House of Ivy & Sorrow Read online

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  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

  HarperCollins Publishers

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  DEDICATION

  To my Grandma Dorothy, who, though she died when I was eight, I’ve always believed was magical.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Disclaimer

  Title

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also By Natalie Whipple

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

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  ONE

  They say a witch lives in the old house under the interstate bridge. Always in the shadows, draped in ivy and sorrow, the house waits for a child too daring for his own good. And inside, the witch sits with her black eyes and toothless sneer. They say she can foresee your death in return for a lock of hair. She can make someone love you for the small price of a pinkie finger. And, of course, she can kill your enemy if you give her your soul. Some people think it’s only a silly tale to scare children, but it’s true. Every word.

  I should know. She is my grandmother, after all, and right now I could steal her pudding stash for what she did to Winn. “Nana! He was just talking to me!”

  She sits at her large mahogany desk, a variety of feathers and animal bones arranged precisely in front of her. She won’t look at me. She never does when I catch her cursing him. “Josephine, my dear, his intentions were clearly impure.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose. She really needs to get over the fact that we like each other. I can barely call it dating with how much she’s interfered the past couple months, but I’m determined to keep trying anyway. “I don’t see what the big deal is. Besides, what have I told you about spying on me at school?”

  She frowns.

  Letting out a long sigh, I sit in the throne-like chair her clients usually inhabit. “I’m safe, what with all the charms you make me wear. So can’t you let me date without cursing him every time he tries to touch me?” I jingle my bracelet, which is riddled with runes and tiny organs encased in glass baubles.

  “I know you’re safe.” Nana grabs her ivory cane and hobbles over to me. As she puts her hand on my shoulder, I can’t help but feel ungrateful. “You are so precious to me. I cannot bear to lose you.”

  “You won’t.” My mother died when I was seven—from the mysterious Curse that’s followed our family for generations—and ever since then I have been kept under tighter security than the president of the United States. It seemed important when I was young, but almost ten years later I want a little wiggle room. “And you can’t give a guy a face full of pimples because he smiled at me, especially when they just appear like that. Your reputation is already bad enough, even though most of Willow’s End doesn’t believe you’re real.”

  She cackles. Seriously—it’s how she laughs. At least I’ve never heard anything else come out when she makes a joke.

  “Nana, I mean it. Winn is a nice guy, and I really like him. Get rid of the zits.”

  “Oh, fine.” She plops down in her chair, the old floor-boards creaking even at her meager weight. She rearranges the feathers and bones, and then holds her hand over them. In the center, a flame sparks and consumes the feathers. “There.”

  I smile. “Thank you.”

  “In return, I need you to collect thirty spiders. I’m running low.”

  My smile is no more. Should have figured—there is always a payment. It’s the number one rule of magic: you cannot get something for nothing. Nana lives and dies by that rule, even when magic isn’t involved. “Fine.”

  Before I leave her apothecary, I grab a spare jar and fish out a frog eye from the bowl on her desk. Standing at the front door, I hold the frog eye in front of me and close my eyes. I picture the door I need: the one that leads to the ivy-covered home under the bridge. The magic pools in my hand, and I concentrate on what I desire it to do. It’s work, switching doors. Usually I keep it set on the brown one that connects to the house in the heart of town—the house my friends think is real. It is, in a way, since it leads to the same interior as the other one.

  The door I need is heavy and black, with a large bronze knocker in the shape of a gargoyle. It always groans when it opens, like most things in this house do.

  Once the frog eye dissolves, I open my eyes. The brown door is now black and old and menacing. I turn the gilded knob, and the sound of freeway traffic overhead greets me. Checking to make sure the coast is clear, I cautiously step onto the front porch. Not that many people use this road anymore, since ours is the only house still standing out here. And “standing” is a loose term—it looks more like an abandoned ruin.

  It’s always cool under the bridge, even in the hot, humid summers. Sun gleams from either side, providing enough light to see. The tree in the yard is more moss than leaves, and the grass is thick and wet. I breathe in the air, full of dampness and magic.

  That is, after all, part of why my great-great-grandmother moved here.

  Normal people tend to think magic comes from inside a person. That’s partially true. Witches can store magic in their bodies, but without a source to replenish that power they lose it. Magic—real, pure magic—is in places. It seeps into the ground, grows in the plants, lives in the objects that inhabit its realm.

