The Last Writer Adriane Leigh (story reading TXT) 📖

I flipped the pages, eager to find its meaning. The code they’d been using looked like a simple third-word displacement cipher. The K in the code referenced an H in the decoded text. The double r’s were meant to be o’s, the y a v, and the hg at the end: ed. The first word indicated: hoof. I deciphered the second: purity, followed by the middle: is the central and lastly: deception and then a cold chill swept my system as I put it all together.

Hooved purity is the central deception.

Confusion coursed through me. I pulled my notebook from my bag and wrote in large, felt-tipped letters both phrases, underlining the words caged - hooved - purity - deception.

They felt like a greater code in themselves, one that I was meant to decipher.

I wrote the letters out again, scrambling them and trying to see them in different ways. I thought of the different messages scrawled in the margins of Nate’s book, wondering if they painted a larger picture that I couldn't see.

I needed Thax to help me translate.

Annoyed exhaustion pressed at the edges of my head. I thought of the violent crack that fissured the facade of Usher, a perfect representation for the splitting pain that halved my skull right now. I knew it was from lack of sleep, probably dehydration too, but I needed to find Thax before anything else.

My eyes crawled over the decaying gardens to the fountain that stood at its center and the ocean cliffs beyond. Night still clung to the edges of the morning, my sleepy eyes watery as I tried to focus on the exit points situated around the garden and the dead fruit orchard that flanked one side. The house so far looked surrounded on all sides by a brick wall that must have towered above eight feet; tall iron stakes shot into the sky, further escalating the warning that whoever lived at Usher didn’t welcome the world in. Or worse, let those behind its iron gates out.

A glass-domed structure caught my attention then, rectangular iron-paned windows curved into what looked like a giant bird cage situated at the garden's edge. I squinted, wishing I’d bothered to really study the grounds yesterday in daylight hours. The more I stared and the more the sun rose above the horizon, the more it illuminated itself. The greenhouse.

The greenhouse looked like a bird cage, its imaginary inhabitants watching life unfold from the inside out.

WHEN DOES A CAGED BIRD SING?

Tears rushed behind my eyelids as the words came back to me. Did they have meaning? Was I making everything up? Was the truth buried right outside my window, waiting for me to unveil? Adrenaline rushed in my veins as I yanked a sweater out of my duffel bag, the antique letter opener I’d found in the closet at the library falling at my feet. I thought of Thax, his warning our first night at the library that one shouldn’t wander strange halls without something to defend themselves.

I palmed the cold metal, its dull edge hardly sharp enough to pierce tissue paper, but I slid it into the back pocket of my jeans anyway and then shrugged my sweater over my shoulders, determined to find out what, or who, the greenhouse was hiding.

PAST

Zara - Fall 1964

“Zara, dear, up and at ‘em. Today is Usher House’s big day.” The governess swept into my room, throwing open the curtains and sending sunshine splitting through my self-imposed darkness.

“Stop. Please,” I uttered, turning over in bed.

“Nonsense. Let’s go, Yarrow’s already in the bathtub, I need you to help me get Yara ready. How is she?”

“She’s not.”

She paused, eyes finally searching the room. “Where is she?”

I didn’t answer, only felt bile crawl up my throat.

“Zara, where is your sister?”

“She’s gone.”

“Well,” Mother caught my chin between her fingers and forced my gaze on hers, “where did she go?”

The vein in her forehead grew more pronounced, her irritation with me reaching a new level.

“I told you she was sick.”

“Was?” she fumed.

I shrugged. “Please don’t make me talk about it.”

“Don’t make you talk about it?! What about the movie? The producers are on their way from the city! We have to think fast.” She paced the room, eyes wild with desperation. “Wait.” She spun, pointing at me with one red fingernail. “You.”

I didn’t answer her, numb surrender settling into my bones.

“Get up.” She pulled me up by the elbows and hauled me across the room to the mirror.

A thick black crack split the center of my reflection, the mirror fracturing my face in equal halves and disintegrating my vision to blurred edges.

The governess pressed her hands against my cheeks, pulling them taut and frowning. “If it wasn’t for all of this dark hair you’d look just like Yarrow. We’ll need to shave a few pounds off of you in the movie and keep your hair bleached to nearly white to match your brother’s, but I think we can do it. Yarrow is shorter though.”

She held her chin, one eyebrow arched as she assessed my reflection.

“Maybe Walton can make him some raised-sole Oxfords.” Her eyes lit with inspiration. “You know, I believe everything happens for a reason, and I think, more than ever, this is our chance. This, you becoming Yara, it was meant to be, my dear.”

“But…” I crushed my eyes closed, the next words on my lips would haunt me forever. “What would we tell them about Yara?”

She didn’t miss a beat when she replied, “You will tell them she ran away, of course.”

She turned to leave the room, then seemed to think better of it, lingering at the doorway. I didn’t look her in the eye, only caught sight of her imposing dark form in the blurry reflection of the cracked mirror.

“I’ll leave bleach for your hair on the sink in the powder room for you. Don’t forget the eyebrows.”

The door closed with a solid thunk, tears staining my cheeks. I crumpled to the floor and let