SOPHIA

I headed to the bedroom door, but Tilda grabbed my hand and held it tight. She refused to let go, and refused to move. I looked at her with brows raised.

"We never investigate weird noises," she said. "That’s how we end being chased by ghosts and eaten by monsters."

"At the same time? Seems unlikely."

"Sophia, trust me. Being brave is stupid. Be a coward and live." She dragged me toward the bed. "C’mon. We’ll hide under the covers until morning."

"Why don’t you stay here?" I said, helping her to sit on the end of the bed. "You hide under the covers. And I’ll go find out what happened."

"Nooooo. Separating from your friends just means you’ll be the one to die first!"

"Do you have a fever?" I put my hand against her forehead, but she didn’t seem hotter than usual. "I’ll get you some water."

We heard the sounds of running feet hitting the marble floor. Then someone knocked frantically on my bedroom door. "Mrs. Willowmarch!" That was Hannah’s voice. She sounded frightened. "Mrs. Willowmarch!"

"Well, this is not going to be good," said Tilda.

I hurried to the door and opened it. Tilda followed behind me, peeking over my shoulder.

Hannah stood there wide-eyed, her dress wet, her hair plastered to her head. "Lightning struck a tree outside the house. Sliced the trunk clean in two. It fell through the living room wall. Now everything’s flooding!"

"I told you we should hide under the covers," murmured Tilda.

"A tree destroyed the house?"

"Mostly the living room," said Hannah. "But it’s raining so much, the lower floor has flooded."

"Let’s go," I said. "Hurry."

Going down the stairs wasn’t as rough as climbing them, thank goodness. We heard the rushing sounds of water, the rain stabbing into the house, and the creak and crunch of battered objects. It smelled a little foul, like moldy cheese.

We couldn’t moved past the last two steps because they were covered with water. The grayish liquid sloshed at our feet and we backed up another step.

There was so much water in the foyer, everything that had been in it, from the coat rack to the umbrella stand, was gone.

From our perch we could see straight into the devastation that was now the living room.

Well, what was left of it.

The front wall was demolished. Stones were cracked and crumbling, many of them piled near the wrecakge.

The huge tree had crushed furniture, knick-knacks, tables ... everything.

Water continued to pour in from the raging storm.

"Hey, if you wanted an indoor pool, you got one," said Tilda. "Please tell me no one was in that room when the tree busted in like the Kool-Aid Man."

"What’s a Kool-Aid Man?" asked Hannah.

Tilda popped herself on her lips. "Nevermind. Not important."

"Is the entire downstairs like this?" I asked.

"Yes," said Hannah. "The water’s gone all the way into the kitchen."

"In the larder, too?"

Hannah shrugged. "I barely got a glance of it, Mrs. Willowmarch. The water was coming up so fast, I just wanted to get out of the way."

"You did well, Hannah. Where is everyone else?"

"I don’t know what happened to the housekeeper or the cook. Most of the maids are huddled in the storage room on the second floor. I know some of the groomsmen are in the stables to protect the horses."

I patted Hannah’s shoulder. "It’s okay. There’s not a lot we can do. We’ll have to wait for the storm to end and the water recede to assess damage. The best we can do is keep everyone warm and dry." I watched as a blue teapot floated by, heading down the hallway toward the darkened kitchen. "Oh. I really liked that one. And there are the cups following it like baby ducks."

"Should we try to find the housekeeper?" asked Hannah, wringing her hands. "What about the cook?"

"Wading out in the water and trying to fight the rain is a one-way ticket to the graveyard," said Tilda. "The best we can do is get everyone settled in. Try to sleep. And wake up to this fresh hell in the morning."

"Hannah, see to the maids. Make sure everyone has enough blankets."

"You might want to make a puppy pile to keep warm," said Tilda.

Hannah nodded, though she looked confused. I shooed her up the stairs.

Tilda and I returned to the room, but it took longer than it should have because we were both still a little drunk, and the stairs kept moving. Or was that us?

"I can’t believe the gas lamps are still working," said Tilda.

"I don’t know how those things work," I said. "But they’re less likely to burn down the house than candle sconces."

"We could use more fire about now," said Tilda.

When we entered the room, we both collapsed onto the bed. The flames in the fireplace were dying down. Tilda looked like she was melting into the bed, so I hauled myself up and went to feed the fire.

By the time I returned, Tilda had rolled to the other side of the bed, shoved her whole self under the covers, and passed out. Every so often she let a light little snore.

I turned down the gas lamps and climbed into bed, clothes and all. The storm continued to batter the house, and I wondered how long this rain would last. Hopefully it would stop by the morning.

In a way, I was grateful my mother had already left. For one, she was safe. For two, I didn’t want to deal with her helpful suggestions that were really bossiness in disguise of advice.

I pulled the covers to my chin.

I was exhausted all the way to my bones. Strangely, ever since I had returned from the masked man’s cabin, I felt remarkably well. Most of my bruises were gone, the wound on my skull was nearly healed, and my muscles no longer ached.

Despite the raging storm, Tilda’s snores, my spinning head, I ended falling asleep easily.

I didn’t dream at all.