None but that damning voice.
“What did you do, you screwup?” Mr. Nethers railed, even as his face began to loosen, drooping, stretching like taffy.
The figure took one stilted step toward Varen, and the movement sent several flesh-colored globs to slap the floor and those polished black shoes.
The thing that had been Mr. Nethers snapped its melting fingers once, then again before pointing to the falling drips.
“Wherts thrs merss?” it blubbered.
The rumble thundered louder now, building into a deafening roar.
“Yer judst lik yer fadther,” the figure bellowed.
Varen covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. He opened his mouth in a noiseless scream.
The windows shattered.
Glass flew inward—then halted to float in midair.
Other objects in the room began to rise and hover with the glinting constellation of shards. Isobel’s hamsa necklace rose too, the charm lifting to float in front of her.
The blending of worlds. Not again. Not now.
Isobel snatched the amulet. Clutching it tight, she rammed one shoulder against the slatted door. When it didn’t give, she tried again. One final attempt sent the door flying back with a crack.
She spilled out of the closet and landed hard on the floor. Sudden stillness boomed, almost as deafening as the rumble.
As she pushed herself onto hands and knees, Isobel saw white chalk writing beneath her. She read the words that had been scrawled over every inch of the wooden boards—the walls and ceiling, too.
In backward letters, the phrase YOU’RE DEAD FREAK repeated itself a thousand times.
Though the attic retained its downward slant, the room had again become the cramped and cluttered space in which she’d discovered Scrimshaw under the sheet, the windup doll in the corner. The same place she’d endured the deathwatches . . .
“Varen?” she said, her whisper loud as a scream in the uneasy quiet.
No answer.
Isobel climbed to her feet. She didn’t see him anywhere.
Managing the sloping terrain with bent knees, she groped past the tables and draped chairs that, despite the floor’s incline, hadn’t budged.
She stopped when something crunched underfoot.
Amid the sooty shards of the oil lamp Scrimshaw had smashed lay the white wire birdcage, its little door open, skeleton keys strewn about like scattered bones.
Nearby, one of the keys speared the undone heart-shaped padlock, its decorative handle turning on its own, around and around, like the key affixed to the doll’s spine.
The doll . . .
Isobel whipped her head in the direction of the window. Next to the fallen dressing screen, the antique chair sat in the same spot as before, though its occupant—the life-size figurine bearing Madeline’s likeness—had vanished.
Through the open window, black cliffs cut a jagged line through the red horizon.
Isobel spun to face the fireplace. She scanned the room but saw no sign of the empty suit—nor any other trace of Varen’s father. Only the towers of boxes, the dust-covered bric-a-brac, and, sitting in the corner where she’d found the reassembled Nocs, his head bowed, hands still plastered over his ears—Varen.
Quickly Isobel sidled between the violet armchair and the desk.
Half sidestepping, half sliding, she maneuvered down the slope, then dropped to her knees beside him.