Wonder Light
Authors: R. R. Russell
Copyright © 2013 by R.R. Russell
Cover and internal design © 2013 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover illustration by Ian Schoenherr
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systemsâexcept in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviewsâwithout permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is on file with the publisher.
Source of Production: Bang Printing, Brainerd, Minnesota, USA
Date of Production: March 2013
Run Number: 19902
For my daughter. You're a fighter, Lahna.
April
Keely turned off the ignition and pointed at the haunted island. “Well, Twig,” she said, “there it is.”
Mist swirled around the island in circles of warning. Spirals of rain and wind and secrets seemed to say,
If
you
come, Twig,
we
will
break
you
on
our
rocks
like
the
waves.
No one had lived on Lonehorn Island in recent memory, until the Murleysâand now a bunch of unwanted girls. Soon Twig would join them.
The wind whooshed from the island to shore and beat at the car windows with new fistfuls of rain.
We
are
the
Island. Leave us alone, Twig, or
we
will
snap
you.
Well, Keely would certainly get her way then. Keely said Twig's name as if she wished Twig would snap in two. Twig had liked her name, back when Daddy called her
Twig
as though he were certain one day she'd sprout leaves of pure gold. Now Daddy said her name like she was already broken. Now Daddy wasn't there, and Twig wouldn't be around when he came home.
A small, bright blue boat pulled up to the dock in front of the parking lot. A man in worn jeans and a dark green raincoat climbed out and tossed a line onto the dock. He paused to wave before tying down, and Keely smiled stiffly and waved back.
Then Keely looked at Twig, her resolve visibly softening. “Maybe I should come with you. The Murleys said it would be all right.”
Twig shook her head firmly.
“Okay.” The edge returned to Keely's voice. “Let's go meet Mr. Murley. Looks like he's got one of the other girls with him. Maybe you two can get to know each other on the way. Make friends.”
You'd better, Twig
, her tone said.
You'll be there for a long, long time.
Twig glared at the boat, at the small face pressed up against the window of the cabin. She got out and gave her car door a good slam. The rain lightened into fine, misty drops.
Twig ought to have been glad to get out of the car. The three-hour drive north along the Washington coast to Cedar Harbor had been cold and dark and quiet. But thinking about Lonehorn Island made her want to jump right back in the car and beg her stepmother to take her home.
The little island in the distance was one of many scattered off the rocky coast beyond Cedar Harbor, but it was the only haunted one.
Put your hood up, Twig.” There was a new tremble in Keely's voice as she pulled her own hood on tight.
Normally, Twig would've left her hood off just because Keely had told her to put it on. Left her head out so the rain could turn her long blond tangles dark with the wet. But Lonehorn Island made her shiver, so she pulled on the hood of her new, too expensive, all-weather jacket.
Keely had bought Twig new clothes too. “Good, sturdy farm clothes” she'd insisted Twig would need, and she'd stuffed the biggest suitcase Twig had ever seen full with them. Further evidence that Keely intended to be rid of her for good.
This morning Twig had ignored the new outfit her stepmom had chosen for her and dressed in her usual: a pair of boy's jeans from the Goodwill that had never fit her right; a T-shirt of Mom's that hung to her knees, and whose peeling logo had once read “Tipperary Tavern”; the canvas shoes that only still fit because the toes had split open.
Twig zipped the zipper all the way up so that the jacket covered her mouth. She Velcroed a strip that tightened the fit. She was a turtle, eyes and nose poking out, the rest of her hidden. Her skinny, useless hands found the pockets, and they were warm. It wasn't so bad, this shell, even if it was bright red.
Keely struggled to pull the suitcase out of the trunk. Twig made no move to help; it wasn't
her
suitcase. Everything that was really hers was in the mini-backpack under her jacket, inside her shell like the rest of her, safe from everything cold and spitting and whipping around her.
Mr. Murley's work boots slap-thumped on the wet dock. He wasn't what Twig had expected a rich guy whose uncle had left him an entire island to be like. His jeans had a clean but rumpled look. The wind whooshed his hood off his gray-brown hair, and he left it down so that they could see his smile.
“Hold on there!” he called. “I'll give you a hand with that!”
“That's all right!” Keely slammed the suitcase against the trunk several times before jerking it out and dropping it to the concrete.
She caught the handle in time to make sure it landed upright, on its wheels, but not in time to keep it from splashing into a puddle and spattering her pressed jeans. She fought with the handle until it extended, and she bump-jerked it to the dock behind her. Mr. Murley hurried to tie off the boat and come to their assistance, but Keely was quick and determinedâdetermined to get rid of Twig.
“Good to see you again, Mrs. Tupper,” Mr. Murley said. Keely had come last week, without Twig, to check the place out. “And you must be Twig.” Mr. Murley held out his hand.
Twig looked at it, then back at her soppy socks sticking out of her shoe holes. Her stomach lurched. Mr. Murley squeezed her shoulder instead.
