Little Spark

14 - Cornwells and Creepers

The hunch was a good one: the hawk statue at the foot of the porch steps is a giant, three-dimensional version of the bird on the medal. What's more, the inscriptions rhyme: Safety gained through sacrifice; Protection bought at highest price. The statue has to be the second clue. Which means the dream is linked to the Little Spark. Which is a bit creepy—like the quest really is beckoning me—but also kind of cool?

After a week of getting nowhere watching and listening to disjointed tapes from the Dead Bulbs box and reading through random newspaper clippings from the file, I decide it's time to tell Candis about the quest. Despite the fact that she's been really distant since our trip to the house, two people—one of them a Clairvo, and the other a person she holds in high esteem—have told me to seek her out for help. There has to be something to the advice.

When I get to her house on Saturday afternoon, a tall, thin man in a white lab coat answers the door. The suspicious look he gives me over the glasses precariously perched at the tip of his nose makes me wonder if I'm at the right house.

"Umm, hi," I say nervously. "Is Candis home?"

"She is...." He squints and looks me over, but doesn't invite me in.

I clasp my hands behind my back just before they spark. "I'm Bliss Myer. She should be expec—"

"Myer, you say?" His expression shifts from wariness to surprise.

"Yes, sir."

"How curious," he mumbles, more thinking aloud than actually speaking to me. I stand there frozen in place as he dissects my facial features with his Candis-like green eyes.

"Geez, dad, she's not a rodent cadaver." Candis bounds down the staircase and grabs my hand to pull me to my rescue. As we head up to the second floor, I call down over my shoulder, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Cornwell."

"McClain is fine," he mutters, still gaping at me.

"You'll have to excuse my mad scientist father, B. He spends more time in the presence of dissevered rats than living, breathing humans."

"What's a 'McClain'?"

"McClain is his first name. He's quite averse to the 'Mr. Cornwell' designation." She shakes her head. "Poor guy. He's been an utter wreck since my mom and brother died a few years ago. Terribly paranoid someone will find out about me. I'm down at the end of the hall here."

I'm shell-shocked by her lack of emotion considering the bomb she just dropped. "Wait, your mom and brother died?"

"I'll get to that," she says with a wave of her hand. "But disclaimer: grief is not one of my strong suits. Judge not my seeming emotionally detachment."

We reach the last room on the right. "Do not disturb: Ingenuity in process" is stenciled on the closed door. "Welcome to my humble abode," she chirps, pushing it wide.

The room is exactly what I expected a Candis Cornwell room to be: spotless and meticulously organized. The bedclothes are bright, clean white, the walls are covered in topographical maps of the continents and posters of famous quotes, and the top row of the wall-to-wall bookshelf holds nothing but dictionaries, many of them in other languages. The rest of the books—many of which appear to be college level math and science textbooks—are in alphabetical order.

"This room is so you, Can—"

"Wait, before you say anything else, I owe you an apology," she says. "I know I've been displaying some avoidant tendencies since you took me to your dream house—the literal one, I mean. Back at Caldwell a couple weeks ago, when you mentioned your mom, it primed a number of painful memories that I prefer to keep suppressed, and since hearing about your dream and going to that house, I haven't been able to tamp them back down."