  This house, this land, is one such place that simmers with magic. And no matter what, we Hemlo
cks will protect it.

  I don’t have to go far to find my first spider. Half the front window is covered in webs, and I pluck one from its perch and drop her in the jar. In the corner behind the rusty swing, there are two more. By the time I step off the porch, I already have seven. The dark places under the stairs earn me eight. I comb the ivy all the way to the back of the house until I get the rest. As I head to the front again, they struggle over one another in the slick, glass jar. “Sorry, guys, there’s no escaping.”

  “Excuse me,” someone says.

  I look up, freezing in place. A man in a suit stands at the weathered iron gate, his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t look like Nana’s usual clientele, who come dirty and smelling of hard times, who are so desperate that magic pulls them here without them knowing. He reeks of money—or maybe that’s the fancy convertible parked behind him that gleams even in these shadows. I take a few wary steps forward. “Yes? Do you need something?”

  His eyes go wide as he takes me in. I grab the ends of my black hair, wondering if I have web in it. Nothing.

  “What do you need?” I say again when he doesn’t answer. For some reason he makes me curious to get a closer look, like I’ve seen him somewhere, even though I know I haven’t.

  He shakes his head, as if coming out of a daze. “Um, does a Carmina Hemlock live here?”

  It’s my turn to be taken by surprise. Who on earth would be looking for my mother after so much time? Before I know it, I’m saying, “She’s dead.”

  “Dead?” he croaks. “When?”

  “Ten years ago.”

  “Oh.” He looks away, and for a moment I wonder if he might be fighting tears. “I’m sorry.”

  Something is off. There’s a coldness on the other side of the gate. Something waiting. I can feel it reach for the iron bars, hear it hiss when the protective spell bans its entrance. This man brought darkness and evil with him. “You’d better go.”

  “I . . .” He stares at me, a strange sort of longing in his eyes. “Are you related to her? You look a lot like her.”

  “Leave.” I take a few steps back before I dare turn, and then I run for the house.

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  TWO

  Islam the door behind me and lean against it. My heart pounds, though I’m not quite sure why. He didn’t seem like a bad person, but there was something evil with him. It was wrong for him to be here, to see me.

  After I bolt the door, I head back to Nana. “Here are your spiders.”

  Her white eyebrows furrow over her impossibly dark eyes. “What’s wrong?”

  So much for hiding my panic. “Nothing. There was just a man at the gate. I sent him away.”

  She goes to the window and pulls the green velvet curtain back, as if he’d still be there. “He didn’t come for a spell?”

  I shake my head. “He . . . asked for Carmina.”

  Her eyes snap to mine.

  “He didn’t know she was dead.”

  She shuts the curtain with far more force than necessary. “You are not to go out there again.”

  “Wha . . . wait, what?” I didn’t expect her to be happy about the stranger, but this is harsh, even for her. “Why?”

  “Not safe . . . not safe . . .” She goes to her cabinets, grabbing all sorts of eyes. Eyes—for which to see. Magic can be rather literal at times. “No good can come from those who seek the dead.”

  “Would you mind explaining?”

  No answer. She’s already in full incantation mode, the small cauldron heating on a Bunsen burner and all. Nana is an incredible witch. I watch in amazement as she goes through each phase at lightning speed, and by memory. I still have so much to learn from her. The liquid is almost finished by the time I realize what she’s doing.

  I groan. “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, child, before it’s too late.” She motions for me to come over.

  I grab the small knife on her desk as I go. Payment. Always. I hold my finger over the bubbling liquid and cut. It doesn’t sting until the blood is already dripping. I watch, only because I have to know when to stop the flow. The concoction turns from green to autumn orange. I pull my hand back and search for a tissue.

  “That’s it. . . .” Nana waves her hands over the baby cauldron. In an instant a ghostlike figure appears—the man, with his sad eyes and nice suit, right from my fresh memories.

  “No,” she whispers. “It can’t be.”

  I study her face, confused by her expression. I can’t tell if it’s horror or sadness. Then I look at the man again. He doesn’t seem to carry the evil in this translucent form, but I know what I felt. “Do you know him? He seemed . . . weirdly familiar, but not.”

  She sucks in a breath and then waves the figure away. “I thought perhaps, but no.”

  “It looks like you—” Her eyes flash, and I stop. “Okay, you didn’t.”