“Mrs. Tupper, you're welcome to come along to help Twig get settled in.”
Twig looked up. “No,” she said sharply.
Keely jumped. Twig hadn't said a word in three days. Not that she talked much at all since Daddy had left. Twig grabbed the suitcase handle, not because it was hers, but because it was what was keeping them standing here, on the dock, instead of driving away in the boatâaway from all hope of escape and all risk of breaking down and begging Keely to change her mind. Keely didn't want her; Twig didn't fit in Daddy's new family, and that was that.
Mr. Murley let Twig drag the suitcase over to the boat, but he picked it up when she stopped at the edge of the dock and stared down into the gap of black water that wanted to swallow her up. It was protecting the island, protecting its secrets, just like the mist that was the island's shell. The island wanted to be left alone. Twig's held-back shudder escaped. She knew how the island felt.
I'm sorry
, she said to the island, to its ghosts.
I
have
no
choice.
The rain thickened. The wind tore at her hood.
“I'll stay the night here in town.” Keely nodded at Cedar Harbor behind her. “I'll be right here.”
“I'll come get you in the morning.” Mr. Murley hefted the suitcase into the boat. “Like we talked about. And bring you to the island so you can see how Twig's doing before you head home.”
Mr. Murley regarded the enormous suitcase, then the little cabin door. It would be impossible to cram it through. He pushed it to the back of the boat instead and wrapped a tarp around it.
Keely squeezed Twig tight before she could duck away. “If you change your mind,” she whispered quickly, “in the morning, I'll take you back home.”
Twig twisted out of Keely's arms. Keely sniffed and pulled a tissue from her pocket. The rain got it thoroughly soggy before it even made it to her nose.
“Good-bye, sweetie!”
The boat rocked a little when Twig stepped in, but Mr. Murley caught her arm.
Inside the cabin, a girl a few years younger than Twig sat on a long vinyl bench. She scooted over meaningfully.
“This is Casey. She's so excited to meet you. You'll be rooming together.”
Mr. Murley looked at Casey in an expectant but gentle way. Casey emitted a meek, “Hi.”
“Casey's been with us a few weeks now.”
That was all Mr. Murley said about that, but Twig understood.
She's coming along. Soon she'll be shaking hands and smiling like the Daffodil Princess in the Puyallup parade. Soon you will too, Twig.
No, Mr. Murley
, Twig could've said if she were inclined to speak her mind these days.
I
won't. That haunted island will swallow me up first. It wants to swallow all of you too.
Casey's eyes were big and brown and sad. She looked clean, but she smelled like pony poo. Island Ranch was a pony farmâevery little girl's dream.
Mr. Murley started up the engine. Casey looked out the window at the parking lot and dutifully returned Keely's wave, but Twig didn't bother. Casey wiggled closer to her, and Twig wanted to shrink back, but her backpack was in the way.
“I'm eight,” Casey whispered. When Twig didn't comment, she said reverently, “Mrs. Murley said you're twelve.” Casey was quiet for a minute. Then, “We each get our own pony. Did you know that?”
She paused again, waiting for Twig to respond.
“They're all Welsh ponies,” Casey continued slowly, bravely. “I think they're prettier than Shetlands. My pony's name is Bedtime Story, but I call her Story. I know how to take care of her all on my own now. You'll have Rain Cloud.”
How fitting. Through the rain-streaked window, Twig glanced at the island again, or tried to. It was wrapping its mist around the boat, tighter and tighter. The island was nothing but a blur of thicker mist with a few black gaps in between.
Mr. Murley said, “Don't worry about this weather, Twig.
Blue Molly
here can handle it just fine.” She must not have looked very convinced, for he added, “It looks worse than it is.”
Sometimes Keely took Twig and her stepsister, Emily, and stepbrother, Corey, to Steilacoom to walk along the beach and watch the ferry going back and forth to McNeil Islandâthe prison island. It was the first thing that had come out of Emily's mouth when Keely had told her and Corey about sending Twig to Island Ranchâ“Like McNeil Island?”
Emily had been horrified. Even Emily, who was so sure Twig was guilty, didn't think Twig deserved to be imprisoned on an island. Keely had been quick to point out the ridiculousness of comparing a maximum-security prison facility to the pretty little pony farm.
Keely hadn't mentioned the ghosts. No one had.
The Murleys had just moved to the island and opened their ranch for troubled girls a couple of months ago, though it had been under construction for several years. They'd been foster parents for forever. They were certified counselors, and the ranch was a registered private school. They had all the right credentials, Keely had assured Twig.
Twig didn't care whether the Murleys were capable of fixing her. She was plenty worried about how they'd try to do it, but she was more worried about the stories she'd found online. Had the Murleys heard those stories? Stories about the island, that had made Twig shudder, even in a stuffy, overheated apartment?
