Free Dandelion Fire by N. D. Wilson Page A

awful.”
    “You were awful,” Anastasia laughed. “Wasn't she, Henrietta?”
    Henrietta ignored her. “How long, Pen?” she asked again.
    Penelope slapped her book shut. “Good night,” she said, and clicked off the light.
    “Henrietta,” Anastasia said. “Henrietta?”
    Henrietta didn't say anything.
    When her sisters were both breathing heavily, Henrietta slipped out of her bed and cracked open their bedroom door. Then she pulled on a pair of jeans and set her shoes beside her bed. Finally, she positioned herself so she could see Henry and Richard when they walked around the landing. She could already hear them talking upstairs. And thumping. They weren't exactly sneaking.
    She waited. She tried to be patient and waited some more. She got up, opened the door a little wider, and slid back onto her bed. The attic had grown silent, and she struggled not to drift off. When she'd jerked awake too many times, she sat up, wrapped her arms around her knees, leaned her head against the wall, and, staring at the door, fell asleep.
    When Henrietta woke, she had a headache. She was lying flat on her back with her head on the footboard and one leg up against the wall.
    Anastasia was snoring, and Penelope was buried in her blankets. Predawn gray filtered through the bedroom window and out onto the landing.
    Henrietta levered herself up painfully. As quietly as she was able, she got her feet over the edge of the bed and rocked herself to standing. Rubbing her neck, she tiptoed to the door and looked out over the landing. It was empty, and Grandfather's door was shut. Henrietta slipped out of her room, latching the door behind her, and hurried to Grandfather's room. She put her hand on the door and pushed, but it wouldn't budge. She stepped closer and leaned her ear against it, but there was nothing to hear beyond the crackle of the house's joints beneath her feet.
    Frustrated with herself for sleeping, and growing irritated with Henry to compensate, she moved to the attic stairs, held her breath, and began toeing her way up the edges as quietly as possible. When her head rose above the attic floor, she stopped and studied Richard's sleeping bag in the dim light. After a minute, she took another step and studied again. The bag was lumped up enough that he could have been in it, but she could hear no sound of breathing and not a hint of movement. She took the last few steps quickly and stood beside Henry's doors. The rumpled bag beside her was empty.
    At first push, Henry's doors bowed but wouldn't open. She bounced against them and was sprung back.
    Putting her mouth to the crack between them, she whispered.
    “Henry? Henry?” When no one answered, she stepped back and put more force behind her shoulder. With a pop, the doors sprang open, and she stepped into the room.
    The lamp was on, but it had fallen over. Henry'sblankets were piled against the wall. The bed was empty. The floor was bare.
    Henrietta sat on the bed and picked up the pillow. The journal was gone, but the letters were there, and on top of them sat the key.
    Well, at least they'd left that. She wanted to catch up to them, and as quickly as she could. It wouldn't be long before everyone else was awake, too, and wondering where they were.
    She smiled as she tiptoed down the stairs. She would be completely nonchalant.
Hey, guys, you might want to get back. It's almost breakfast.
    At the bottom, she moved to her own bedroom door, turned the knob carefully, and slipped inside. Her shoes were still on the floor. Not bothering with socks, she finger-levered her feet into them and crept back out, past her parents' room, past the bathroom, and fumbled with the old skeleton key in front of Grandfather's door.
    When she stepped into the room, she couldn't help glancing around herself, peeking behind the door and on the other side of the bed. The room was always otherworldly, but shadowed like it was with predawn light, it sent her skin crawling. And this time it smelled