The Last Writer by Adriane Leigh (books like harry potter .txt) 📕

of you would get along. And Zara, Nate is your age, I thought he might be helpful for pruning some of the orchard.”

“How long are they staying?” I asked blankly.

“Well, forever, of course.” Mother’s smile deepened to something almost dark.

I tipped my head, working my way around her possible motives. “Where will they sleep?”

“We’ve got a hundred bedrooms, wherever they want.”

“But you locked them all because you said they contained dangerous things inappropriate for children.”

“So I did,” Mother cooed. “But these aren’t children, they’re adults in little bodies. I trust them to handle themselves while they’re at Usher House.” She used her hands to herd the newest visitors out of the room. “Now, let me show you where we keep the lilies.”

I sighed, watching as they shuffled down the creaking wooden steps into the basement. I cast my eyes around the room, surprised the kids didn’t have any luggage or bags with their belongings. Maybe it’d been left in the car for Walton to unpack, not that we’d seen Walton once since our first introduction. Not that I minded.

Intent on a change of scenery, I pushed the front door open and stepped out into the garden. Ivy curled its twisted tendrils around my bare legs as I walked along the evergreen hedge. A stone walkway lured me through the ivy-wrapped iron gates.

Winding along the edge of the hedge along the interior of the garden, a rambling rose that must have been much older than me towered over the pathway, forcing me to part the thorny branches and duck through a small opening. The branches pulled and yanked at my hair, but I pushed through. I was extra careful to tuck my wool skirt around my knees, the memory of the last lashing Mother had given me the night before we moved to Usher still shook me.

The leather licks of a belt against skin left a searing memory. Yara and Yarrow hadn’t seen that side of my mother, not yet anyway. I imagined Usher would change that.

“Ow!” I screeched as a particularly gnarly thorn left a slice of crimson across my knee.

I pushed the remainder of the way through the bramble, confident I was the only one to see this side of the garden in a very long time. What did Walton do all day exactly? Because he certainly wasn’t care-taking the rose hedges at all.

I tore a small green leaf from a tree and pressed it to the tiny gash on my knee. The blood clotted as I pressed, leaving only a scratch when I pulled the leaf away. I let it flutter to the ground before finally running my eyes up. I could see my window, the tip of the widow’s walk bedroom towering over me, all of Usher like a gothic castle that's been left abandoned. The ominous crack that split the front facade deepened to a black on overcast days, the fissure widened in shadow, enough that it looked like a family of rats could take up residence there alongside the human inhabitants.

I shuddered, remembering when Mother said she was going to start writing the book she’d been talking about now that we were here at Usher. This place could inspire many a horror story. I wondered if Mother would still have moved us from the city if she’d known the house was nearly in a state of ruin.

The odd thing was, it didn’t seem to faze her a blink that our apartment in the library was much cozier, even if it was a tenth the size.

Just then, a black bird landed on the branch of a rose bush. The tiny creature began singing wildly, and in seconds another, tinier black bird joined it. They both tipped their heads, looking at me, as if in awe at the sight of such a strange creature in their garden.

I whistled back softly, tender to the tiny animals whose home I’d just barged into. “Is your nest nearby?”

I stepped closer, prepared to peer into the abyss of the rose bush, when my toe scraped against the edge of a stone. Eyes casting down, I caught sight of the patent tips of my shoes shining in the garden dew, the slender creamy-white bone of a finger perched atop a moss-covered stone.

“What’s this?”

I picked up the sloped bone, short like a child’s, but not so slender that it could be mistaken for the hollow bone of a bird or other animal.

This was decidedly human.

I thought of the few anatomy and biology books I’d seen in the library, wondering where on earth it’d come from and how it’d found itself here.

I assessed it carefully, bringing the bone close to my eyes. Bits of dirt were embedded where the knuckle connected, but otherwise it was pristine, like it’d fallen from the sky and not been buried under leaves and dirt along an old garden path.

I tucked it in the top pocket of my dress, my curiosity piqued.

Usher House was finally sharing its secrets, scattering them along my path like breadcrumbs.

The little birds chimed together, their song raising in pitch and passion.

I smiled, holding my finger out to them. “Come on, then. Take me on a tour of your garden, show me all the secret places.”

One of the tiny birds flitted off the branch and down the path, the other following fast on its wings and me racing after. We reached the end of the hedge wall and I turned to find the start of the orchard, giant apple white blooms cascading from the tops, and at the center, a chipped stone fountain.

I plopped on the edge, trying to picture gentle, lapping water where now mold and layers of rotten leaves accumulated. From this spot in the garden, the cliff and roaring ocean weren’t even a hundred yards beyond, but the overgrown evergreen hedges secluded the fountain and its inhabitants from the world.

Among all the rambling ruin of Usher House, the fountain and gardens were Heaven. The marble was molded as a playful cherub