percy," said Poppy. It was ridiculous, getting annoyed that a stranger didn't know his name.

"Right, Percy," the woman said. "Anyhow, the wife told me they were headed over to North America. Can you imagine?"

"That's pretty far away," Poppy said, humoring the woman now. "I can't imagine."

North America. No way she could see them then. She didn't even know why she'd come. Maybe just to get a glimpse of the house. Or maybe she wanted to see his sisters, to hug them and say, "I'm Percy's friend, remember me?"

Poppy turned around and headed back in the direction of her home. No doubt Austin would be waiting, ready to tell her she was late and they were worried, even though Austin never worried about her.

She passed the garbage cans on the side of Percy's house and was surprised to see they were full. She walked over and opened the lid. There were hundreds of disgusting things, but at the top, only slightly stained by the juice of a rotten fruit, was a notebook. It said on the cover: Percy H.

She pocketed it for later, when she needed to hear his voice again. But the disturbing thing about this notebook–it confirmed one of her fears.

The writing in the wardrobe of the room at Hallow's, and the writing on the wall behind the door. Percy. Poppy. Now the notebook she had just held in her hands, with a looping P and cursive letters.

It was confirmed. It wasn't just Percy writing his and Poppy's names in the room. Someone else had written both. Whether or not it was another boy who shared the room, Poppy didn't know–but one thing she did know was that Percy's handwriting was not all capital letters, and it didn't slant backwards. Not like the names in the bedroom.

Percy hadn't written it. Which meant someone else had.