  “Regardless, only use the Main Street door until I say so. It doesn’t hurt to be cautious.” The clock chimes four, and she claps her hands together. “Time for pudding.”

  I try to hide my smile. Nana loves her pudding. It’s one of the nicest-tasting toothless-friendly foods. She refuses to get dentures; she refuses most anything that comes from a doctor. But that doesn’t mean her teeth fell out. Nope. She’s pulled all but five herself—for what, I’d rather not know. Spells that use your own teeth aren’t exactly the nice kind.

  “Time for homework, I guess, since we still don’t have TV,” I say. No matter how many times she says no to cable, I still hope maybe one day she’ll find my begging annoying enough to relent.

  “Rots your brain!” she calls from the little fridge next to the normal one—the home of her pudding stash.

  “I have plenty to spare!” I head up the stairs, which protest each step.

  I glance at every picture frame on the way up, where the faces of my ancestors stare back at me. At least those who have lived here. When the Curse drove our family from New York, Great-Great-Grandma Agatha Hemlock put every penny she had into this house, knowing the magic here was too strong to leave. She put up crazy-strong magical barriers around the house and town. We thought we were safe—at least until the Curse found my mother.

  My room is the second story of the tower, completely round and covered in floral wallpaper that I should hate, but don’t. It’s absolutely wild—big, bold flowers in faded blue and green. My cast-iron bed is just as ancient and cool. Most everything is white, since I figure the wallpaper has more than enough color. I flop onto my bed instead of heading to my desk. Reaching for the English book on my nightstand, I decide reading poetry is the least trouble.

  But I can’t stop thinking about that man.

  I know Nana was lying to me.

  I won’t question her, though. We are blood, and that means so much more to us than to normal people. A witch’s blood is the source of her power—the mark of her power. All the Hemlock women bear the same magical signature. Nana, no matter what, has my best interest in mind. I am the only one who can preserve our family line. If she is lying, then she has a good reason.

  My phone rings, and I dive for it. We may not have internet or TV, but my cell can usually eke out a few bars. It’s my one technological indulgence.

  “Gwen! Please say you’re about to save me from doing homework on Friday night.”

  “But of course, Jo. Are you sitting down?” Gwendolyn Lee loves to be dramatic, but in a town as small as Willow’s End we need it. Not sure what Kat and I would do without her.

  “Laying, actually.”

  “Winn came into the deli after school, and he asked about you.”

  I sit up. “He did?”

  “Yes. And he may have invited us to watch a movie at his house with some of his friends.”

  It’s all I can do to restrain my squeal. So far we’ve only been hanging out at school, eating lunch
together, stuff like that. I’ve been dying to go on a real date with him since I first sat next to him in art class eight months ago, but Nana’s always made sure to ruin any moment he tries to ask. Going through Gwen—brilliant. Why didn’t I think of this earlier?

  “If you’re kidding, I hate you forever.”

  “I’d never! I’ll pick you up at six. We’re doing dinner first.”

  “Okay.” After hanging up, I head straight for the shower. Two hours is hardly enough time to get ready for the best night of my life.

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  THREE

  I check the hall mirror every couple seconds as I wait for Gwen and Kat to show up. I can’t help it. Sometimes I have nightmares that I’ve gone back to the crazy-haired, freckle-faced, buck-toothed version of myself.

  It was bad. Seriously bad.

  Right after Mom died, I came home from elementary school bawling because Emily Harrison said I looked and acted like a boy. Admittedly, my wiry hair had turned into a frizzy nightmare without my mom’s wondrous ability to tame the beast. Emily told all the girls that I must have gotten cooties, and for the rest of the day no one would sit next to me, let alone talk to me. Nana wasn’t happy. Let’s just say Emily started a lice epidemic the next day, and then everyone said she had cooties instead.

  “Don’t you worry, Josephine,” Nana would say to me in junior high, when an onslaught of pimples was added to my freckles. “Ugly children become beautiful adults. You will be gorgeous one day—the most beautiful girl in the whole town.”

  “Gee, thanks, Nana. Good to know you think I’m ugly,” I’d say.

  She would laugh as she sat in her chair by the fireplace. “But not forever!”

  I knew she meant well, but it was hardly comforting at the time. What if I really was doomed to be an ugly little mouse for the rest of my life?